The Importance of Being Agile

Maggie stands a couple feet back and eyes her new drinking fountain/water dish. It burbles at her in a soothing, inviting fashion.

"Go on, check it out," Mr. Ginley and I urge. "You're going to love it. The website said so."

She looks at us with old, patient eyes.

"Yes," I tell her, "I know, I'm in advertising, but really, I think you need to give this thing a try."

We wait awhile, then Mr. Ginley says she probably won't do anything with us watching her, so we walk away.

"Just keep an eye on her litter box to make sure she's drinking," he wisely suggests.

And, lo and behold, even though we have yet to see her drink from the behemoth, we feel confident that she is remaining hydrated.

Apparently, our cat doesn't like change anymore than we do.

And yes, there have been a lot of changes lately. At work and at home.

Here on the range, we will be getting new neighbors on both sides. Much work has been done on our old friends' former house. A new roof, windows, doors and back porch. A noisy portable generator has been running every day for several weeks during the construction. Last weekend, they took down the 50-year-old maple tree in the back yard, which removes any residual shade we may have enjoyed. On the plus side, we don't have to worry about the tree falling on our house in a storm. But mostly, we were sad to lose our old green friend.

As many of you know, I'm into the woo-woo stuff. I bought a pack of cards that professes to offer sage advice. I randomly chose the same card from the pack twice. The message was to be an observer for awhile.

This is always a good idea, I suppose. I'm getting to the stage in my life where no one wants my opinion. So sitting back, keeping my mouth shut and nodding at the appropriate time is probably a good move.

Change is good, I've heard. I am hopeful we'll get good neighbors. That things at work will settle down. That when the dust clears, the world will be a shiny, new place.

Quoting my mom's mantra, "We'll see."

Think

I was reminded again this week how deeply personal music is.

The passing of Aretha Franklin meant saying goodbye to another icon of my musical life. Not too long ago, I watched The Blues Brothers again, and reveled in her performance of Think. It was chock full of rich vocals and energy, brilliantly performed and choreographed.

Music has always been embedded in my life experiences. Popular music was the soundtrack of my formative years. When I listened to the Fifth Dimension in the car last night, I was transported to a summer long ago.  I can hear any Beatles song and something vibrates deep in my soul.

It's not surprising that when I watched the movie Hard Days Night with my son, he was able to view it dispassionately, puzzled by all those screaming girls. It was disappointing to me that he didn't feel what I did, but then, why should he? The feeling of something new and revolutionary happening, the heart-pumping reaction evoked by the four lads from Liverpool was rooted in my past, not his.

Going back a generation, this week I hit upon Arte Shaw's iconic Begin the Beguine in my playlist. It made me wonder what my Mom and Dad felt listening to it in their adulthood. Did it carry memories of school dances, dating and friends long gone?

Ms. Franklin could sure belt out a song, and that was a gas. But I really enjoy her soulful renderings, too. Sadly, I do not have a lot of her songs in my collection.

But I plan to remedy that.

In the meantime, I'm going to go back and watch her performance again in The Blues Brothers.

And take in Natural Woman. Until You Come Back to Me. Freeway of Love...

Better Luck Next Time

Although my wish is to be cremated, if I were to have a headstone, these are the four words I expect would appear on it:

Better Luck Next Time.

I see these four words almost every time I play the lottery. Except when I "win." (Collecting $2.00 at least pays for the stinkin' ticket, I guess.)

How many times have I experienced some bizarre coincidence in my life and said, "What are the odds of that happening?"

Apparently, occurrences such as these are limited to things that will not make me rich.

Yesterday, in a whirlwind of hope and desperation, I purchased not my usual one but three lottery tickets.

I plead with the lottery gods. I will do good with my winnings. I won't go all Johnny Depp or Michael Jackson. I will not buy 16 cars and 7 houses or an island or the bones of the Elephant Man.

I will pay off my debts, my son's debts and donate a portion of the winnings to charity. I will do good works.

My needs are simple. I don't need 200 million or even 50 million. I could be very happy with, say, 2 million. I'd be a responsible curator of the cash, truly I would. If just given half the chance.

It's fun to fantasize about what I'd do in the astronomically improbable event of winning a boatload of cash.

Alas, I know in my heart of hearts that I'm bound to slog my way through life the old-fashioned way.

"Winning that much money just causes other kinds of headaches," quip well-meaning friends. Although the headaches they cite, when challenged, are things like, "people will want money from you" and "there are the taxes to deal with."

Oh, boo hoo. I say, bring it on. With that much money, I could buy a case of Tylenol, change my name and move. Hire an accountant. And a second accountant to watch the first accountant.

Oh well.

Just for the record, those three tickets I bought yesterday...not one single number matched. I probably should have waited until the end of the weekend to check.

Now I already know I have to go to work on Monday.

Vetting the Cat

I'm pretty sure Maggie knew that something was up.

Mr. Ginley advised me she spent most of yesterday following him around, looking for reassurance.

Then, right before bedtime, up from the basement came the cat carrier (aka, "The Pet Porter, Jr."), and the jig, as they say, was up.

I placed a towel inside the carrier and left it in the living room. Maggie steered clear of it the rest of the evening.

This morning, we went about our routine without any sign that something was different. I came out of the bathroom and looked down to find my feline friend stretched luxuriously on the rug before me. Speaking softly, I scooped her up, carried her downstairs, and pushed her into the carrier.

Then into the car, where I buckled her in and whisked her away.

Mild protestations were uttered, but she didn't have any mishaps in the carrier. Into the vet's office we went. The only sign of her distress was a loud (for her), plaintive wail. Just one.

When they called her name, we headed for the examination room, where the weighing in took place. Porky had gained two pounds since she joined our family, a clear indication that she has succumbed and become a true Ginley. Another sign was an abundance of ear wax (something we all have, in spades).

Our four-legged roommate checked out just fine. She got her shots, a manicure (she decided to skip the pink nail polish), was given a flea treatment, and pronounced good to go.

I really like the vet. He's taken care of all three of our cats at various times over the last 25 years or so. He's compassionate and perceptive. And the office staff is pretty great, too.

But I digress.

The doctor said Maggie might be a little lethargic the rest of the day. I wanted to ask him how we would be able to tell the difference from any other day, but I let it go.

The bill was paid, the Ginley Mobile was loaded up, and home we went.

They say when you put a cat in a carrier, they think you are going to abandon them. I guess that's why, when we were headed for home, Maggie Lou seemed a lot calmer. It was clear I wasn't going to dump her anywhere.

I think we've both recovered.

Maggie seems content. And the claw marks on my shoulder, inflicted when I held her in the vet's office, seem to be healing nicely.