My Mother

Mother and Child - by Pablo Picasso

The best radiologists, oncologists and surgeons here in Erie have given my mother just two months to live after several exams and tests led them to a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer early last month.  She hadn’t been feeling very well for quite awhile but couldn’t identify any pain and chalked it up to diabetes and her newly introduced insulin.  Then at a routine check-up her family doctor noticed that she was a little jaundiced.  Some rapid blood work confirmed it:  painless jaundice is the black mamba of the cancer ward.  If it’s not caught very early WITH the proper “anti-toxins” (for lack of a better word), it’s a cruel disease.

How do you make up for all your screw ups of 50+ years in just 8 weeks?  You can’t.  You just can’t.  Especially when you always felt like a failure as a son.  The best you can hope for is a chance to show through actions, not words, just how much that person has influenced your life in a positive way.

I was fortunate enough to live with my mother for 6 weeks just prior to her diagnosis, and it gave me an opportunity to show her, I hope anyway, with some of my small actions what a blessing it was to have her as a mother and role model for good parenting. I made my usual mistakes, but she knew I was trying hard to please her.   And not only that:  when paired with my father, she showed me that such a pairing could stay warm and affectionate much, much longer than 60+ years.

Mother & Child by Howard Weingarden

I feel very lucky to live in the same city as my parents, a “luxury” my older sister and brother would surely bargain just about anything for during the next couple of months.  I wish it could be so, if for no other than to see the joy in my mother’s eyes.  Very lucky indeed, do I feel, despite the sadness and sense of loss that now permeates the very air I breathe.  For SHE draws some of those same molecules into her lungs, SHE once taught me how to seal those lungs so I didn’t drown when she bobbed me up and down in the lake which was practically our back yard.

She does have faults of her own, like everyone else, but more often than not she tried to show me how to cope with them in a positive way, just as my father did in his own way.  The failures were my own, certainly not theirs.  There was a time when I thought such skills were “automatic”, that they came one’s way as the natural result of loving a creature that is part of one’s self, virtually without effort.  Being a father myself, and one who has failed to follow my parent’s example too many times to count, I now know much, much better. 

And that is the true lesson I learned from my mother and one I will carry with me always:  it is vitally important to love your children to the extent and degree that you will sacrifice your own wants and desires to further their growth, but it is equally vital that you let them see that you have those same struggles, and that by daily effort they can be overcome.  This is the essence of what my mother taught me, and if I could pass just one of her attributes through the generations onto my daughter, as my only child, it would be this:  your grandmother struggled in many of the same ways that I have, and that you have in your own way, but she never gave up, she never stopped trying to find some silver lining in that dark cloud which so often penetrates our days.  Even today, she contemplates chemo therapy she would otherwise forego just to try to make it to my niece’s wedding this summer.  Where does such courage come from?  I’m at a loss, unless it be that familiar trio of faith, hope and love.

She carries herself with such dignity and grace these days, even the difficult ones, demonstrating a love which comes from some ineffable source that carries joy along with it.   This is her ultimate gift to her family, those of us who will somehow carry on:  parenting not as chore, but a divine art form which captures the heart and touches the soul.

This is my mother, Virginia Mae.

My Friend in Wisconsin

Wisconsin Road by Jayne Gulbrand

I have a friend in Wisconsin. To call her a friend grossly understates what she has come to mean to me. Although our work while I lived there brought us together for only brief periods of time, and I loved her attitude during my Justice Circles (in fact her dedication led her to be the first one I’d call whenever I scheduled one), it has been her support over the Internet since I left Wisconsin that has led me to care so deeply for her.

Can you tell which foot belongs to the "grownup"?

She is married with a myriad of kids and step kids, but she is almost as devoted to the children she encounters in her position as a middle school guidance counselor. It is her calling, and the children she works with are “her kids” in a very real sense. She cares about each and every one of them as though they were her own.

During my recent illnesses I have been through some very tough times; pain, depression, sadness, hopelessness. And I write to her, primarily to vent my frustration. But whereas most other people would read my words and say “Oh, Woodpecker’s depressed again” and send a brief pick me up, this woman has shared her life with me and given me countless hours of her time to focus me on the positive things in my life. She has become the “holder of my hope” (her words). How many of us would take the time to do that, especially if we were happily married and emailing someone who was just a casual friend while living in the same city? I am not her Internet “intrigue,” although I pay her compliment after compliment; I’m just a friend her faith tells her to reach out to as a voice crying in the wilderness. She has that kind of heart and soul.

If you met her you’d love her, that is her way. And if I could choose when I die and who my pallbearers (or dust bearers) would be, she would be right at the front of the procession.

Sometimes we get jaded about the internet and the constant barrage of dating sites. But I’m here to tell you that it is a wonderful thing for friends who barely knew each other, when they reach out in times of need and find golden gems like my friend, who shall remain nameless for her privacy. God bless her, and God bless you. She seems to think I can help other people when I recover from my physical problems, and if she’s any example I will “pay it forward” as she has, in a way that I hope will make her proud. I wish my school counselor had had half the ability and compassion that she has. And love for new friends, however distant. I love you, my friend who knows who she is, as a devoted friend to you, in all the right ways and for all the right reasons. She deserves a hug or three as I sign off. Would that half the rest of the world had more people like my dear, dear friend.

~Woodpecker

Pha’s First Words

Long before Frankencat was a glimmer in my eye, Pha did something so extraordinary that I still wonder if it really happened. It was shortly after we became roommates and I was not yet accustomed to her rather unique abilities.

This is not my Murphy bed. Click the image to see more images of Murphy beds and read more about them.

I live in a small studio apartment with a Murphy bed, so called because because William Lawrence Murphy first patented them in 1916. Anyway, you know the kind: it folds up into the wall when not in use and is usually held in place by a cheap latching device such as you would find on an old screen window or door.

My latching device had been broken since the day I moved in, but rather than fix it properly, I just wedged the comforter and pillows tight around the edges and figured that was good enough. It had always worked and seemed sturdy enough against everything except a tornado.

On this particular morning I was standing in my galley sized kitchen kinda of chewing Pha out because she is such a fussy eater and had yet again turned her nose up at some expensive canned cat food I buy her now and then as a treat. This had been one of those times and I was trying to impress on her that it was special cat food, and that if she kept rejecting it I wasn’t going to buy it anymore.  (I’ve since learned that anything in “classic pate form” is like Brussels sprouts to her.)  Still, I was talking to myself more than anything when I heard this low growl. I looked over from the kitchen sink and saw that Pha was sitting on the heater below the front windows, kinda crouched down and staring right at me.

We hadn’t been together more than a few weeks, but in all that time she had never once looked at me cross-eyed, let alone growl or make any aggressive sound toward anything.  I was more than a little shocked.

I said, “Pha, what are you doing?”

She increased the volume of her growl and actually raised her hackles. I turned back around to the kitchen sink to see if a mouse or bird or even a rat had somehow crawled onto the counter while I had been preoccupied with her lack of interest in pate. Nothing. So I turned the water off, dried my hands and said, “Now listen, Pha,” as I stepped away from the sink. As I stepped into that part of the room she arched her back and her growls intensified into a cat-fight like yowl. More stunned than ever I sank into my easy chair to just watch her for awhile. I wanted to know if I’d brought a schizoid cat home to live with me.

It didn’t take long to find out. No sooner had I settled into my chair than I heard a soft “click”, like the sound a screen door makes when it latches. I looked over, and faster than I could get up and moving on a good day, down came the bed, gaining speed with all that thick wooden framing.

It hit the coffee table with a huge crash, splitting my nice Aladdin’s oil lamp in two and spilling paraffin oil all over the place, as well as scattering books and magazines everywhere. I’m really surprised that the table legs held up.

I put the bed back up, wedging it extra tight, mopped up the oil and debris as best I could, and then went looking for Pha. I never saw her vanish in all the confusion, but there she was in her favorite hiding place: under my recliner. Honestly, I don’t know how she gets in or out, but she can even do it when I’m sitting in it, which is a good and sturdy talent the way I come crashing into the chair sometimes.

So I got her out (you have to tilt the entire seat forward off the ground to get at her), but she oddly came right to me and we just sat and cuddled and rocked for a good long while. Finally, she pushed her front feet into my chest and lifted her face off my neck and held it back, regarding me for a moment,  just like any loved one would do before saying “You scared me to death! I TOLD you that bed was going to fall and you STILL almost walked right under it!”

I’m tellin’ ya, between the weird growling and the perfectly clear but loving scolding she had just given me I got all teary, and it was more than a few minutes before I let her go.

No point in adding, I suppose, that there’s a strong new latch on the bed and a cupboard shelf with half a dozen cans of Friskies on it, non-pate, of course.

Woodpecker

Modern Cooking – American Style

In a previous posting, “Books, Books, and More Books“, I mused that there has never been a better time to be a reader, given what is aggressively marketed from libraries to grocery stores, what is available on the Internet, and new devices to make reading that material a faster, more flexible and accessible experience.

I find the same to be true of American cooking.  There has never been a better time in the history of our planet than to be a cooking aficionado in America, regional specialties and all.

Graham Kerr - The Galloping Gourmet - image from The Cooking Channel (click for full story)

I say this for several reasons. The primary reason has to be the flat screen that occupies nearly every room of every modern household: the television.  Ever since cable tv became available, producers have been pushing the envelope on tv cooking shows.  Julia Childs and The Galloping Gourmet seem quaint memories now, although humorous ones, between her flamboyance and his nipping away at the cooking wine.

Now entire channels are devoted 24 hours a day to everything from regional barbecue contests where red chili and white chili have their own separate categories, to UFC-type cook- offs which circle the globe in quest of the chef who can produce the most elusive of all things for the judges: umame, or “deliciousness”, in a range of categories and ingredients that would have your grandmother shaking her head.

Click this image to learn about the History of Chili

(What a great job, by the way, to be a judge on The Food Network, huh?  I happened to see a show from 5 or 6 years ago and I swear the pre-eminent male judge looked 50 or 60 pounds lighter than he does today.  And no wonder!  All he does all day is get driven from place to place and eat the best food anywhere!  Not too healthy, but sign me up for a couple of years anyway.  I’ll work it off once the ” hardship” is over.)

It’s not just one channel, either.  Look on almost any major channel and they’re getting their chops in (sorry).  There’s Oprah learning a better way to fry chicken in 1/3 the amount of oil.  There’s Paula Deen sending “best dishes” from her kitchen to yours.  “The Barefoot Contessa” showing us how the Hamptons crowd dines.  Bobby Flay showing us how cooking outdoors in one way or another is more fun and flavorful than simply grilling meat.  Giadia de Laurentis making it look-oh-so-easy to recreate dishes from Italy while raising a family in California wine country.  Rachel Ray just looking cute, EVERYWHERE.  There’s even a show that tries to identify the country’s WORST cook!  And the piece de resistance:  an “Ultimate Food Championship”, in which a rather bizarre Japanese host invites chefs around the country to compete against the clock and one of America’s “Iron Chefs” with the most bizarre ingredients you can imagine.  All while the judges look
 hungrily on, offering meaningless speculation as to what each chef and his assistants are  really doing down below in Kitchen Stadium.

And it isn’t just tv, either.  Books abound on how to beat diabetes while eating your favorite foods.  How this product or that product will make your food magic and revolutionary.  I can’t count the number of trees which have sacrificed their lives to offer in print form some particular country’s food preparation techniques in an effort to sell the various strange and sundry products sold at your nearest superstore.  On one level it reminds me of what the markets of ancient Rome must of looked liked in their glory.  Gastronomic hedonism gone wild

And the devices!  Walk into any kitchen store and tell me you’re not blown away by the gadgets and gizmos and pots and pans.  I dare you, cooks of America!

But there’s an upside to all of this, even if not everyone appreciates it.  I like to cook, and years ago became enamored of fresh herbs.  They’re  so easy to grow, as a general rule, that they’re like tasty weeds.  And my mother, an excellent cook still, at 87 years old, has lost some of her zeal in the kitchen so I offered to cook a couple meals a week for my folks.  I had visions of New Age ambrosia leaving them reeling in ecstasy.  By the second meal, however, they politely informed me in no uncertain terms, “We don’t like fresh herbs, and this tastes like garlic; you put garlic in this didn’t you?”  

Vegetables with Fresh Herbs - Photo by Noel Zia Lee

I  was floored.  “What??  They were grown right out your back door, they’re fresh, they’re delicious, what do you MEAN you don’t like them?  How can you not like basil in your red sauce, or sprigs of thyme or rosemary under the skin of a well-roasted whole chicken?  Or garlic in almost anything”. My solution was to chop stuff so fine I thought they’d never see it, but they are bloodhounds when it comes to fresh herbs.

They aren’t immune to  the new devices,though.  I’ve been watching my parent’s two-year search for the perfect egg poacher with no small amount of amusement, and they will grind whole coffee beans in their new grinder once in awhile, now that they’ve seen how easy it is to have fresher tasting coffee.  Throw in a countertop grill and one could almost say they’ve turned a small corner.

Here’s the deal, as I finally puzzled it out, and not surprisingly it’s a generational thing.  They both grew up in sparse times, when Sunday’s roast beef became Monday’s hash, then Tuesday’s beef stew, then  Wednesday’s, well, you get the idea.  When she was younger my mother added much variety to our family menu, but there were few spices, and everything was lightly seasoned.  After 80 plus years of eating the same basic stuff 7 days a week their palates are pretty well set.  They know what they like and what they don’t like.  I can’t fault them for that, and they do try some of the new things I force on them, like letting meat rest before carving, rice or pasta(not spaghetti) or even couscous once instead of baked or mashed potatoes.

But for you and me the world is literally our oyster, and there really isn’t any excuse to not read a new recipe or watch a different cooking technique on tv.  The stores make it easier and easier by pre-packaging stuff in new ways, with new ingredients.  It’s gotten expensive like everything else, but once a week, walk on the wild side.  Study and prepare something you’ve never done before.
The French, Italians, Greeks, Chinese, Mexicans all have their signature styles.  I’d like to think Modern Cooking, American Style, will grow even more diverse than our parents was predictable.
Woodpecker

Mitakuye Oyasin

This beautiful Native American prayer was taught to me by my best friend in Florida, Clint Fuller, a part Cherokee blues musician of some note along the Gulf of Mexico, who I recently learned has passed away from this world.

It is a saying spoken in the Lakota Sioux language, and in Clint’s language meant all the relations.  It it difficult to pronounce on paper, but sounds something like Me Tak U We, Oy ya Sun.

“All the relations” is a reference to many things in many different tribes.

The phrase translates as “all my relatives,” “we are all related,” or “all my relations.” It is a prayer of oneness and harmony with all forms of life: other people, animals, birds, insects, trees and plants, and even rocks, rivers, mountains and valleys.

Aho Mitakuye Oyasin… All my relations. I honor you in this circle of life with me today. I am grateful for this opportunity to acknowledge you in this prayer…

To the Creator, for the ultimate gift of life, I thank you.

To the mineral nation that has built and maintained my bones and all foundations of life experience, I thank you.

To the plant nation that sustains my organs and body and gives me healing herbs for sickness, I thank you.

To the animal nation that feeds me from your own flesh and offers your loyal companionship in this walk of life, I thank you.

To the human nation that shares my path as a soul upon the sacred wheel of Earthly life, I thank you.

To the Spirit nation that guides me invisibly through the ups and downs of life and for carrying the torch of light through the Ages, I thank you.

To the Four Winds of Change and Growth, I thank you.

You are all my relations, my relatives, without whom I would not live. We are in the circle of life together, co-existing, co-dependent, co-creating our destiny. One, not more important than the other. One nation evolving from the other and yet each dependent upon the one above and the one below. All of us a part of the Great Mystery.

Thank you for this Life.

Farewell my red brother Clint, as you called yourself in our circles, and may your spirit soar like an eagle in your new home with “all the relations”.  Mitakuye Oyasin.

I thought this prayer would form a good bookend to my earlier article about medicine wheels called It’s All About Balance.
Woodpecker

Wild at Heart

Some years back, a very wise man named John Eldridge wrote a profound little book called Wild at Heart. On one level it’s a deconstruction of our relationships with God, the relationship between sons and fathers, but the part I liked best. was his analysis of the relationship between men and women.

Now, this may stir some people up, but according to Eldridge, in the heart of every man are three things:
1. The desire for a battle to fight (not necessarily physical; think MLK, Jr.).
2. An adventure to live.
3. A beauty to rescue.

As to women, Eldridge also believes they harbor a desire for three things, too:
1. Every woman yearns to be fought for.
2. (And this is VERY important in my eyes): Every woman wants an adventure to share.
3. Every woman wants a beauty to unveil.

The reason I think #2 of the women’s desire is so important requires just a little introspection. So many men (and let’s be fair, women, too) make the all-important mistake in love of thinking that their partners ARE the great adventures of their lives. Yes, their love is overwhelming, but ultimately one or the other thinks, “I don’t feel central enough to what they’re doing. I want to be caught up in the adventure they’re living, not just an observer or an object. I get bored; take me into an adventure I don’t know yet.”

Many relationships fail instead of flourish for this very reason. It’s not that the loving stops. One person just gets bored because they’re either not living an adventure or not sharing in one.

Now I’ve enjoyed the love of several women, and have to admit that this rings very true to me. Each relationship ended, not because we stopped loving each other (the truest form of which never dies), but because I made the mistake of making THEM my adventure. I don’t know if I was born that way, or whether it developed over time, I just know that the adventure of my career and recreational pursuits never really interested them, and so I focused most of my adventure on them. The adventure shared in the first long-lasting love I enjoyed was that of stimulating political and economic discussions; we discussed ways to fix all the socio-economic problems of the day. That was the adventure we shared for many, many years. But she felt law school ruined me, causing me to think in shades of grey rarer than the black and white she so preferred. Thus began a gradual decline and her search for adventure elsewhere. It literally broke my heart, and I didn’t date again for several years.

Subsequent relationships followed a similar pattern. I’d get close to someone, based on mutual attraction and an initial hope of adventure together, only to have them tell me after a while that they had become bored, not with the love, but with the rest of the relationship. I now understand that by making them my adventure I had simply made life boring for them.

It’s hard to break this cycle, especially when you live alone in a new city and are not inclined to hang out at bars or other pick-up places. I’ve never “picked someone up” anyway, and am too shy to learn now.

So take the Eldridge comments and see how they fit in with your experience. I suspect that if you’re really honest with yourselves you’ll see just enough truth there to make a difference in your marriage or next relationship of love. It may be too late for me, but hope, as they say, springs eternal.

~Woodpecker

A “Walkabout” Delayed – or The Best Laid Plans

As some of you may know, I’ve not been in the best of health lately. Back in early May I had a series of grand mal seizures while already in the hospital for something totally unrelated. I have no memory of these events, other than waking up in ICU. They did EEGs and CT scans of my brain and could tell me only two things: I was NOT epileptic, and they had no idea what caused my brain to start shooting internal fireworks. Oh, yes, the doctor told me one other thing: he was under a legal obligation to report me to the DMV and I was not to drive for six months. Six months! Might as well have been a jail sentence – less temptation and less need.

Well, I gave that directive about as much time as it deserved, one day, and then started driving around town just like normal. No worries, until I didn’t slow quite fast enough at a stop sign and “bumped” the lady/girl in front of me. She jumped out, did a slight cheerleader move and shouted “I’m okay, my car’s okay; how about you?”. I simply apologized like crazy and we went our separate ways. Whew, a bullet dodged there, huh?

Anyway, I’ve been planning to drive out West by myself to see some sights and visit some old and dear friends in Sante Fe, NM. I was going to leave Monday, August 2nd. But I thought I’d better make a test drive of interstate driving, so yesterday I decided to drive down to The Apple Store in Pittsburgh just to make sure.

Photo by Ian Britton

The drive down was fine, but when I got there it was raining like a hurricane. The streets had 1 or 2 inches of water flowing over them in many places. I was trying to follow some directions I’d been given when the haze came over me. It was like my brain froze. Ahead of me at a stop sign was another Honda Civic, and it was only after I’d hydro-planed a good 10 feet that I was able to steer a little to his right and over the curb onto a school yard. Thankfully no one was hurt and his car was fine. But my right front tire was absolutely shredded, probably when I jumped the curb. So there I was, in the downpour, changing the tire on a car I’ve had for all of 4 months. 45 minutes later (a new record in futility) I got the spare on and was able to find the mall where the Apple Store was. I wanted to get my daughter an iPhone for her birthday, which was way back in March (long story). But, alas, as fate would have it, all they had in stock were the $399 models and $729 model iPads.

So, I pointed the car back toward I-79 and made the trip home at 50 mph, just liken the manual advised. I still had all sorts of dashboard alarms going off the whole way.

I’m still resolved to do my walkabout, but first thing tomorrow I’m checking out the Greyhound and Trailways schedules. I think it’s time I left the driving to someone else for awhile, don’t you agree? Maybe there’s an Apple Store along the way with a better inventory in stock.

Woodpecker

Frankencat Steps Out – Finale

I fairly leapt at the back door and closed it as quickly as I could without slamming it, then collapsed on the grass as though I’d just won Wimbledon.  It seemed like ages before my breath returned to somewhat normal, and then I slipped inside, found Pha cowering under the swivel chair as though I was going to beat her, and picked her up and hugged and kissed her while I said a thank-you prayer to the Great Cat in the Sky.  It was 10 minutes to 11.

After she discovered that I wasn’t going to beat her, she calmed right down and was the old Pha within minutes.  She slept almost the entire next day, but you know the first thing she did when I finally got her home?  She went right to her little treat bowl and looked at me expectantly, as though she’d been the best cat in the world all night long.  I couldn’t help laughing and immediately gave in.

Afterward:

I’ve had some time to think about this adventure now, even as a slightly subdued Frankencat resumes her duties outside.  I’ve decided I made several errors that contributed to her behavior last night.  I’ll share them with you:

1.  Always wait at least a week after a cat has been in the kennel to put her back into a car.

2.  Never assume they know where they are the first few minutes in a new environment, and stay close by until they settle in.  THEN and only then should you try tending to chores, even quick ones.

3.  Realize how fast even an older cat can move if they are someplace they’re not sure they want to be.

4.  Remember that they can make their bodies incredibly slim and can slip through cracks you wouldn’t have thought possible.

5.  Never use a rake to try to corral a cat, obviously.

6.  Suck up to local law enforcement no matter how humiliating.

7.  Don’t run after a cat in the woods wearing only flip-flops and shorts.  (Yeah, I itch, dammit).

8.  Try to plan bonding visits well before dusk, when the wolf man howls.

9.  Realize that cats naturally feel a call to be where other critters are, especially if they previously unexplored.

10.  Finally, accept that you may be in for a long haul, but that eventually, if you make the path back home clear to them, they will most likely return on their own.  In the meantime, stay inside with the door open and try to enjoy yourself for awhile.  Accept the sometimes excruciatingly hard truth that if it’s their day to go, it’s their day to go.

Woodpecker

Frankencat Steps Out – Part III

Try as I might I could not relax inside and kept looking out the back door with the flashlight, hoping to catch a glimpse. Then I remembered an old trick that used to work with an incredibly independent basenji I once owned. In order to corral him in a large, fenced-in back yard, I’d had to take a rake in one hand to use as a sort of guiding device to stop his endless circling away from me. Would that work with Frankencat? I got a little rake out of the garage and decided to find out.

I approached the woods very slowly this time, holding the rake behind my back and continuing he circling motion with the flashlight. Lo and behold, after several very embarrassing entreaties, there was Pha (or Frankencat?) in the grass not 10 feet away, looking at the circling beam of light on the grass. Determined to play it cool, I immediately turned my back and said “C’mon Pha, into the light. All are welcome. Run to the light” and started to walk away. I only turned to peek once, but there she was, 10 or 15 yards out of the woods, sniffing her way through the bushes that are planted right in front of the fence. I kept going and didn’t stop until my parents back landing, where I sat down and aimed the flashlight at the fence closest to me. “Well, it’s now or never”, I thought, and got up with the flashlight in one hand and the little rake in the other. I approached her slowly until I reached a point where I thought the rake trick might work.

I pulled it from behind my back and held it out to one side like a lion tamer does with his long poles or whips and said “Let’s go, Pha”.

As soon as she saw the rake she freaked and bolted the 25 yards back into the woods. I had blown it and I knew it. I tossed the rake several feet onto the grass and sat back down, utterly defeated.

But some kind of spell had been broken, for after about five minutes there was Pha again, in the bushes working her way back to me. I didn’t dare move. My father came to the back door when she was only 10 feet away, and afraid he was going to open the door, say something that would make her run I told him “Don’t say a word, she’s right here.”. “Okay,” he whispered. “I was just going to open the door in case she wanted to come in.”

It didn’t occur to me immediately, but this was brilliant. After she once again skittered off at my approach that’s exactly what we did: we swung the door and screen wide-open. I retreated from the door and went to the grass on the other side from where Pha was.

And then it was over before I could even see it coming. She calmly sauntered up to where the food and water bowls were, gave one disdainful look at the tuna and then as though she’d only been outside a moment to use the litter box crossed the threshold and was inside.

Frankencat Steps Out – Part II

Finally I chased after her, murmuring all the sweet little endearments pet owners use with their loved ones. I tried to wade into the bramble after her, but wearing Bermuda shorts, flip flops and a tee shirt only got me several cuts, stings, thorns and Lord only knows what else all over my body. There were “leaves of three” all over the place but I had only Pha on my mind. I saw her looking at me several times about 10 yards in, but she was in a phantasmagoria of scents, sights and sounds and wasn’t about to give it up for dear old Dad so quickly.

I tried reverse psychology next, turning my back and telling her I was going home, would be baxk in the morning, and that she should be a good girl wherever she slept. Nada. It was closing in on dusk and she knew it’d be more fun to stay right where she was.

Thus began over a three hour ordeal of trips between the house and the woods, sometimes coaxing her out onto the grass only to watch her turn and leap back in when I got too close, but more often not seeing or hearing her at all. Once, when I just sat in the grass and waited she came out toward me and was within 5 feet, when my parents neighbor, whose house is closest to these woods, opened her window and fairly screamed “Have you tried a can of tunafish? They love that!”. Bang, zoom. At the sound of the her shrieking Pha had bolted. I said with barely contained frustration, “No, she hates tuna, but thanks anyway.”

By now it was twilight and impossible to see into the woods anymore, so I tried the reverse psychology once more and retreated to my parents house to plot a new strategy. I was starting to shift from worry to anger, and had to work hard to control it. I actually got in my car to drive home, stopped opposite the woods and yelled “See Pha? Daddy wasn’t kidding, see you tomorrow.”. Less than half the way home at 9:30 I called my folks and told them I’d be back for the night after I took my nighttime medication.

When I returned there was no miracle waiting for me, but I had planned out a strategy. I moved her litter box outside the back door, and made sure a bowl of water and a bowl of tuna (which she really does hate) were also there. Then I got a powerful flashlight my Dad keeps in the sun room to see if I could pick out some red eyes being reflected at me anywhere near the edge of the woods. I flickered the light around and around in circles, ’cause she likes to chase that at home. There was no immediate response but I kept it up for a few minutes.

Then Security showed up with their own flashlights. Man, could this get any worse? “What’s going on here?” a burly guy asked me from the darkness pierced only by his flashlight shining in the general direction of my face. “Uh, just trying to coax my cat out of the woods here. Man!” (I added in a feeble attempt to not let him rattle me).

“Well, you know all pets are to be kept on a leash here, right?”

“Oh, for sure, but she snuck out.”. (I was starting to feel sweaty).

“She in there?” he asked, stupidly I thought, as he panned his flashlight over to the woods.

“Yeah, I said. “But I’m not going to play Gus the Firefly much longer here. If I can’t get her in about 10 minutes I’m going back inside and wait things out there.”

“Good,” he said. “Can’t have people running around shining flashlights everywhere. Spooks some of the elderly residents.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks, my friend”, I said, hating myself for even saying it. But it got his big frame out of there.

I tried with no success to get even a glimpse of Pha for about five minutes and then walked dejectedly back to my parent’s back door. It was becoming obvious that she was going to spend the night in those woods, and I was going to sleep in a swivel chair with a footstool in the sun room. I started to wonder if this was just a sign of yet another failed relationship with a female because I’d gotten sick too often. (I have a history, too.)