Mabel's Tale

Thanksgiving morning, I hoisted myself out of bed, stepped into my slippers and groggily worked my way downstairs. Time to feed the cat.

I waited for her morning howl, that, "where have you been and where's my food, you lazy so-and-so."

Then I remembered. She was gone.

For 17 of her 20 years of life, Mabel was my first touch point of the day. Change the water, fill the food dish, clean out the litter box.

Flashing back to April 8, 2000, when we visited what is now called Stay-A-While Cat Sanctuary, our soon-to-be-adopted Mabel was sitting way up high, on top of the refrigerator.

"She doesn't like the other cats," we were informed.

Hmmm...anti-social and bearing a strong resemblance to Marge, our last cat. Sounds like a winner.

"Can we get this one? Pleeeeze?" begged Mr. Ginley

The shelter folks told us she was between 2 1/2 and 3 years old, and her name was "Alley." (That we would quickly fix.) Arrangements were made. She was relatively new to the shelter and had to be spayed and vaccinated. She'd be ready for pick-up on April 21st. Good Friday.

I left work early that afternoon for the shelter. When I arrived, Mabel was pacing back and forth.

"She's been waiting for you," they said.

All the way home, she kvetched at me. When we finally arrived, I opened up the carrier and set her free.

"She'll probably hide for a few days," I had told my then-six-year-old son.

Nope. Not our Mabel.

She went upstairs, downstairs and all through to house, ascertained there were, in fact, no other cats present, jumped up on the couch and all but said, "Yes, I suppose this will do."

At that moment, it became her house and remained so the rest of her days.

When we first considered getting a cat, it was supposed to be for me. But she quickly became my son's. We were sure that when he went off to college, Mabel would lose her will to live. But she actually adapted to his absence better than Mr. Ginley or I.

Over the years, as she slowed down and sleeping became her primary activity, Mr. Ginley would talk to her all day as he went about his chores. He'd sing to her. Or play Bowie for her. Check her eyes for goopies and her paws for bits of litter.

It will be hardest on him, I think.

Last night, as we prepared to watch the latest installment of The Great British Baking Show, Mr. Ginley turned to me and said, "But Mabel won't know how it ends."

Someday, when the time is right, we will adopt another grey tabby. But she will be her own cat. No one can replace Mabel (or Marge) in our hearts.

That's the funny thing about pets. You think you're giving them a home, but really, they are the ones who adopt you.

And once they get their little claws into your heart, that's all she wrote.

Age-Related Issues

Recently, I was on my favorite social media site, and I spied an article belittling us Baby Boomers.

It poked fun at Birkenstocks and flip phones and mocked us for not understanding the newest technology.

I suppose it was meant to get back at the older generation for bemoaning the shortcomings of the Millennials. Some of it was comically true. Some of it was wrong. At the end of the day, I guess every generation thinks those who came before screwed up the world for them. Boo hoo.

On the other hand, I am also tired of reading rants from my generation about how the Millennials are going to ruin the world because their eyes are glued to their devices while the world goes to hell around them. Boo hoo.

The first order of business is to stop labeling one another. Stop identifying others by their age or their gender or color or their religion or their political stance. Step two is to respect each other. Even though we may not be on the same page, we're all reading from the same book.

There are plenty of assholes embedded into each generation. Conversely, there are lots of fabulous human beings, old and young, that I've been lucky to have known. (You know who you are.)

The newer generation will grapple with things we never imagined. On the other hand, they cannot fathom the things we had to deal with to bring them to this point in time.

So, let's leave it at that, shall we?

As to the Facebook post and the snarky article about my generation, my reply was this:

Just wait. Someday, many years into the future, there will be a post about all of the things that Millennials held dear and all of the things they got wrong.

And the world will spin on.

What's the Beef?

"I'm over a hundred years old, and I've never had an accident," proclaimed the wizened woman in the bank.

She was having a gripe-fest with the teller, and, because I couldn't help it, I had to listen in.

"My son wants me to quit driving. The insurance company is raising my rates like I'm a teenager. I'm a good driver. Why do I have to pay more to drive my car?"

I looked out the window toward my vehicle and sent up a silent wish that I hadn't parked anywhere near her. Maybe she hadn't ever had an accident. Maybe she couldn't remember. Either way, it seemed like she was tempting fate. And she'd be leaving the bank before me.

"The other teller got this deposit wrong," the woman continued. "I gave her everything, I just don't know how she could have messed it up."

The current teller spoke soothingly, trying to give a simple explanation as to how the mishap could have occurred. Apparently, there was no harm done, and the woman's banking was completed without further incident. Although she did continue to rant through the processing of her transactions.

I began to wonder, as I waited my turn, if I would live to be that old, and if so, would I be that cranky? Was the woman always irascible, or was this an age-related thing?

Also, I wondered about her son. If she was 100, he was probably somewhere between 65 and 80 years old himself. Meaning he had his own health issues to worry about. What was his frame of mind? Did he get along with her, or did he sit at home and watch "Throw Mama From the Train" over and over?

This is the way I'm wired, I guess. I watch life's little dramas unfold, and I wonder about the strangers who put their lives out there, unaware that they are being emotionally dissected by a random observer.

I suppose my takeaway from the incident was to hope that, if I do reach a ripe old age, I am as in control of my faculties as the old bird appeared to be, but without the poison. Yes, I realize that, given my present level of snarkiness, it seems unlikely I will grow old without that "get off my lawn, you rotten kids" thing going on.

I just hope I could still find things to laugh about. And love about. And wonder about in this crazy world of ours.

Then, I wouldn't mind hanging around so long.

Chucking Chuck

I've always thought of myself as the queen of recycling. Mother Nature as my constant companion. Lover of animals. Patron of the parks. Hugger of trees. Sniffer of roses, etc.

Crime Scene

Then she came along. Mrs. Woodchuck.

Digging holes in my lawn. Waddling from side to side, she traversed my little backyard with all the grace of a hippo in a tutu. (Shades of Fantasia.)

In the spring, I saw that her number had tripled. She had two offspring with her, galumphing in her wake.

I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping a compost bin in my backyard. In my naivete, I didn't at first realize that the probable cause for the contents of the Rubbermaid bin's quick composting ability was because of my unwanted live-ins.

Until I read that ground hogs can smoosh themselves down to be nice and skinny and get into places you do not want them to get.

Aha.

So...in my attempt to be earth friendly, I had inadvertently been feeding this oversized rodent and her brood. Thanks, Mother Nature. Nicely played.

Now I have a bigger problem. While I wasn't quite so concerned when Chuckarina took up residence in the neighbor's shed, I was royally pissed off when I saw that she was starting to prepare a little vacation getaway under my back porch.

Off came the gloves. On went the Critter Ridder.

It worked for a little while. Unfortunately, once the smell wore off, my woolly friend returned. I piled bricks over the gap and put up some fencing, but all she did was dig around and under. I would go out to see that the bricks were moved, the fencing upended.

Curses, you rotten fur-covered burrower.

I did a lot of reading about woodchucks/groundhogs/whistle pigs/land-beavers. Unless I am willing to trap the beast and cart it off to a place more than 5 miles away (they do come back) or pay someone a chunk of change to do the dirty deed for me, this thing will likely stick around.

For my final act of defiance, I got some hot pepper from Chris to sprinkle around my porch. I made sure to put a bunch of it through the crack so it is under the steps, hoping that if the rotten creature makes it past my line of defense outside, she will be so overcome with sneezing that she abandons her new hibernating digs and goes back to the neighbor's shed.

Time will tell.

My other fear is that, much like the hobos in days of old, the Chuckster will leave a telltale sign for others of her kind (or other wild critters), indicating that my yard is a swell place to hang out. About a month or so ago, I saw a pair of oversized raccoons in my backyard. They turned and gave me a reproachful look.

I hope it was because I'm not putting food in my compost bin anymore.

Take that, you rotten rodents. And tell the others to go back to the MetroParks.

There's nothing for you here...nothing but a snootful of hot pepper.