Bloody and Bandaged, but I Won the Cat Health Match

Hauling critters to their vet is no fun, but it has to be done. They need all those shots, and flea pills, and nails clipped. Clipping dogs’ nails scares me. I’m afraid I’ll get too close and make them cry, or, even worse, bleed! EEK!

So, last week, it was time to haul my four critters to the vet. It took four trips. I was exhausted. Holly Golightly, house cat no. 2, screamed all the way there. Thought she was gonna have a heart attack. Reba, yard dog no. 1, is old and just enjoyed the ride. Penny, house dog no. 1, knew where she was going and was well behaved, sort of, until she had to have that flea pill. That was a battle that took three of us to win, and Penny only weighs about 10 pounds. But I think she had been previously informed about what was up by Nutter, house cat no. 1.

Nutter rules the roost at my house, or thinks he does. Penny might have a different opinion, and Holly will fight him tooth and claw, literally, to argue the point. But still Nutter, at about 20 pounds, outweighs them both and thinks he’s boss. That doesn’t mean much. He gets a few perks like the best sleeping spot in my bed, until I kick him out, but that’s about it.

And Nutter knew, when I came at him with that big towel, that something was up. And the only time I ever come at him with a big towel is when it’s time for a flea pill or a trip to his vet. Nutter did NOT want to go. Just as I tackled him around his big middle, with towel between us, he ripped that towel out of my hands and a few bits of skin off my right arm. Nevertheless, I hung on. It was for his own good!

So I’ve got a big cat around the middle, from the back, and big cat has got all four legs whirling around like a windmill. Consequently, he grabbed hold of the ironing board I’d set up to get clothes ready for the day. So now I have a 20-pound cat around the middle from the back, with an ironing board attached, and blood running down my arm. I got a better grip with the left arm and tried to detach Nutter from the ironing board, which he grasped desperately with both front feet. That took a bit of a struggle, but I won.

On to the pickup truck. I ran of course. Unlike Holly, Nutter, who I was now calling NUTS, did not scream and holler during the whole trip. Nuts hid under the seat and didn’t let out one meow. That was a worry. Was he still there? Upon arrival, Nuts did not answer my call. No kidding. So I cautiously got out the driver’s side, and cracked the passenger door to see if I could find mad cat. Nuts was under the seat, and obviously preparing for a darting escape. I was able to grab him by the nape of the neck, but before I could get a good grip on all four feet, Nuts had grabbed hold of the umbrella laying in the seat. Now I had hold of a 20-pound cat, around the middle, from the back, who had hold of a large umbrella, and I was bleeding, again! It took a while to get the umbrella away from Nuts but I did it.

And I rushed into vet’s office, with only four more wounds.

The vet tech’s first words were, “OMG, your bleeding!” No joke! Got a band aid? I did get a tissue to wipe my own blood off the counter top. And then it was time for Nuts’ shots. Ha. Ha. Ha. Vet tech, and who could blame her, insisted we stick Nuts in a cat carrier. I thought she was gonna shoot him through the carrier’s bars, but that didn’t work. Nope. We tried pulling him halfway out of the carrier. Nope. Have you ever seen a lion eat an antelope on PBS? That is what Nuts looked like. The lion. Not the antelope. I did not know Nuts had such big, long teeth, or that he could gnash them at people like a lion. Apparently vet tech hadn’t either. She called for help. Now there were three of us trying to give Nuts one shot and one flea pill.

At one point the vet walked by and commented, “That is one PO’d cat!” Yep. A little help here maybe? He didn’t offer. Vet tech finally yelled at Nuts so loud he shrank back just enough to get the shot done. Then it was time for the flea pill.

While I and one vet tech held Nuts down, other vet tech tried to stuff flea pill down Nuts’ throat with a gadget that looks like a pencil, with pill attached to eraser end. Ha. Ha. Ha. Nuts ate the eraser. “OMG,” she exclaimed. “He ate the rubber!”

Other tech answered, “Don’t worry. It will come out in the end, so to speak.”

We tried again, and again, and again. Finally the mission was accomplished. But I think the vet techs rescinded their offer to give my critters their monthly flea pills, a chore which I have not successfully accomplished. Hum, wonder why.

As I prepared to leave, another client approached, three dogs in tow. “Oh no,” vet techs moaned, apparently knowing these three dogs well.

“Should I turn my cat loose on them?” I offered. They apparently appreciated the offer, and cracked up laughing. And that’s when I left. Better to leave them laughing I thought, than bloody like me. But hey, we won the cat health match, and Nutter is just fine.

Can't Say 'No!'

I’ve got to learn to just say “NO!”

No, that is not a reference to that song in our fabulous musical “Oklahoma!” You know, the one from the girl who sings “I Cain’t Say No.” I learned how to say that “NO” a long time ago.

No, I can’t say “No” to my friends who need favors. Most recently that was running buddy Linda Copeland. First, I did not say “No” to Linda and her hubby when they asked if I wanted to join the revitalized Friends of the Library. I like the library. I think everybody should like our library. Our Sallisaw library is a splendid spot, with free wi-fi and all kinds of other goodies. I love our Stanley Tubbs Memorial Library, and I didn’t even want to say “No” to helping raise money for even more good, and free, stuff. So I didn’t say “No,” and here I am, in trouble again.

That’s when Linda and Hubby decided to hold some fundraising events for the library through our little Friends of the Library group. Linda, forever and always a photographer, thought offering Fun Photos at Main Street’s Bluegrass and Barbeque event Saturday would be a great fundraiser. I agreed. To the fundraising part. Not what she suggested a bit later.

“I need a model,” Linda said.

“Call Iman or Tyra Banks,” I wanted to retort. Didn’t. Ugh. So I was it.

And there Linda was, in her backyard, camera set up on a tripod, with a backdrop for goodness sakes, like this was a big deal or something. Well, I guess it was to her. Not me. Models should be young, pretty, etc. Not old, ugly, and sleepy like me. But I had not said “No.”

“I need you to wear these, or hold them up in front of your face so I can practice taking photos,” Linda explained, handing me all sorts of strange head wear, face masks, zombie eyes and sumptuous lips. I tried to say “No,” but it didn’t work at all. Well, I thought, as long as the gear hides my face, what can it hurt. So I stood still for a couple photos, but that was all I could handle.

Then Linda broached, “OK. Now I need you to look like you are running away from a dinosaur.”

“What!?!” I offered. “No!” I tried. I really did.

“You’re the only one I got,” Linda wailed. “I’m gonna’ take pix of people looking like they are running away from a dinosaur then I’m going to Photoshop the dinosaur into the photo!”

“No!” I kept trying.

Then Linda put on her hurt face, the one where her lower lip sticks out, and she stares down at her feet like she is going to cry any minute.

Oh Good Grief. “Where do you need me?” I admit it. I caved. Linda posed me in front of her backdrop sheet, and told me to act scared and like I was running. If I had known what was coming I could have looked a lot more scared, but at that particular moment I just faked it. And felt like an idiot. But what the hey. Friend needed a little help, and the photo wasn’t going anywhere, right? Wrong!

Linda told my Darling Daughter, and Darling Daughter wanted a copy.

“If that photo shows up on Facebook I’m gonna’ kill you,” I told Linda in no uncertain terms. Darling Daughter loves Facebook.

No, the photo showed up next at the Friends of the Library meeting, where everyone got a good laugh. I remember thinking ‘I’m gonna’ kill her.’

And next, the photo will be at the Friends of the Library’s Fun Photos booth on Saturday, at Sallisaw Main Street’s Bluegrass and Barbecue event, at the library. It will be a demonstration of what the group is offering for only $1, as a library fundraiser.

Yes! You too can also be pictured running wildly from a Photoshop dinosaur, or look crazy in masks, or just have your photo taken, like you’re in a photo. And you can laugh at photos of me too, if it will help our library.

Please don’t say “NO.” Come out to Bluegrass and Barbeque and have some fun. In the meantime, I will be practicing my “NO!” skills.

My Backyard Soap Opera, and Other Crimes

It’s a soap opera out there in my backyard. It’s not so much about As the World Turns. It’s more like As the Bird Feeder Turns. For those who don’t know, except for my friends who stop by here occasionally, in my semi-retirement I have taken up bird watching and gardening to try to keep the brain cells functioning. Little did I know what amazing worlds I was entering. Too bad that, in our own little workaholic world in middle age, we forget there are other worlds out there just waiting for us to enter and learn.

And learn I have. The wild creatures sometimes have complicated lives too, just like in the soap operas, and some of the participants are Movie-Star Gorgeous. Just this week a couple of those gorgeous ones showed up, and, according to my bird book, they are not even supposed to live here. But oh my they are beautiful and I hope they stay. Still, it was a confrontation of the mating behavior that brought them to my attention. They are the northern bluebird, with baby blue topsides and a yellow-orange tummies. And two of the boys were battling it out in the back yard. They weren’t hoping for a free meal at the birdfeeder. They never came close. These two guys were going at it toenail to toenail, wings flapping, and screeching like, well, mad birds. The confrontation was over quickly, and I noted that one of the boys took his rest between rounds in the big maple tree, where he was joined by another bird of lesser color. Hum? Had he won the lady’s heart? I don’t know. The two boy birds were going at again the next day. But she didn’t show up again. I hope these three stay around, even though locked in some sort of romantic rivalry, because they are so beautiful. But they may just be migrating to the north, and their story will not continue in my Backyard Soap Opera.

On the other hand, we know that the mockingbird will stay here with us. But the mockingbird that has taken up residence in my backyard may not be a mom, but a spinster. I was hoping for a live-in mockingbird in my backyard because they are a lively bunch, and this spring one showed up. She doesn’t hang out at the birdfeeder, but likes to flit along the fence row between my neighbor’s and my yard. But, last week, she landed in the grass only about 10 feet from me on the back porch, and apparently began what I thought must be bird yoga. She did deep knee bends. She stretched one wing. They she stretched the other. Then she went back to deep knee bends. It was very entertaining for 10 minutes, but I had no idea what was going on. I consulted with another bird watcher. “Mating ritual,” I was told. No kidding! I took to the Internet. Sure enough. Videos of females doing their yoga exercises usually enticed a male mockingbird to come calling. That’s how I knew my mockingbird was a female. The problem was, no male came calling. But I know he is out there. According to the Internet, the males will sing all night, calling for that special someone. And somebody out there is singing all night at my house, almost loud enough to interrupt my sleep. So hang in there young lady. There is a special someone looking for you.

And then there’s the blue jay. Blue jays are smart, so the Internet says. And I have a blue jay couple happily making their home in my backyard soap opera. But there is one thing, apparently, a blue jay can’t stand. That would be a squirrel. We have squirrels, lots of squirrels, in my backyard. And one was recently hopping from tree to tree to tree last week. I suspect the little devil was scoping out the shed where all that wonderful horse feed is kept. Darling Daughter has had to pile rocks upon the feed container just to keep the squirrels out. So, squirrel, unable to gain entry, was on his way back out of my backyard using the squirrel highway otherwise known as the three pecan trees and one walnut tree. But the blue jay didn’t like that. And he attacked. I mean ATTACKED, like a fighter pilot. And this wasn’t just swoop and scare. This was dive and bang that dang squirrel in the head. In defense, the squirrel actually left one tree, raced across the ground, and tried to continue escape on another tree. Blue jay was not to be outwitted. He kept up the attack from tree, to tree, to tree. I imagined that poor squirrel’s head bloodied, because you could almost hear the thump of each blue jay attack. The Internet reports blue jays will even do this just for fun. But this was war. And that squirrel has not been seen since. Wonder if there is blue jay police, and if my blue jay is now wanted for murder.

Soap operas and crime shows, all in my backyard. Who needs TV?

But wait. There’s more. The scissor-tail flycatcher, Oklahoma’s bird, has shown up in the KXMX backyard. Want to see some aeronautic acrobatics? Watch the scissor-tailed flycatcher. Amazing what these birds can do just to catch a bug. They are one of the Top Guns of the bird world.

Got to go now. Too much going on in my backyard! And I don’t want to miss it.

Remember the Car Wars?

We’re not much of a Ford vs. Chevy family. We just buy and drive what works the best. For instance, I have never had a Ford vehicle that didn’t break down on me, almost immediately. So I drive a Chevrolet, which breaks down occasionally, but, after a trip to the truck doc, keeps on going. Darling Daughter likes a Ford. And we will admit, her Ford pickup has taken a lickin’ and not batted a head light.

Until this week. Darling Daughter called early one morning to report pickup seemed to be having a hiccupping bad time trying to get her to work. “It only does it when I go slower than 45 miles per hour,” Darling Daughter reported. “Then the service light comes one, and it sort of tries to quit. The problem is I’m hitting every stop light I come to.” That meaning Ford pickup was trying to quit on her at every corner.

How strange, I told her. “My pickup (the Chevy) service light only comes on if I go over 45 miles per hour, which accounts for, what my grandson likes to call, my grandma speed.” Well, old Chevy, that is nearly as old as me, has been doing that for years, and I’ve sort of grown into an ‘I don’t care’ state of mind. I should be careful. Those can come back and bite you!

I promised Darling Daughter backup, which she accepted even if it was in an old Chevrolet, and Ford was back on the road after a day with a pickup truck doc. Doesn’t matter if you are a Ford or a Chevy, everybody needs an alternator.

So, all this brought back my teenage years, for some strange reason. Back then there were Fords, Chevys, and an occasional Nash on American roads. I will admit, it was an embarrassment to me that, as a young child, we were a Nash family. I don’t know why. I think Dad had to switch to Chevy cause they quit making Nash. I may be wrong. Anyway, he evened it out. The family car was a Chevy. The farm truck was a Ford. Come to think of it, when Dad was trying to teach me how to drive way back when, I ran that Ford pickup truck into the fence around our 40-acre corn field three times.  That’s when Dad quit teaching me how to drive. Maybe Ford holds a grudge.

The Ford vs. Chevy feud was crazy back then, especially among teens. It was Car Wars! Only a few will remember those days, and I’m one of them. I remember September and October where vitally important to us, not because of all sorts of sports, but also because that was when next year’s Ford and Chevrolet models came out. And there was shouting, and yelling, and accusations made about each brand. I remember being on the Chevy side, probably because I wanted one badly, and that vengeful Ford farm truck, with its four-in-the-floor transmission, kept driving me into the fence! Consequently, I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was in my 20s, in Alaska of all places, where hubby was in the U.S. Air Force. And I do believe in was in a Ford, that later quit on us of course.

Ford vs. Chevy. No one seems to care any more about such Car Wars. But, Darling Daughter drives a Ford. Grandma drives a Chevy. I think we are an All-American family. Throw a hot dog and a piece of pie in there, and we’re fine, and still on the road.

Red Wasp Wars Declared!

It’s the Red Wasps Wars! How did that happen? What’s causing the red wasps to swarm so inconveniently? Is it Mother Nature’s decision to allow us a beautiful early spring? Well, death to the red wasps! Especially after one crawled up my hand in the middle of the night, and stung me not once but twice on the hand! And that results in a death sentence for the offending wasp! And every other red wasp that dares invade my private space. Never mind that it was 2 a.m. Such wars know no time limit.

Those two stings resulted in a long, long night. Watching hand swell to enormous proportions, I decided some immediate emergency medical attention was needed. I went to the freezer. The only packaged frozen food that fit on top the hand, then between the little and ring fingers and onto the palm of the hand was a little frozen steak. That steak and I spent the rest of the night together. Well, we spent about two hours together, until the heat generated by those red wasp stings caused the little steak to thaw. Now I know how to quickly defrost a steak. Get stung by a wasp!

After hours of trying to freeze my own hand, the pain diminished but the swelling did not. There was no wearing of jewelry the next morning. The hand looked like it belonged to that Marshmallow Man. It didn’t hurt. It just didn’t work. Nevertheless, work called so I retreated to the bathroom to prepare for the work day. Everything went well until I stepped out of the shower. Still dripping wet and with only a dry towel as a weapon, I was attacked by (Good Grief!) another red wasp. Are you kidding me!?! I confess. I ran from the battlefield, without uniform on of any kind. Unfortunately, Holly, the house cat, was in the way and did not respond properly to the command to “GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Consequently poor little Holly looked somewhat like a black and white soccer ball in an intense game as I ran from the field of battle. Could not understand why that cat seemed to think she was supposed to stay right in front of me. She got kicked all the way to the dining room.

That’s where I finally came to a halt to regroup and decided it was time to declare war. So far its 2 versus 2 – two stings for them and two dead wasps for me. Yep, I dried off, put some clothes on and killed that wasp. And I am now fully armed in the bathroom, where I have secured my weapons, one fly swatter and one can of wasp spray. All I can say is Holly better run when I tell her to.

Later at work, where I related my wasp war adventures of the night and morning, found out Delanna N., of KXMX advertising, had the same problem, and had already been stung once herself. “How do they get in?” she demanded. “They crawl in through every little crack and hole,” we told her. I’ve seen them enter through a ceiling light fixture, through heating vents, etc. They are sneaky little dudes, attacking when they can’t be seen, like in the middle of the night when I’m sound asleep. So let the Red Wasp Wars begin. War is declared, cause I’m mad, but at least not as swollen any more. Now, if I can just get house cat Holly to stay out of the way!