Centerpiece

Bubba always gets these bright ideas ... I'm not quite sure what he thinks sometimes!

Georgie of the tornados

'Nuff said.

South of the border?

Georgie the Burrito Baby.
Also known as our little Mexican Jumping Bean.
I think in another life he lived in Mexico.

When I look at this picture, I can not help but think about flying on a plane.  Or, I suppose I should say, falling asleep when I'm flying on the plane.  You know that feeling when you wake up suddenly and can feel that your mouth is hanging open?  And you can't help but wonder:

Was I snoring?

I really couldn't tell you if Georgie worries about things like that, but judging from his relaxed demeanor, I'd guess not.  In fact, it does not look to me that he has a care in the world.

As it should be.

Louisa May Alcott

"Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead."
Louisa May Alcott

Gazelle's story

Washington County Fair - I'd guess 1995 or so, but I'm not certain.

Birthday: May 21, 1983
Birthplace: Oregon

Gazelle has been my friend and pet since about 1992. She was my 4-H project horse until I graduated from high school in 1997, and she has competed at county and state fairs in Oregon. Note the picture above.

At some point before I graduated from high school, we discovered that Gazelle had a cataract in her left eye, but our vet did not recommend any aggressive treatment at that time. He explained that success rate of cataract surgery was very low, and most horses learn to adapt to the gradual loss of their sight (remember, it was the mid-1990’s - I think surgery options may be different now). When the cataract was discovered, we think Gazelle had already lost about 25% of her vision in that eye.

After I graduated from high school, I took Gazelle with me to college (about an hour and a half away from home). She stayed with me down at school until I earned my degree in 2002, and then the two of us went back home again. I believe gradually over the five years I was at schoo, Gazelle lost another 50% of the vision in her left eye, bringing the vision lost to about 75%.

Another four years later, in the autumn of 2006, Gazelle had eye surgery to remove eyeball that was damaged by a cataract. The surgery was necessary because the vision loss had caused her eye to atrophy and had become very painful. As near as I can guess, she was almost completely blind in that eye for about for about two years before the surgery, so it was a smooth transition.  She didn't all of a sudden wake up, unable to see.  It had been a long time coming.

The surgery took about two hours, and the vet completely anesthetized her on the arena floor. She had an IV and a helmet, and there were 2 assistants and an extra vet on hand. And of course I was there for moral support. After the vet removed her eye, tear ducts, and eyelashes, he inserted a silicone ball and stitched the whole thing closed. You can see it in this picture (one of my favorites of her):


Although I was there to be supportive, remember I never really wanted to be a vet. I was completely grossed out! I guess I was standing there swaying, looking pretty green, and all of a sudden it hit me that I better go sit down before I fell down. One of the assistants said she was just opening her mouth to tell me to go sit down, so she was glad I went on my own. When the surgery was over, the vet asked if I wanted to see the eyeball.

Thanks, but no thanks.

Cute aside: Dan and I met shortly before Gazelle's surgery.  I knew he was a keeper when he asked if he could come visit me at the barn, and I told him that I would just be hand-walking Gazelle because she was recovering from surgery. He said he wanted to come anyway just to walk with us.

In June 2007, Gazelle, Dan, Blake and I made the long, perilous journey from Oregon to Ohio. I left Oregon because I was following Dan, and Gazelle was following me. Blake was just along for the ride, I suppose. The adventure across country was quite an ordeal, but everyone (including Blake) made it without any permanent trauma. We will never stay in a Days Inn again (“With convenient horse stalls available.” Yeah. Right. Gazelle still intends to write a letter explaining exactly what constitutes a “horse stall” to her, and it’s not an open-air pen on the side of a parking lot).

Gazelle is half AQHA, one-quarter Appaloosa, and one-quarter Missouri Fox Trotter. Her sire was a registered AQHA racehorse, and Gazelle is a direct (although immensely distant) descendent of Sir Barton, who in 1920 lost a match race with Man O’ War (irrefutably "the greatest racehorse of all time"). Sir Barton is most remembered as being the first winner of The Triple Crown.

-----Update-----
October 1, 2010

This is a picture of me standing in front of Man O' War's grave in Lexington, Kentucky.

More on that experience later!

I'm a good boy I am

I have been using my litterbox!

For the most part.

Is there something behind me?

Ain't that the kick in the head (part 2)

We just might have worked out a solution about the hard wood dilemma.  Keep your fingers crossed; it may turn out to be a wholly stupid idea.

Or, worse yet, it may work out that it's not stupid, but impossible.

The decision to remove part of the floor, right or wrong, was not ours.  We can't beat ourselves up over what was done in the past.  All we can do is move on and do what we can to salvage the ass-wipe of a situation.

That being said, I truly think the party is over for the hard wood as flooring. We've debated the relatively few options that would let us use leave the hard wood visible, and none of them are appealing:  either cover the subfloor with something else (hard wood, laminate), cut it out and replace with something else (hard wood, laminate) and do some kind of divider straight down the middle of the room delineating between the two floors; or, create a feature in the room (like a step) but basically do the same thing.  We could move our bedroom into the living room and make the subfloor area our closet (which would mean moving the living room to the back of the house).

All of the ideas were scrapped as ridiculous.

We concluded that the flooring ship sailed 40 years ago when half of the hard wood was removed from the house and discarded.  But if that old wood can never be flooring again, could it be something else?

I've been mulling it over and over and over, and a glimmer of an idea has taken shape as a remote possibility.  Any interior decorators (or interior decorator wannabes) please DO voice your opinion.

The idea (no clue about logistics at this point, which is why I said it may turn out to be a good idea but impossible):

Rather than just cover up the hard wood with laminate and never see it again, we're considering taking out one of the planks and cutting it down (and refinishing, of course) and using it to replace the three windowsills.

Here's a shot of one of the windowsills.  Look carefully under Blake's ass and you might be able to see it (har har):

The three windowsills in the room are about 8 inches wide.

This is the longest one--the front picture window.
Remember, Blake is the size of a small elephant

and his right ass-cheek is still falling off.

Hear me out.  I absolutely do not want to commit a historical preservation sin that will land me in interior decorating hell.  But, I really think this could be a neat idea.

First of all, if we don't do something, the hard wood will be covered up for probably another 40 years (the warranty on the laminate we chose is 30 years--40 years is a guestimate).  Which is to say, the hard wood won't be lost, it should be protected from damage, but still:  even though no one can anticipate what might happen in the next 40 years, if we cover it up we assuredly won't be able to enjoy the beauty of the hard wood.  That's a Given.  So is "out of sight, out of mind."

Secondly, the hard wood is the old style.  Oregonians have no clue what the old style is (and before last Sunday, nor did I), so in case you're wondering what "old style" is:  the planks are huge (not like the manufactured 2 to 4 inch wide planks you see at Home Depot -- rather, the size of a sheet of plywood, which is what we'd have to use to put in place of the one we take out).  One plank should be plenty to replace all the windowsills.

Back to the "first of all:"  that means there would still be the same unusable amount of hard wood that would be untouched and protected beneath laminate.  In 40 years or whenever, when/if we (or someone else) take up the laminate, the situation is going to be no WORSE off, and no BETTER off, then where it is now.  Still SCREWED because there still won't be enough to do anything with.

So although yes I can see there is a definite downside (once you cut it, you can't put it back), I still think it is okay because the whole point is that right NOW, before we've cut or altered anything, there isn't enough hard wood to use it as functional flooring.  What's one more plank when half of it is already gone?

Also, it's is a neat idea because our windowsills are so uncool.  In the picture, you can see it's a weird color.  That's because I painted it.  That's right, I painted our windowsills.  I know that sounds like the sin that should land me into interior decorating hell, but trust me:  the windowsills were so offensive to the eye, painting them was the only solution.  Eventually we want to replace the windows anyway, so I didn't worry about it too much when I did it.  It looks a million times better though because:

The windowsills, under the paint, are the leftover vinyl laminate from the kitchen counters!  Avocado green marble vinyl/plastic/laminate (I have no idea what it really is) from 30-40 years ago!  The windowsills!  It was too bizarre; my brain couldn't even handle it.

Our goal timeline for replacing the three windows in this room is within the next 2 years, so we would probably just pull up the plank and keep it safe until we're ready to do the windows.

Any thoughts out there?

--------------UPDATE!!--------------

FORMICA!!!  That was the word I couldn't think of.  Our windowsills (that I painted) were originally avocado green, marble-style FORMICA.  Major faux pas.  Major UGH-O-RAMA.

Orange shag saga begins

The results are in:  it's not a bladder infection.  I'm relieved because I certainly don't want my cat to have a bladder infection, yet a teeny tiny part of me is a little disappointed because at least that would have been a clear-cut reason for the sudden flood of urine, with a simple treatment.

No such luck . . . .

The vet did have one thing for us to try.  My vet assured me that it's a very common treatment, and I've since done some reading up and the Internet agrees with him, but to say I was shocked yesterday at this proposition would have been an understatement.

We're putting my cat on an antidepressant.

I have no idea if The Real William Blake ("TRWB") (who my cat is named after) was depressed in his lifetime.  I know TRWB was not appreciated as an artist while he was alive; it was only after his death that he became an icon of the Romantics.  Whereas, and only on the merit of the fact that he was unappreciated in his time and I need to perpetuate the stereotype of depressed/starving artists to make this work, I am going to theorize that perhaps TRWB was depressed and putting his namesake on an antidepressant is the mother of all ironies.

All jokes aside, it is pretty common.  The pharmacist didn't bat an eyelash when I brought in his prescription.  She even allowed me to put it under Blake's full name.  So when I get refills, I can just call in and ask for a refill for William Blake (FELINE).

I've been doing some research on inappropriate elimination (nice way of saying they pee or poop outside the litterbox) and guess what?  Anti-anxiety or antidepressants are frequently mentioned as a form of treatment (not sure if it is correct--and PS I don't really care if I'm wrong--but FYI, I use anti-anxiety and antidepressant interchangeably).

One more tidbit:  if you start typing in the Google search box antidepressants then you will discover antidepressants for cats appears as one of the first suggestions.  Are Google's suggestions alphabetical?  I have no idea but I didn't think so (I thought they were listed by frequency of use).  At any rate, if they are alphabetical, then I suppose this has no significance (oh well):  antidepressants for cats appeared on the list before antidepressants for children.

The peeing has been continuing daily, and the work will begin this weekend of ripping up carpet and laying down laminate instead.  We're going to cut out the subfloor in the worst areas, and seal the entire floor just in case there are any sneaky spots from Blake or any other pets from the past thirty years that we can't see.  Between that and the Prozac, we should be good to go.

Wish us luck!

Here's Blake sleeping on the orange shag carpet.  He's saying goodbye . . . the shag only has a few days left to live.  Isn't he cute?

Good bye, Orange Shag!  It's been thirty years.

We're not going to miss you.

Okay, okay, okay.  I was kidding up there.  Here he is:

It is shocking how well he blends in though.

We've unwillingly hired an interior decorator

I see how no other conclusion can be drawn from the sit'iation I'm about to describe: my cat is a GENIUS!

My husband and I are--in a manner of speaking--wholly dissatisfied with the flooring in our house.  The bulk of our floors are covered by five inch shag carpeting (note: a slight exaggeration).  One room in particular has an especially deep and hideous pile.

Adding insult to injury:  it's also orange.

Blake, likewise orange, blends in so well that when he lies in the middle of the room he is virtually undetectable.  Thank goodness for his white belly and preference for sleeping in the bedroom, else he'd be in constant fear for his life.

As a side note:  I mean no disrespect to the previous occupants of our house by my disparaging comments.  I'm sure when the carpet was new it was a well-loved, trendy novelty.  But carpeting is not intended to last for 30 years, nor yet any distinctive style of anything (bell bottoms, Jordache jeans, avocado green refrigerators . . . all are supposed to go to the place where unsightly trends go to die).  Not even the manufacturer expects their product to last three decades (or at least, they shouldn't).  It's just time for it to be replaced.  Plain and simple.  Long overdue.  Moving on.

It's awful.  It smells.  Countless paws have pittered and countless accidents have pattered across the swaying, amber waves.  Blake is certainly not the first.

He won't be the last.

My husband and I have already discussed what type of flooring we want to replace the horrific shag.  It's our dream to have hardwood throughout our entire house.  No, it's not hardwood underneath.  Since we're both of the "Go big or go home" (a.k.a. expensive) philosophy, we've not yet made it to the point of ripping up carpet.  We want to do it right and are okay with waiting.

But I've been here for three years and the other day we started talking about it again.  It was an especially hot day, the morning sun hit the carpet at a particularly pungent angle, and we both came to the conclusion:  maybe we should just do the living room (probably 250 square feet) in laminate?  It's definitely the worst of the entire house, and since we spend a lot of time in there . . . maybe we don't need to wait?

Blake was eavesdropping, apparently.  He not only heard, but he also understood and agreed with our assessment.  (That's what makes him a genius).  He clapped his little paws together in childlike excitement!  Hooray, no more orange shag, which is completley abhorrent to his little metrosexual sense of aesthetics.  At last, something is going to be done.  Relief.

But then . . . we didn't start working.  And he thought, "WTF?"  He thought, "Where's my laminate flooring?  This orange shag sucks!"  He thought:

"What can I do to speed the process along?"

And darn it all if the little schmuck didn't start blatantly pissing in the corner.  While I was sitting right there!!  When we're not home.  Whenever he feels a tingle.

I know, I know.  I'm taking him in to check and see if he has a bladder infection.  That's what I'm supposed to do, and it will be done with due speed.  But I highly doubt that a bladder infection is the answer.  I think it's much more likely that his philosophy of beauty is just that offended by the monstrosity of the orange, and he's letting us know in no uncertain terms that the tangled shag has got to go.

My new interior decorator, if somewhat devious in his methods.

"The true method of knowledge is experiment."
William Blake, 1757-1827

Gold Star for: Bunny!

Bunny is a little princess!  She gets a Gold Star.

We keep Bunny shaved because she honestly seems to prefer it that way.  When her hair gets too long, she mopes around the house and her fur starts looking greasy because she can't keep up with it.  Although when she first gets shaved she looks a little silly--we call her a Fooferdoodle because she looks like a poodle--once you get used to it you'll notice that she is much happier with her bobbed haircut.  She skips around the house joyfully and is more active period.  She smiles more often.

At any rate, this past weekend I took her in for her regular grooming appointment.  Her groomer is a gal that used to partner up with my veterinarian but has since branched out and now runs her own business.  She broke away from the vet probably a year and half ago, and we've been loyal customers ever since.

It wasn't easy to remain loyal because I never knew her name or even met her when she worked at the vet.  The staff at the vet's ran the show and I would just drop Bunny off and pick her up later.  Every time they'd ask, "Does she need sedation?  Is it okay to give it if she does?"  And I would say, "Nope, and yes."  But Bunny never needed to be sedated.

Skipping back to the topic of the groomer branching out on her own . . . At last I figured out her business name and number and I gave her a call.  I told her who I was but didn't expect any bells to go off in her mind since I knew we'd never met.  I described my "gray foofy cat" to her and she said, "Sure!  I remember her.  I'd be happy to make an appointment for you."

And that was that.  For the past year and a half we've had steady appointments, but it was only just this past weekend that I found out the rest of the story.  I've noticed before that the groomer, with her new office and big sign proclaiming her services and the fees for each one, did not have any cat services listed.  I thought that was a little odd since I was there with my cat, I just dismissed it and never thought much about it.  Until over the weekend when I asked if she'd also groom my mother-in-law's cat (who she did once in the past, while she still worked at the vet).  Her answer shocked me:

She doesn't do cats!

But . . . Bunny is a cat!  Well, I guess the truth of the matter is that if someone calls in to make an appointment, she refuses to groom cats!  She has no prices listed because it's not a regular service that she provides!  She charges me her old rate from when she worked at the vet, but will not take on any new cat clients!  She hates grooming cats (they're wiggly and have skin like paper).

But, get this!  She's glad to groom Bunny and (apparently) one other cat.  They are the two exceptions to her rule:  Bunny, a.k.a. Princess, and this other unknown cat are IT!

I'm so proud.

Even the dogs know it's a sin to disturb the Princess.
Wiggle-worm-Georgie, who leaves bruises on me from his pointy, pokey,
inconsiderate feet,will wait until she decides to get up and leave.
Neither dog will sniff her or bother her, and just crowd

together until the bed becomes available.

Too funny.

Now THAT'S a big nose!

Dead bug

Super, duper cute, but I can't help but wonder:

What is she rolling in and what is she going to smell like when she's done?

Shhh! She's sleeping.

Benjamin Franklin

"Do not anticipate trouble or worry about what may never happen.  Keep in the sunlight."

I need!

I realized the other day that I really haven't written about Izzy much.  Shame on me!  I feel like a bad parent that's been caught playing favorites.

I suppose I have been.  Blake, Ernie and Georgie are the three boys in the house.  They are so easy to write about.  The words appear on the screen by magic.  They are . . . hmmm.  What are they?  They are buffoons.  They are larger than life.

They are idiots.

Bunny and Gazelle are likewise easy to write about.  They ooze personality out of their pores.

Not to imply that Izzy doesn't ooze too.  She has just as much of a dripping, gushing personality as the rest of the pets, with slimy dollops sliding off the counter to land into a gelatinous blob of goop on the floor.  But Izzy is a lady.  Izzy is above all of the shenanigans of the rest of the crew.  And she isn't spectacularly clumsy, nor clever, nor stupid.  I don't know what to say about a normal pet.

(Pause)

Yeah, I really don't!

I'm going to try anyway.  Izzy is the kind of kid that is fine being by herself.  That is to say, she prefers to be with people, but she can fill the time with her own projects.  She's the kid that likes to read and make mud pies, or play with legos or Nintendo.  She's a perfectly happy, perfectly adjusted, and a perfectly friendly dog.  She howls when you leave for work in the morning, but for the bulk of the day I imagine that she just sleeps or plays with her toys.

Izzy is more than friendly.  She loves everybody.  Her only downfall is she's a licker . . . she can get you from across the room.  And not just a little slurp, either.  The force of her rubbery tongue can part your lips.  Blech!

But it's nice that I don't have to worry about her with strangers around.  She likes kids too, which is unusual for an unsocialized dog with no manners.  Our little neighbor who is about three years old came over for a visit and Izzy behaved to perfection.  Georgie has small-man-syndrome and I have to watch him like a hawk, but with Izzy all I have to do is maintain a general-common-sense-type of awareness for things like squeezing or tail pulling.  You know, the kind of stuff any dog owner should be aware of when little kids are around.

Izzy is just as funny as all my other pets that I write about regularly, but somehow she doesn't get herself into the same convoluted, comical predicaments.  She chases with the laser pointer with a mediocre amount of grace, but isn't quite as enamored with it as Georgie.  She loses interest quickly, or perhaps she's just being polite and stepping aside to let Georgie have his fun.  Like an indulgent little mama.

But she isn't really like a mama.  She's more like a little kid pretending to be a mama, and Georgie is her baby.  He's her dolly. 

Also similar to a little kid, Izzy doesn't know what she needs, she just knows she needs it.  As soon as you walk in the door, she needs.  She sits on the floor, wiggles her bum, looks at you with huge sad eyes, and whines.  It doesn't matter that she can't speak with words--I can still understand her easily.  Phonetically rendered, the sound she makes looks like this:  oooh, oooh, oooh!  Imagine hearing it in a sobbing, doggie voice:  I nee . . . eee . . . eeed!

If you ask her what she needs, the ooohs raise up in pitch.  And then, the best part of all, if you keep talking to her she'll actually grunt in frustratation because you didn't give in.  Uhhh!  Sometimes she farts at the same time, so that takes the guesswork out of what she needs.

Izzy is the most humanlike dog I've ever met.  When you talk to her she watches you like she's following along intently.  Then when you pause, she makes a noise like she knows it's her turn to contribute to the conversation.

Serious business

I figured out how to describe Ernie’s facial expression, and I tell you what . . . it was a revelation. I was looking at him last night, and remembering the day I described Blake’s habitual smile, and I couldn’t help noticing that Ernie rarely smiles. If ever.

Ernie is a very serious fellow. He has serious thoughts. I’m not quite sure what a cat with man-boobs could possibly be thinking about, but I’m sure it’s something like healthcare reform or environmental conservation.

The economy?

At any rate, I was getting ready for bed and putting on my pajamas when I noticed Ernie. He was in the room with me, and I had only noticed him in a vague way when I first walked in and started my nightly routine.

Then, for no reason at all, I really looked at him, and it was kind of spooky because was looking right back at me. Although my brain knew he was just hungry and hoping I’d walk to the door to go get his dinner, for a fraction of a second it seemed like he was trying to get my attention. Like he had to tell me something. And that was the lightning bolt moment.

Ernie's normal expression looks like he just said something horrific and shocking.  So off-the-wall that you know it's a joke.

Isn't it?

“Florida fell into the ocean.” “Some famous movie star died in a freak accident at a basket-weaving contest.”  That could never happen.

Right?

We've all been there.  Someone tells you something completely wild, and then they look so deadpan you consciously set aside your foolish feeling and make a point to believe them. They hold a steady, severe look for a fraction longer than is strictly necessary to pull off the joke. The trick crosses the line into “That’s not funny!” and when they finally give their "Gotcha!" smile you wind up feeling gullible and stupid.

Which, I realize, is the funny part.

That's what happened last night with Ernie.  As I peered into his worldly eyes, admittedly an impossible contradiction since I stand by my original assessment that he’s the dumbest cat on the planet, he had a look on his face that somehow made me believe he was the first to hear a heinous news story. He's a cat, of course he didn't actually verbalize anything, but the process was the same anyway:  an unbelievable scandal, information delivered straight-faced, a pause while I contemplated the outrageousness and tried to keep from laughing at his stony silence.  Then another pause.

His ability to hold the serious expression for so long made me doubt myself.

My smile faded. Could he possibly be serious? Is Florida gone? What could have gone wrong at a basket weaving contest?

I caught myself thinking: any second now . . . any minute he’s going to crack and I’ll know he was kidding.

Any minute now.

The official Jenny Craig weigh-In

When I found out that Blake had slowly, surprisingly, crept up to twenty-five pounds, I decided something had to be done.  I didn't know what, but we had to take him to the vet for vomiting and if ever there was a red flag, it was the sight of his greasy, dandruffy coat in the harsh light of the vet's office.

The poor guy could not reach his back to keep himself clean.

That was too much.  I felt horrible.  How did this happen?  How did I let this happen?  And how dark is our house?

It is my fault, obviously.  I know it is.  But when exactly did Blake make the transformation from "big-boned" to behemoth?  I can't seem to recall.

On the one hand, I have excuses.  In any small animal, a seemingly modest amount of weight can have a huge impact.  The line between beauty and beast is thinly drawn at best.  And also perforated like a coupon.  So we probably did wake up one day and the line was crossed at some point during the night.

On another hand, I have angles.  Yes, this should have been a red flag:

BUT!!! This is Blake at the same weight:

To me, he looks pretty good in the second picture.  Big yes, but sleek coat, proportioned body, and alert (obviously alert, since he's looking out the window).

True, we should have see this coming.  Blake has always been big-boned.  He is a big cat.  I need to measure him from nose to tail and compare to the average length I found on Wikipedia:  18.1" (not including tail).  I am certain Blake is larger than that . . . I just don't know by how much.  The dog crate in the background is 42 inches wide:

Even though his tail is cut out of the picture, just his body appears about the same length as the dog crate.  That darn angle thing again makes it hard to tell.  But this is a good news post, so moving on . . .

Blake has--officially--been on our version of a Kitty Jenny-Craig-esque diet since March 2, 2010.  That was about two weeks after the first visit to the vet (for vomiting).  The laxative pills ("kitty fiber") did not seem to be working, so I took him back to the vet and and they suggested a special food.

Side note and major ugh-o-rama, the special food is a pain in the ass.  It's a canned cat food, and it costs $1.80 a can.  And, to make matters worse, Blake does not seem to think it's the kitty equivalent of caviar.

If $1.80 a can doesn't seem excessively expensive, wait until I tell you how much he's supposed to have per day:  2 cans.  That's over $25 a week.  That's over $1,300 a year!  I love my pets, and I'm willing to spend money on them, but Blake is only 6 years old.  Seems to me that 14 is a pretty average age for a cat . . . if you tally up eight more years of this special food it would end up costing us over ten thousand dollars!  No matter how you slice it, that's a lot of money.

I think it's okay to admit that I wasn't exactly thrilled at that prospect.  But for now, to get his stomach straightened out, the cost is acceptable to us.  For a few weeks, even a few months, it's not a big deal.

Blake doesn't seem to like it especially, so he is eating quite a bit less than the recommended 2 cans a day.  I'm doing my best to make sure he doesn't go too far the other way (toward starvation), which can be just as dangerous as obesity.  So I'm feeding him three times a day and I'm encouraging him to eat by giving him lots of pressure-free chances to eat. I'm also heating it up in the microwave because he doesn't eat as much when it's cold.  I think he's slowly aquiring a taste for it because lately he's been eating a little more at each feeding.

The up-side of the special food is--and this is partly due to the expense and not wanting the other two cats to eat his food--we have been keeping Blake separated at mealtimes.  That is when the light bulb illuminated.

Blake does not over-eat when he is uninterrupted and has a quiet space in which to eat.  Cue:  music.

Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!  Hallelujah, hallelujah, hall-ay'ay-loo-yah!

It's been--forgive the repetition, but no other word will do--illuminating.  I guess we never noticed how much Blake is capable of eating when the other 2 other cats were thrown in the mix.  Our routine was that the cats had dry kibble out 24/7 (measured daily and given in portions, but still . . . it was pretty much always out).  I think Blake must have been eating when he was bored.  Pair that with the fact that he's a typical lazy cat and he's living indoors (which for cats is the least favorable situation with odds stacked against weight loss and healthy living), and . . . really, you're surprised that we get what we got?  A twenty-five pound monster.  It is what it is.

But then one unsuspecting day I read an article that had nothing to do with anything.  Nothing to do with cats or healthy living or weight loss or dry food versus canned food.  It was an article about keeping your house clean and there was a line in it that changed my world (and Blake's too, I suppose).  Unfortunately I forgot where I found the article and I don't remember the exact quote, so this is me paraphrasing:

If you don't have time to do it RIGHT . . . it's okay to do it WRONG.

Amen, said Blake of the Leviathan Proportions.  It was another illumination.

Prior to reading that sentence from the article, I had been of the school of thought that went like this:  Blake is not really interested in playing or exercising.  He won't do it.  There's nothing I can do.

And after reading that sentence, I realized:  something is better than nothing.  If I can force Blake to exercise (even if it's just for 30 seconds), well . . . that's better than no exercise.  Can we sing the Hallelujah Chorus again?

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah, hallelujah, hall-ay'ay-loo-yah!

So that's been It.  Blake's Jenny Craig program.  Keep it simple, take what I can get, don't give up because he doesn't feel like it.  Every night before bed, we get out the laser pointer and he makes two or three running passes up and down the hallway.  Then he poops out and doesn't want to move, so I use my foot like a spatula and make him get up and move around for as long as I can (that means, eventually even my spatula can't scrape him off the floor; he's too tired).  Usually he only lasts about 5 minutes, which in the grand scheme of things and including those nights when I'm so dead tired that I don't feel like it either, is not that much.  It is do-able, and there is no excuse not to.

IT'S BEEN WORKING!  To anyone else out there that has a fat indoor cat, I beg you:  don't give up.

Erase the phrases "Go big or go home" and "overachiever" from your mind.  When I changed my way of thinking, that's when things started to turn around.  I stopped worrying about everything I'd been taught in school and at home (like "do it right or do it over"). I stopped aiming for the exceptional, and I started accepting average and below-average as acceptable terms.  It's a shock to the system, and I found that it helped to remind myself that this is not the same as school or work.

Small, pitiful, pathetic amounts of exercise are good enough.  Mediocre is okay.  It's okay if you don't shoot for the stars . . . in this case at least.  It's okay if you get a 60 percent--a D!--because that is still a passing grade.  A for Effort.

It's been over 28 days and on Tuesday Blake had his first official weigh-in.  Technically, it's been a month and a half since the first visit to the vet when he got weighed the first time, but I didn't start the exercise program until we started the new food, which is why I'm using March 2 as the official date (I only say that because I'm not sure how accurate these numbers are . . . he could have lost some weight before we officially started--remember he was vomiting a lot).

The result:  he has lost 3.2 pounds and now weighs 21.8 pounds.  My goal is to get his weight down to 18 pounds; when we reach that I'll slowly wean him off the expensive food and figure out a maintenance diet with a more economical canned cat food.  He's playing more AND is now able to clean his own bum.  Yes, gross to say it bluntly like that, but . . . who cares?  It was a proud moment all the same.  I'm like a mama with a kid who used the potty for the first time.

My analysis:  obviously my first mistake was allowing dry kibble to be out 24/7.  My stubborn attachment to the fact that I was at least administering the correct proportions for three cats was the worst offense. Blake was definitely eating more than his share.  It didn't matter that I was following the directions on the bag of food; since Blake wasn't following the directions it threw off the whole picture.  While he's been on the special food I've started the other two cats on a different (less expensive) canned cat food.  I've been leaving out some dry food and--shockingly--it's been working out great.  They don't eat the dry food when they're bored the way Blake does.

The success of feeding everyone separately and having them each eat the bulk of their meals all at once (rather than grazing throughout the day) is the main reason why I've decided to make the switch to canned food.  I've attempted to do research, read some articles about the matter, and there is so much controversy that I've concluded there is no way for the average consumer to sort through it all.  Some articles basically imply that dry cat kibble is the devil, others are a little more forgiving.  But--and here's the relief--it's consistent across the board (even from my vet) that wet/canned cat food is a good idea.  If nothing else, it should be fed in addition to dry kibble.

My second mistake was blindly feeding all the cats together . . . we're going to keep Blake separated from the other two at mealtimes from now on.  I think that innocent, simple decision will have the biggest impact of all . . . more than the dry versus canned debate and even more than his piddly amounts of exercise.

More to come!

Year end project (part 2) completed

Project review:  Year end project

Project details
Completion date:  2/19/10
Deadline met:  No
Status:  Success

Objective
Success of project will be determined by ability to achieve the following: A horrible holiday picture in which few or none of the project attendees are looking at the camera or smiling, to be distributed with pride among family and friends in our first annual Newsletter.

Preparation
No prep.
When the day presented itself that the project could finally be attempted, the project attendees switched roles and caused major confusion from a managerial perspective.

Itemization
Task 1:  Camera setup
Notes:  This item was scheduled to be completed by Papa, using a tripod.  Perhaps this could have happened if we'd actually prepared and planned for the project to take place prior to the moment captured below.  Due to the spur of the moment nature of the project attempt, it was Mama that ended up completing this task, sans tripod.

Task 2:  Everyone together on couch.
Notes:  This item was to be completed by Mama, but unfortunately due to fussing with the camera, the mutiny was handled by Papa instead.  There was an indication of insubordination.

Task 3:  (Bunny) Sit like a princess and fall asleep in a highly inconvenient location. Refuse to move.
Notes:  Accomplished by Blake instead.  Refusal to move had more to do with being frozen in fear (as opposed to laziness or being too comfortable to move).

Task 4:  (Izzy) Lick all butts/faces in sight and make Mama and Papa laugh.
Notes:  Over-achiever Izzy never has to be told twice.  Performed to perfection.

Task 5:  (Georgie) Wiggle uncontrollably until Mama and Papa start losing patience.
Notes:  By happenstance, this project goal was achieved by multiple project representatives.  All except Blake had a wiggle.  The "losing patience" aspect of the task was deemed inappropriate for the project and replaced with extreme annoyance.

Task 6:  (Ernie)  Refuse to cooperate until Papa and Mama start arguing.
Notes:  A last minute substitution was required due to non-performance of a normally disobedient member.  When the original participant diplayed unusual signs of cooperation, Project Associate Bunny took over the burden of rebellion and executed her defiance effortlessly.  Merit prize awarded for unsightly body position as demonstrated in the photo below.  Note the impossible leg contortion.

Task 7:  (Blake)  Run off and hide when Papa and Mama start yelling at everyone.  Bonus task: knock something over on the way out.
Notes:  Was fulfilled by Bunny and Ernie immediately upon completion of Task 8.  Bonus points awarded for expedience.

Task 8:  Take the picture using delay feature of digital camera.
Notes:  A special honorarium is available for payout to project officials Mama and Papa for overlooking the disaster on the coffee table in the foreground and the woven wood blinds in the background.  Kudos granted from the committee.

Summation and analysis
With the exception of not meeting the proposed deadline, all goals (primarily, that all attendees come through the project without injury or dismemberment) were met satisfactorily and our pride is insurmountable.

Merry Christmas from our family

I think something is outside

My dogs have been barking like crazy off and on, and when they stop the house is quiet.  I hear the growl of a plane passing overhead, and I can see snow whisping past the window.  Were those footprints across the yard there when I got home, or are they new?

I'm not sure what it is out there, but it frightens me.