Robbie’s medicine arrived today. It’s an ear gel, for knocking out her overactive thyroid. It shouldn’t be too bad an experience for her–a lot better than getting asthma medicine squirted up her nose every day for years. The instructions did come with an admonition to the applier (me) to wear latex gloves. It’s nice they mentioned it. If I were to do it bare-handed, it might knock out my own thyroid. That’s all I need. She’ll get her first dose tomorrow.
Meanwhile, here’s a nice video of some rather naughty cats, indicative of high intelligence and low morals.
Oh, and I’ve got my email back. Not in the format I’m used to, but at least it’s back.
One of my very earliest memories is of my father carrying me in his arms and singing to me–probably because I woke of squawking in the middle of the night. Usually he sang “You Are My Sunshine,” and sometimes “Sweet Violets.” Oh, how dearly I remember that! And this video reminded me of it.
Our Heavenly Father loves us just as much, and He will re-unite us with those who loved us here on earth. I look forward to hearing Daddy’s song again. And I pray he knows that I remember it.
We have just heard from our veterinarian this morning. Robbie’s symptoms are caused by an overactive thyroid–not uncommon in cats as they get older, and ours are eleven–and can be treated with a prescription ear gel. Considering all the other really terrible things it could have been, this was good news and we thank you for your prayers–and we thank the Lord our God for hearing them and granting them.
Later on there is a radioactive iodine treatment that knocks out a bad thyroid once and for all, but we will cross that bridge when we come to it. Meanwhile, a semblance of order is returning to our household.
So I think I’ll put up one more post and then go on to vacuum, get a shower, go to the store, and hopefully get back to work on my book.
One of the unusual animals you’ll encounter in my books…
Don’t let anyone tell you writing a fantasy novel is easy.
Somehow today I have finished another half-dozen chapters in my new Bell Mountain book, The Temptation (No. 11 in the series), which is beginning to live up to its title. I give God the glory for that.
Robbie is all wiped out from her visit to the vet, Peep is hissing and growling at us because we have a vet’s office smell on us, Patty is trying to do more paperwork for Aunt Joan’s Medicaid while fearing for the health of our poor cat, and our poor country is being torn apart by lunatics. Other than that, everything’s just ticketty-boo.
The book soldiers on. Lord Chutt might be cracking up, and maybe the whole city of Obann with him. We shall see. I won’t know what happens till I write it.
We’re back from the vet’s. Robbie freaked out in the car. She wasn’t the only one. I decided I’d better pray: and this was the hymn I whistled, as loud as I could, the rest of the way there–What a Friend We Have in Jesus, here sung by Alan Jackson. This is the hymn that got me there with my eyeballs still in my head.
My baby had her blood taken for analysis, and received a thorough hands-on exam. The vet says the most likely culprit for Robbie’s condition is hyper-thyroid. There are other much grimmer possibilities, but she didn’t see any signs pointing to any of them. The blood work will be ready tomorrow afternoon.
I’m kind of wrung out by now, and I need to get outdoors and air out my brain.
Jaxx says thank you!
Jaxx the kitten needed help in a hurry, a lot of you prayed for him, and God has provided the help. Bottom line: he’s going to be all right.
Georgia and Ridgie were on their way from Charleston, SC, to Gainesville, FL, to get Jaxx his transfusion when a tech at their local vet’s office came in to work, heard about the situation, and remembered that a donor cat was to be found right there in Charleston. So they turned back, everybody met at the vet’s office, and Jaxx got his transfusion. And he has already begun to get better. One more treatment is expected to finish the job, and then he can come home.
Are we crazy for going to so much trouble for our pets? Well, if we are, then love is crazy, too.
We thank you, Our Father in Heaven, for answering our prayers for this little kitten’s life; and we thank you for creating us in Your image, with such a capacity for love. Amen!
On dreary, rainy days, like the ones we’ve been having here, the past two weeks, my brother, my sister and I used to go bowling–in the cellar.
We had the ball and the pins, which you weighted by filling them with water. If you didn’t fill the ball just right, the water sloshed around inside of it and made it do strange things when you released it.
We had a ready-made lane in our cellar, between the wall on one hand and the furnace and hot water heater on the other. So as the ball wandered down the alley, bumping into one or the other barriers would return it to its intended course. And there was a plastic sheet to guide us in setting up the pins–if we were able to knock them down.
We never did learn how to keep a proper bowling score, but at least we could count the pins that we knocked over. And the ball made a pleasant sloshing sound as it meandered down the cement floor. The pins made a dull thud when you hit them: not at all like the satisfying “ka-pocka!” they made when you hit them in a real bowling alley. But this one was our own personal bowling alley, and we were mighty glad to have it.
Years later my father bought a wooden pool table, which soon warped just enough to make a straight shot impossible. Really, water-filled bowling was a lot cheaper and much more fun. Even if my sister had to use both hands to roll the ball: the price she paid for being the youngest.
I think we’d all be very pleased if we could somehow play it again, Sam.
On many a Sunday in the summer, my father liked to hold a family cookout in the back yard. So early in the morning, I’d run over to the playground and fetch some fine sand for the coals to rest on.
If Uncle Ferdie came, as he usually did, we’d break out the horseshoes and have a few games, him, my father, my brother, and me. There’s nothing like the clang of horseshoes on a summer day. If Uncle Bernie came, he’d do some simple magic tricks that always wowed me. I never could figure out how he pulled off one of his fingers and stuck it back on, good as new. When he finally taught me how to do it, I had a lot of fun blowing the minds of the younger kids in the neighborhood.
When my aunts came, they usually brought slides of their latest visit to some exotic clime–places like Yucatan, Uganda, Iceland, or Australia. My Dutch step-grandfather, John, played old Dutch tunes on his harmonica. Grandpa reminisced about the misdeeds of Woodrow Wilson.
And then came the hot dogs and the hamburgers, which always tasted so much better, off the grill. I enjoyed watching the charcoal briquets catch fire briefly, then settle down to glowing redly and sputtering when fat dripped on them. A simple feast, but highly satisfying.
If only we could do it all again…
Sometimes on a dreary, rainy day, my father let us take the slats out from under our mattresses, set them up across the beds, drape the throw rug over them, and pretend that we were camping.
Having done so, my brother and I would break out the toy animals and dinosaurs and set them on adventures. We never got into army men, but we did have a couple of toy knights, which my mother identified for us as Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad. Under the shelter of our make-believe tent, Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad enjoyed some exciting times exploring lost worlds full of dragons, jungles, the North Pole, and the planet Venus.
Assisted by assorted lions, rhinos, elephants, stegosaurs, and giraffes, our knights overcame aggressive tyrannosaurs, hostile natives, and alien beings. Sometimes we resorted to Grandpa’s old stone building blocks and endowed the knights with castles and forts that had to be defended. A gigantically overgrown Dimetrodon was their biggest challenge, but they were up to it. Occasionally they would recruit bands of cowboys on horseback to help out.
It was amazing how time flew by, when we were doing this. Did I mention that we had lots of little toy cavemen, too? They usually found their way into the story, sometimes as the good guys, sometimes as the bad.
Video games? Fah! Who needs video games?
Watching these goofy cats get stuck in various containers–I promise you, at least one of these you won’t believe–reminded me of a story.
Once upon a rainy day, my aunts, Joan and Florence, when they were little girls, decided to play Robin Hood. They had one of those old-fashioned bedsteads with bars–just the thing to represent the castle in which Maid Marian was being held prisoner. So Aunt Florence, playing Maid Marian, climbed onto the bed, stuck her head through a couple of the bars, and called for Robin Hood to help her. Aunt Joan, playing Robin Hood, could not help her. She was stuck. Nothing they did could get her unstuck. They’d be there still, if Grandpa hadn’t come upstairs with his tools and taken the whole bed apart. I have a feeling he was not amused.