My world is made a lot better by my best friend Cricket and the boys in our lives.  Here they are, in no particular order:

 

  

  

  

Talking with Cricket, we faced my future.  I have been walking her dog Griffin, as she's on a movie right now.  In the dog park, I talked with a man who knows about service dogs for the blind.  Apparently, they are short of people to foster them before they go into training.  Another Bush deal.

He told me that one fosters the beastie for eighteen months and if the dog fails out, you can keep him.   I was catching Cricket up with the dog park/Griffin news when I told her what Jack said.  Cricket came right out and said I'd be doing that within the year!  Hot poop on a Pringle!  That my life would be about animals, not house-painting.  That is so beyond my scope of joy right now.  It seems like that would be Nirvana.

Okay, Nirvana with dog owners, abandonment, cruelty and shelters.  But, Hell, Bells 'n' Smells, I am on the receiving end of an amazing gift.  My best friend Cricket.  She has been there for me when my family was not.  She has supported me in every way:  Emotionally, physically and financially.

My goal right now is to keep my brains together.  In the long term?  I'll be dancing with wolves.

Yep, you read the previous post right.  I am going to be a dog trainer, an animal behaviorist, a service-dog person and hopefully in the end, build a small business.  Where did this come from, you ask?  The same question I answered earlier in my screening process, along with many others.  I grew up with cats, specifically Siamese cats.  My father stated that cats were for poets and dogs were for soldiers.  I suppose he confused his kids with dogs and his job for battle.

I have been supremely blessed with knowing my best friend Cricket.  Along with her friendship came her dogs.  Her last, Nimrod, was insanely devoted to her.  I came as an extra, something to be tolerated.  He was a naughty young dog, found roaming at large, and came into his own at about seven years old.

Cricket's new dog Griffin, jumped up from his pen like Zebedee of The Magic Roundabout.  As if on a spring, this black Lab/Pitt mix bounced higher and higher each time Cricket visited.  Smart owner that she is, she knew to not take the first cute dog.  (That's how I ended up with a pride of stray cats).  Later, she was astounded that she waited so long for Griffin.  Also, the K-9 guy running the first behavior class she went to was miffed.  He'd asked the shelter to keep an eye out for him for dogs like Griffin.   Perhaps they thought he'd be better with some one like Cricket.

Mostly Black Lab with a dash of Pitt, we call him a Pittadore when he's good and a Plab when he's bad.  Cricket didn't like the K-9 guy's approach and went to a second class.  When she tore her ACL last year, I had to walk Griff, a half hour in the morning, an hour or so at five-ish and a last walk, whenever.  I quickly used the few tools I had.

I channeled Ceasar Milan, the fierce Barbara Woodhouse, my mother and Temple Grandin.  I was no longer pulled, he sat before I released for crossing, stopped reacting to skateboards, bikes,  motor-bikes and other dogs on leashes.  He was far from perfect, but he wasn't dragging me where he wanted to go.

This is a tough time now.  He is going to be the dog that I train for my school, yet he is the loony, happy, silly dog that Cricket and I love.  It's a tough line to walk and one that I hope helps us all.  But I can always call the school back.  I have many neighbours with crazy dogs.

Cricket is the most amazing person in my life.  Without her, I'd be lost, homeless, in jail, in State Hospital.  With her I am.  How could you ever repay this?  My best friend of more than twenty years, so close that people assume we are sisters, lovers.  My god, what have I done to deserve her?

Due to her, I start this school.  Due to her I may use Griffin as a "project".  Due to her I will give animals new beginnings after being kicked out.  Due to Cricket I will rehab sick animals so that they will find loving homes.  Due to Cricket I have learned many things.  But I doubt my size ten shoes will fit her size seven feet.  Small as she is, she will always be a large in my mind and heart, a woman allergic to cats, who has loved and embraced mine.  A woman who has taught me, in so many ways.

This title is pretty loaded with insinuations, inferences and ignominious associations.  In fact, it makes me a tad nervous to even address it.  But this year I learned to start to create boundaries.  It's a new beginning for me, spineless sycophant that I am!  Anyway, the reason why I'm writing this, is due to my friend "X".

X was my second sponsor in a 12-Step Program that I'm in.  My first was a male friend, so when X (a female) became available, I switched.  At the time X had about fourteen years or so sober, but it was her presence that drew me to her.

Within a few months, she was having a full on melt-down.  She exhibited behavior that I would never have tolerated in a "regular" friend.  It became so that I was her mental health sponsor and she was my incredibly needy sponsee.

I helped her move in with her fiance, packing up her house, carrying it into my van and bringing it into their new place.  As I unloaded my van, she sulked in a chair, angry at the man she was moving in with.  Did I mention that I'm not so great in the conflict area?

Despite being hospitalized for months at a time over the past decade, X visited me just once in lock-down.  The last time I was in.  She wanted to show me the new engagement ring she had.  Such a nice thought for a suicidal person on a locked down ward just after Christmas.

I'd given her the link to this blog some time back.  I wrote a post about her struggles with depression, which she sent to friends and family.  Heck, some of them might be reading this right now.  But I know X isn't.  How do I know?

Well, a couple of months back I got tired.  See, X only calls me when life isn't rosy in her world.  Given, X has some terrible health problems.  Like cancer.  But she wields her illness like a white flag.  Everything that has happened, or will, is under the flag.  She is above judgement, beyond reproach, excused and accounted for.  Her behavior is untouchable.

Her trump card is cancer.

The other day, she left a message on my phone, saying that she hadn't heard from me.  That she was worried.  That she was angry at me for not calling.  X said that she thought maybe I was in hospital, that maybe Cricket would call her.

It is true I haven't called her in the past four or five weeks.  Frankly I was burned out.  She was improving medically, so I wasn't so worried.  I needed to take care of myself as I crashed and burned after the death of Hello Newman.  So many of you, my virtual family, have offered support in my times of need.  When I had to put Hello Newman to sleep, I was moved by the compassionate and caring comments.

X has no idea about Hello Newman.  Although she linked my blog to family members when I wrote a couple of posts about her depression, she clearly doesn't read it.  Else, she might have a clue.

And here is the telling part.  If you are truly concerned about a friend, you let them know it.  You don't tell them that you're pissed.  That just makes the pissed on person dig in deeper, to avoid the spray.  Call me silly like a smiley, but implied threats of anger and guilt make me want to run away screaming like a little boy.

My current sponsor, with over twenty-five years of sobriety refuses to let me DTMFA (thanks             Dan Savage), saying we in the program are all each others appointed friends.  Others, like a previous sponsor, said that some are here to help you learn a skill like Patience, Compassion, Understanding  and Tolerance.  Fecking fabulous.

I just need the skills of Spine, No-fear, Up Your Bum (no, silly, it's a figure of speech)!  and emailing all the Xs out there.  Can I dump my sponsor for being so annoyingly right?  Can I DTMFA myself?  Just asking.

I just got back from Long Beach Island, where Cricket, Griffin, Nigel Nancyboy, Zebedee Minky Star and I spent Christmas.  I thought I'd write a big ole post, now that I'm back at my computer.  I thought I'd have much to say and a million ways to say it.  I thought I'd hand out A Hoy Awards, thank my readers, speak about Important and Burning Issues, doll up my widgets, be modest yet brilliant, on topic yet universal, personal yet global, insightful yet omnipotent, provocative yet hairy, poetic yet dull, challenging yet shiny, and yet....

I am merely weary, a tad tired and a little sleepy.  I doubt I will write much more tonight.  Dear Reader, forgive me for being yet me.

Well, how did you spend the OHMYGODITSCHRISTMASNEXTWEEK weekend?  I mean, after all, this is the holiday season, right?  In fact, the holiday season is the polar opposite.  Think about it.  At any other time of the year, the word "holiday" has a completely different interpretation.

For eleven months out of the year, a holiday is a concept that is treasured.  It brings forth fantasies of escape, relaxation, avoidance and fun.  A holiday finds us free of the daily grind and releases us from our tiny corner of our world, in many forms.  We indulge in activities, fashion and frivolity that our regular lives prohibit.  We go to other places, in order to make sure that we are far from our daily demands and requirements.  We eat unusual foods, bask in the elements of different climates, leave our cel phones at home and dream of living this life in perpetuity.

However, the month of December has in effect, closed down the holidays.  It doesn't matter what faith, creed or colour you are: this is not a holiday time for you.  To wit:

1)  You have to see people you might otherwise not, in large batches, or close quarters, or both.

2)  You have to cook food for the people you might otherwise not see, using unfamiliar recipies and utentials.

3)  You have to get out of your comfy PJs and dress up for (see 1 and 2).  Unless you live in the Fishtown/Kensington/Port Richmond areas of Philadelphia, where PJs are Haute Couture on the shtreet.

4)  You have to travel to a place buried even deeper in the snow than your place, in order to (see 3).

5)  You spend too much money buying dreck for the people you have to visit (see 4)

6)  You begin to dream of being a foundling, with no history, no guilt, no obligations and a livelihood in the place you would normally stay.  If this was a holiday, and all.

Luckily for me, my family wants nothing to do with me, so I'm off Scott free!  I'm going down to Long Beach Island with my best friend Cricket.  We'll be entertaining Griffin, Nigel Nancyboy and Zebedee Minky Star.


A holiday is not a holiday if it creates stress.  This is a difficult time for many people.  The winter blues should not be taken lightly.  Please reach out to others, if you are feeling overwhelmed, depressed, stressed or in pain.  There are many people who know what you are going through and understand.  Please check into the Hotlines and resources link on the right, to find a bridge to your help.

My friend Polar Bear is having a rough time, so I thought I'd show him that others care for Polar Bears.  Not just me.  Stop by and say hello to him, if you can.  We need to take care of each other and ourselves.

Once in a while, I get an email from a friend who never actually writes to me.  Instead she forwards to me and a bunch of others, various mass emails that she has received.  Recently, in a turn-about, I sent her one, which she forwarded to her group, myself included!

I was about to ask her to stop sending me crap, but then I opened one that showed a tiger nursing piglets.  Which made all the other soppy, sentimental stories, pleas for prayers, terrible jokes and overuse of exclamation marks worthwhile.  I have deleted the email, so from the folks at YouTube, I bring you the tiggerlets:

When I last wrote about the tuxedo love of my life, Hello Newman, he was in terrible shape.  Old, but as a stray, who knows how old, he's definitely past his prime.  He's to the point where even the smallest sign of illness carries, in my mind at least, the harbinger of death.  So a couple of weeks ago, his drunken gait spelled to me the worst.  Even when I had a diagnoses and brought him home, I struggled with whether I'd made the right choice.

We bring animals into our lives for many reasons.   But the gut-wrenching truth remains, that for most of us, we will love them as unconditionally as they love us, even as we know that we'll probably outlive them.  In this, we have to make crucial decisions for them, whilst only guessing what their voice would be.  While we have the ability to write Advance Directives, to help our loved ones handle our dying hour, our animals remain mute on this final step.

For the caring pet owner, the fact of dealing with an animal in pain brings up so many issues.  For some, the cost of care is beyond their ability.  For others who have the luxury of choice, the quality of life concept rears it's horrible head.  The tightrope of balancing a beloved pet's needs with one's own is truly a high wire act.

Today, I saw a miracle, for sure.  I'd gone into the temporary kitchen, (the real one is under construction), where Newman knows that he'll get his wet food.  He actually ran in front of me, his movement only hinting at his diagnoses.  I swear to god that it must be the meds that I got from Girard Veterinary, that have made that old boy spry!  Even though I'd been giving him Glucosimine Chondritine before, they gave me a feline specific pill, which he happily slurps up with his wet food, and has been on since I took him in.

I had pondered whether or not to put Newman down.  As he staggered around, my concern was that he'd fall and seriously hurt himself.  This had a very real basis in fact as my beloved cat Hobbes died suddenly in a freak accident;  he slipped between my bedside table and my bed, breaking, I believe, his neck.  I wanted to spare Hello Newman any needless suffering, and what with his pained walking that had him close to collapse every few steps, this was a very real fear.


For me, the answer came slowly.  I brought him home, ostensibly to medicate and accept his fate.  But truly, I wanted to watch how he lived his life.  Newman is a cat of dignity who has won over the minds and hearts of all who have had the pleasure of his company, serious dog lovers included.   I did not want his life reduced to meaningless movement, just so that he'd be alive for my sake.  But he seemed to take it all in stride, even using the litter box once I'd removed the lid:  a sure sign of improvement!

This morning, when he almost galloped toward his food plate, hair glossy, thinner than he'd been in years, I took hope and held it for a while.  Hello Newman might be able to live into his dotage, along with his presence and pride, but most important;  pain-free.

So I got up at six this morning to take Hello Newman to Girard Veterinary Clinic. The mornings are on a first come, first served basis. They open around eight-thirty, but if you don't get there by seven to join the swelling line outside, you're shit out of luck. Cynthia Balzer, D.V.M. has a Best of Philly Award. No mean feat in this town, which feels quite comfortable booing their own sports teams, should they have a bad, um, day? What's cool about Cyndy, is that she is one of the few vets who will handle feral cats,  staying in a neighbourhood that has seen better days, while also keeping her office visits wonderfully affordable. For this, I can get up at a time when I used to go to bed. (Just in case you're wondering, she takes appointments in the afternoon, which are booked and walk-in emergencies).

So, I was second in line at seven in the morning.  There were a couple of emergencies, but Newman and I saw her by nine-ish.  (The meters don't have to be fed until ten and even then, a quarter gets you half an hour).  Cyndy is caring and compassionate.  She's put up with my crying jags, calmly handled the, as she puts it, "fiesty"Henrietta as she's scratched and clawed her way through an exam, as well as retaining a devoted, over-worked and friendly staff.  There are of course, people who've had experiences there which they say were not so good. It goes with the territory. But enough. Here's what happened with Newman.

His weight, pulses and temperature were fine. No sign of the ear infection I'd hoped for. I knew that he was having problems seeing the water in his bowl, as he bats at it to gauge where the level is. She was concerned that he seemed out of it, as he Stagger-Lee'd his way around the exam room. She turned off the lights, checking his follow response to a small light. Not so much. I suggested that if it were one of those red L.E.D.s, he might be moving. Did he crash into a wall at 40 mph chasing one? she asked. Nope.

She offered the options for me to take him home and watch him, or for him to stay for an X-Ray. I took door number two. I left, having seen a young man bring in a badly wounded cat that he'd just found on the street leave. He'd been told that the cat was positive for the feline version of AIDs, a test that takes only ten minutes (!), but he chose to opt to have it taken care of, bless him. My neighbour "Elanor" down the street, a long time friend of Junior's had rushed her cat in. She's waiting on blood tests, (as of this post, because they get sent out) as he's walking like a drunkard. A bit like Newman. A bit like how I used to....

At the end of the day, I went to pick Hello Newman up. The slides showed that between the L8 and the Sacrum, there is complete ventral osteophyte. Basically, and don't shoot me if I'm wrong, it means that where there should be a nice gap in the Lumbar 8 and his hip, there isn't. This is causing his over-compensating gait and probably some pain with his nerves. (Oh and he was full of poop)! The eyesight? She's really concerned.

I know that I didn't ask the right questions, because I couldn't answer Cricket's, later. This is why you should bring a friend, if possible, when you bring your pet to a vet for anything more than, say, you can't clip their claws yourself. But I digress.

For Newman, I have a diagnoses for his "Drunkie wants a drinkie" (I owe that li'l gem to my friend Greta) lurch. Cyn gave me the number of a, well I can't spell it: Chiropractor? Oh, that may be right! She said he's not great, but that he's good. I've dated far worse men in my life!

In the meantime, I have a lot of books on holistic medicine for animals. I plan on attending the Northwestern School of Animal Massage to get my certificate, hopefully by the end of the year. I'd been following the books guide as to massaging an older cat's joint issues, but I'd focused mostly on the front legs. We'd already been giving him Glucosimine Chondritine for his joints, but I bought a kitty-specific formular today from the vet.

I'm leaving him in a couple of rooms with Henrietta for the night. He likes lying in the open window. Which is a foot above the roof below, for those of you worried about Falling Cat Syndrome, a very real problem with city cats. They both get company and I spend some time with Nigel Nancyboy and Zebedee, both of whom, well at least Nigel, thought that I'd packed up and left with Hello Newman for a fun jaunt.

Pep Boys? I bloody despise them. But that's for another day. Because I'd like to give my opinions about them the kind of care, consideration and time that they don't seem to be able to give to their customers, well me at least. Do I spend time figuring out a poll link for y'all (six readers, or was that sick readers)? Or do I just rant to "Go Angry"? Who's link I'd show, but I'm a bit delayed at this time of night...

As to ifreen, who doesn't know me or mine, but expressed an almost instant message of concern, check out the link, please.

My oldest cat, "Hello Newman" has been with me for at least ten years. A handsome tuxedo male, he came to me via my late, dear friend, Dave Shiels. Dave already had a cat, Vinnie, who was violently protective of Dave. So, I went into his back yard to take a look at this cat whom he'd found on the street and was begging for me to take. It was dark, so I couldn't see much, but I agreed.

Hello Newman is a beautiful, loving, dignified cat.  He's probably about fourteen at this point, and has dropped from his prime weight of 16 pounds to a mere 11 pounds.  To help him keep his weight up, I feed him cans of Fancy Feast as often as he asks for it, to supplement his Science Diet.  He's also on supplements to help his joints.

The other evening, he was on my bed, sitting in what can only be described as a downright silly position.  He had most of his weight on his lower back, so that his hind legs were splayed out in front, with his front paws in between.  It was the first time I'd seen him do this.   I didn't give it much thought though.  Until this Saturday, when I found him in the kitchen having trouble with his back legs.

He had tried to jump onto the table from the bench and almost didn't make it.  At first I thought he'd slipped on a magazine, but to my horror, I realized that something was wrong with him.  He was staggering, every few steps, like a drunk.  In a panic, I called Cricket, who was away for the week-end.  I thought that I should take him to the Vet E.R. at the University of Pennsylvania, which is expensive, so I needed to borrow her credit card.  She agreed, but as I was such a tearful wreck, she suggested I take a few to gather myself and that she'd call me when she got off the road.

I took the time to re-assess the situation.  Newman didn't appear to be in any pain, he was just a little wobbly as he climbed up the stairs to my room with me.  I looked up his symptoms in some animal books I had.  His condition could be caused by any number of things, but the one that gave me hope, was that an ear-infection could be the cause.  Of course, brain trauma, chemical poisoning and a bunch of other nasty options were also possibilities.

By the time that Cricket called back, I had decided to take him to our regular vet, first thing Monday morning.  Whilst this may seem callous, I actually believe it's the best choice.  Our vet knows us.  She will be more able to help me make the right decisions for Newman.  Penn's Vet E.R. is a teaching hospital, so, while being an enourmous asset when it comes to life-threatening emergancies, they can lose sight of the quality of life issue.

When Cricket's last dog Nimrod, who was quite old, was brought in because he was bleeding internally, they were offering her the option of prolonging his life.  Turns out, that when asked for a prognosis, even if they did all the operations that they were suggesting, he would only gain a couple of months, if  that.  I was there with her when she made the heart-wrenching decision to let him die, to be put to sleep.  It is the greatest gift that we humans have; to be able to let our animals live and die with dignity, sparing them needless suffering at the end.

For now, Hello Newman is purring beside me on my bed.  Which is where I hope he'll be for countless tomorrows.  In the morning, we'll see what we can do to help him live a happy life.