Megan's Christmas kitty

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Bubby loves Alice, Aunt B's kitty -- March 15, 2010

Megan got a kitten for Christmas. She didn't ask for it, and she doesn't really care to have it around. It was cute at first, but the little guy very quickly became annoying.

It's not that Megan's a cat-hater, it's that the cat isn't really a cat. It's Bubby ... who decided just before Christmas that he's no longer a boy, he's a cat. And his primary form of communication is meowing. Like a kitty. At home. And out in public.

Don't get me wrong: Megan loves Bubby. And hearing Bubby meow around the house is precious and cute, especially when his imagination takes over during playtime with his Mommy Kitty and Baby Kitty stuffed animals -- the only other cats in residence. But when the 30-month-old who was formerly mature in the face of friends, family and strangers responds to Mommy's fellow shoppers or coworkers asking "How are you today" with mewling, yowling, and meowing -- or all three -- the cute factor is decreased by 100 percent. Megan's been mortified more often than not when out in public the last week or so, wondering where-oh-where did her big Bubby go.

Sunday evening Megan told me about the trip she, Preston and Bubby made that afternoon to a retailer to do some exchanging of Christmas gifts. On the way, the car stereo was cranked and the family was singing along. All three of them. Impressed that Bubby seemed to be joining in the fun, Megan told Preston, "Listen, Bubby's singing, too." So they both quieted their own tunes and bent their ears to the backseat to hear Bubby's contribution to the merriment. Only the merriment fell flat when they noticed that his cheerful song was only one word, over and over: "meow, meow, meow, meow."

I've not yet heard the kitty talk from Bubby as Megan warns him as he comes to the phone wanting to talk to Gramma that kitties don't talk to grandmas, only big boys do. After several attempts at getting his way with a mewl or two, he realizes Mommy means business and finally responds with "I'm a big boy" and commences a quick conversation with me, telling me about his new trucks and Roxy's bone and offering a rushed "Buh-bye, I love you!"... then he's off the phone and back to meowing.

I would think it more likely for Bubby to pretend to be a dog, romping and "ruff"-ing with his dog, Roxy. Being a kitty has me a bit perplexed. One might imagine odd behavior coming from a kid dealing with stress and trauma and drama in his environment, but other than a new brother on the way, Bubby's life is pretty stress-free ... if not downright boring, Megan might say.

Tay Hohoff famously noted that, "There are few things in life more heartwarming than to be welcomed by a cat," but this cat has worn out its welcome from Megan and Preston. With one more week remaining of holiday vacation from school -- where Bubby would likely speak "normal" in the face of peer pressure -- I'm wondering if Bubby's parents ... and Bubby ... will make it through the kitty phase unscathed.

"It could be worse," I tried to console Megan. "He could be pretending he has an imaginary friend, which would scare the cuss out of you, thinking he was seeing ghosts."

She readily agreed. But that doesn't mean she's okay with the meowing. And my attempts to Google some assistance or, at the very least, an explanation, have provided neither.

My suggestion? I think Megan needs to play into the kitty behavior ... by offering up a nice can of salmon-and-cheese Friskies for Bubby's next meal because that's what kitties eat. Being the finicky eater he is, Bubby will surely return to big-boy status immediately if faced with the stinky pate.

On the other hand, he may shock the cuss out of Megan and simply do like my finicky felines do: yowl for the Friskies turkey giblet flavor instead.

In that case, Megan may as well pick up a cat collar and some cat nip while stocking up on the Friskies, for if picky-eater Bubby readily nibbles cat nosh, that's a sure sign the Bubby Kitty is here to stay. Whether Megan wants a kitty or not.

Today's question:

What kind of imaginary friend -- or persona -- did you, your kids or your grandkids have as a child?

Gone to the dogs

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The last week or so I've been yearning to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. I've not seen the holiday special in probably 15 years, maybe even closer to 20, as it's been that long since my little girls would hunker down in front of the television to watch the annual roundup of holiday goodness. Lately I've been missing that and figured it's high time to partake of the holiday goodness myself, even if I have to do it alone.

So over the weekend I popped in my Charlie Brown VHS (yes, VHS ... why upgrade kids' shows to DVD at the empty nest stage?) to watch on the TV in the study as I worked at my desk. And get this: Despite having no children or grandchildren around to watch such things with me, I certainly wasn't alone -- I was joined by my darling dogs, Mickey and Lyla.

Together we watched Charlie Brown lament the commercialism of Christmas, hanging on every note from Vince G., every Snoopy shuffle and every puff from Pig-Pen.

Since we had the time -- and the TV had their attention -- I decided to pop in How The Grinch Stole Christmas, too. It's been just about as many years since I've seen the Grinch special, I think, and I was sure Mickey and Lyla had never been to Whoville at all.

So we went there together. I enjoyed the sweetness of Cindy Lou Who while my canine companions relished the harrowing heroism of Max the Dog.

Thanks to Charlie's Snoopy and Grinch's Max, Mickey and Lyla were as intrigued by the shows as I was.* I'm not so sure they'd have been as amenable to watching holiday fare with me if the featured selection had been dogless dither such as Santa Claus is Coming to Town or Frosty the Snowman.

While visiting Bubby for Thanksgiving, I caught snippets of Santa Buddies with Bubby, and I've been thinking that's a holiday movie Mickey and Lyla would enjoy. So I'm watching for it to go on sale after Christmas. I figure since my one and only grandson lives 819 miles away and I must rely on my dogs to keep me company -- even when it comes to watching holiday shows -- I might as well include a doggy feature especially for them now and then. I understand there's a Santa Buddies sequel available, too, so if they're good, I'll go all out and make it a double feature.

I'll be buying both Santa Buddies movies on DVD, though, so we can watch them on our 54-incher in the family room instead of on the tiny tube in the study. My TV-watching buddies Mickey and Lyla will surely appreciate life-size holiday buddies on the big screen come Christmastime next year!

*Truth be told, the dogs slept through much of both shows. But it still was nice to have them hanging out with me while I watched the ol' holiday favorites.

Holiday question of the day:

Overall, would you say you've been more naughty or more nice this past year? Do your loved ones -- the ones playing Santa -- agree?

Conflicting wishes

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Bubby visited Santa over the weekend. Last year, he clung to Daddy and refused to enjoy his time with Mr. Magical himself. This year, though, he did much better:

Despite being nervous about the visit -- hence the hand in the mouth -- Bubby did okay. He even managed to tell Santa what he wants for Christmas.

And what may that be?

A big orange truck!

Which comes as a surprise considering Bubby, as some of you may recall, already has a big orange truck: (BLOG REDESIGN DELETED THE VIDEO.)

I suppose at two-and-a-half-years-old, when you love something dearly, you have no qualms requesting more of the same.

Hopefully Bubby will forget all about having asked for a big orange truck once he sees all the other loot from Santa because I'm betting he won't find one under his tree come Christmas morning. One big orange truck is more than enough for one little boy.

Plus, I'm pretty sure poor Roxy -- who's often the unintentional hit-and-run doggy victim of the big orange truck -- has been fervently asking Santy Paws to make all her Christmas dreams come true ... by getting rid of Bubby's big orange truck and never again allowing such tools of terror to be added to Bubby's toy collection.

Holiday question of the day:

What's one thing you're hoping to find under the tree for yourself on Christmas morning?

For the birds

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We have a small waterfall in our back yard. All summer long it gurgles and burbles and lends a small portion of peace to our place smack dab in the flight path of the airport and mere blocks from one of the busiest traffic corridors in the city.

I love the waterfall. At summer's end, I lament the loss of the trickles of tranquility as the water is shut off, the pump put away for the winter. And winter has indeed come to my part of the mountains, despite the calendar saying it's still fall.

Yes, it's time to put the waterfall to bed for the season.

But Jim is rebelling this year, refusing to shut 'er down. He loves the waterfall more than I, spends more time fiddling with the rocks, the water flow, the chemicals to keep it clean, the daily clearing out the leaves and needles. And more time admiring 'the heads' he mounted at the top of the waterfall.

(If you read this post, you understand the significance of the 'the heads' in our lives. Despite the significance, I still groan regularly about Jim placing a miniature version of the national memorial -- courtesy of the darn Sky Mall catalog -- in our yard.)

So with temperatures falling well below freezing every night -- and during some days, too -- the little waterfall that could does ... keep flowing. Which I think is really stupid.

"What a waste of electricity," I say to my (usually) utility bill-obsessed husband, thinking that'll do the trick, show him how irresponsible and expensive it is to run the waterfall all winter. He just ignores me.

"You're going to burn out the motor," I keep telling him. It won't fully freeze up because the water's moving, he responds, adding, "And it'll look so cool when it freezes around the edges. Remember the one time it did that?"

Yeah, I remember. But it was a freak freeze, and we shut down the waterfall right after that.

Jim continues ignoring me, the water continues flowing and I continue thinking my husband's a nutjob.

Tuesday morning I let the dogs out and glanced over at the waterfall. It had frozen all around the edges, leaving only a small stream flowing down the rocks and a little tiny pool at the bottom. And in the stream and the pool were several birds, merrily splashing away, thrilled by their luck at finding fresh flowing water when all the birdbaths in the city surely were frozen.

It was a delightful sight. And once the birds flew off -- frightened away by Lyla and Mickey dashing out for their morning potty break -- the nearly frozen fall remained chillingly magical.

 

Much to my chagrin, I had to admit Jim was right. Just like the last time the waterfall froze, the icy sculpture definitely did look so cool.

Consider my tongue bitten. I'll back off cussing about the waterfall. I'll stop trying to convince Jim that not shutting it down for the winter is a really dumb idea. The water can flow, I guess, and I'll keep my mouth shut.

But I'm only agreeing to let it flow for the sake of the birds.

And in hopes that next time I'll be able to snap a few shots of the birds enjoying the unexpected deep-winter delight before the dogs frighten them away.

Holiday question of the day:

If you were to create and market an ice cream available only during the Christmas season, what flavor(s) would your concoction be?

9 things on my mind as I head to the desert

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I wrote this post earlier this week as I'll be visiting Bubby, Megan and Preston on Thursday. Hooray!

As I prepare for my visit to the desert, here are nine of the many thoughts cluttering up my mind:

1. Are the animals going to be okay being alone all day while I'm gone? I've become their pack leader since only working part-time; what will they do without me? Especially because it'll be too chilly for the dogs to be outside while Jim's at work. Will they miss me?

2. Sheesh! Why in the world are my animals such a huge concern? They're dogs and cats, for heaven's sake. But they're now my only resident babies. Well, they're Jim's babies, too. He can take care of them. Although not as well as I do. (But only because I'm home most of the day.)

3. Do I need to take the larger suitcase since my Gramma Bag has gotten so full?

4. Books ... books? What Halloween book will I be reading to Bubby's preschool class on Friday? Should I go buy a few? Will Megan have some? Will Bubby's teacher? Will it be one requiring me to sing and clap and recite "dem bones" in a funky rapping fashion that may be a preschool teacher's style but isn't mine ... at least not in public?

5. Halloween treats. How can I fit into just a few days all the goodies I want to make with Bubby without putting him into sugar shock? Or Megan into conniption fits over all the sugar? But it's Halloween, and I have festive ideas from Grandma Lizzie and Grandma Nina to try out. Maybe I can sneak in a few while Megan's at work.

6. Which reminds me: I forgot to buy the orange paint for the Halloween treat holder and all the candies for decorating Halloween cookies. Gotta run to Hobby Lobby still ... and Walmart.

7. I hate Walmart ... why do I end up going there at least twice a week?

8. Cuss ... if I'm going to Walmart I might as well pick up a special toy for the dogs. Maybe they'll be less likely to lament my absence if they have something new and interesting to tear up chew on.

9. Uh, my dogs. Are they going to be sad without me?

Today's question:

Do you kennel your animals when you go away for a few days or do you have someone come to your home to take care of them? (Not that I need to do either this time since Jim will be home; just asking.)

Searching for gold

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Here in Colorado, the aspens put on a spectacular fall display -- if you catch them at the right time.

Last weekend Jim and I guessed the timing was right to catch the yellows, golds and coveted reds in the mountains not too far from home. So we packed up Mickey, Lyla and some sandwiches and headed for the hills.

Turns out we guessed wrong -- at least in terms of the aspens at the relatively low altitude we visited (9,000 feet). We've heard the aspens in the high country have turned, but what we saw on our outing were just bits of yellow here and there, with plenty of green still taking center stage. The best colors likely will be this coming weekend.

We still had a pleasant day, though, and managed to get some good photos ... even some of Mickey climbing up into my lap, which the 60-pound pit mix never does. Seems our big, bad dog doesn't get out of the city often enough, and the gravel and brambles were too much for his sensitive tootsies.

Here are the highlights of the day:

Today's question:

Where is your favorite place to view the changing colors of fall?

A dog by any other name

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As part of the From Left To Write book club, I recently read Cowboy & Wills by Monica Holloway, provided for free through the book club. It's the true story of young autistic boy, Wills, and the golden retriever, Cowboy, that transformed his life. Written by Wills' mother, the book is an unflinchingly honest look at parenting an extraordinary child and the efforts taken to help him lead as ordinary a life as possible. Wills' saving grace turned out to be Cowboy.

Early in the book, Holloway writes of how Wills names his soon-to-be-adopted puppy -- a puppy that would decidedly be female -- "Cowboy" after a quick run-through of ideas with Mom. His first choice (for a female puppy, mind you) was Vincent, of which Holloway writes: "'Vincent is good,' I said, hoping we'd come up with something more upbeat and less like the conniving killer with the bone-chilling laugh in The House of Wax." So she offered up "Ringo." Wills countered with "Cowboy" (from his bedtime song of Cowboys Sing Good Night). "And it's okay that Cowboy's a girl?" Holloway asked him. "Who cares?" was his response. Simple as that, Wills' puppy became Cowboy.

ShannonIt reminded me of Andrea -- the biggest animal-lover in our family -- and her penchant for giving animals unusual names, starting with the naming of her first cat at about the same age Wills named his first puppy.

For many years, our only family animal was a beautiful blue-point Siamese I named Sadie. I can't remember why I chose that name, and I don't recall there being any huge significance to it. The name just sounded good, it fit, it stuck.

Then for animal-loving Andrea's fourth birthday, she was given the kitty she'd begged and pleaded for after seeing it during a July 4 party hosted by a friend of mine. (I'll never cop to a few drinks being the reason I gave in to her requests.)

MickeyFor Andrea, her new itsy-bitsy gray-and-white kitty's name did have huge significance. So she named it Shannon. After one of Brianna's friends. The loveliest of older girls, with long blonde hair, an infectious laugh and a perpetually sunny disposition. All the boys at school pined for her; Andrea idolized her. So she named her cat after her. Which was perfectly fine -- except that Shannon regularly got out of the house and I had to try to lure her back in. Calling out the door or roaming the block calling "Shannon ... Shannon ..." surely sounded like I was the worst of the worst mothers ever, nonchalantly searching for a lost child who'd wandered away.

Soon after, we got Moses, a black lab/collie mix and our first family dog. I gave him that name in hopes he'd live up to it and follow our commandments. Then my sweet Sadie passed away at 19 years old and was (eventually) replaced by tabby Abby. Then, soon after Andrea went off to college, her precious Shannon passed away and was replaced (for me and Abby, not Andrea) with crazy Isabel, a Halloween cat if ever there was one.

KamileahAndrea had no say-so in naming that batch of animals. But when we unexpectedly rescued a sweet 8-week-old pit/pointer mix who'd had both back legs broken by his previous owner, we offered for Andrea name him so that although she was away at college, she'd feel some ownership of the newest family pet. The puppy was white with caramel-colored spots and made Andrea think of her favorite thing in the world at that time: Caramel Macchiatos from Starbucks. She wanted to call the puppy Caramel Macchiato -- but I couldn't go that far in allowing her free reign on the naming. We settled on Mickey. Good enough, she agreed, huffing adding that she'll just name her own animal Caramel Macchiato when she gets one.

LylaAnd her first animal did, indeed, have the same coloring as our Mickey. But she chose to name the calico cat Kamileah, which means "perfection" in Egyptian, Andrea says, and was chosen after much Googling and searching for the absolute perfect name for her very own pet.

LukeHer next very own pet, a rescue dog of black lab/shepherd descent, she named Lyla. Because in Persian it means "dark as night." And Lyla she remains -- although she's been adopted by Grandma and Grandpa (meaning me and Jim) after apartment living didn't suit her style ... and her overactive bladder, constant chewing, and hyper disposition didn't suit Andrea's patience.

It was only with her most recent pet acquisition that Andrea settled on something a little more "normal." A few months ago she purchased the cutest little fluffball of a dog ever, a Zuchon, and she named him Luke. Of course, unlike her mother who names animals just whatever sounds good, she crowned the puppy Luke because he looks like an Ewok from Star Wars, but calling him Ewok would have been a little bizarre, she thought. So she named him Luke ... after Luke Skywalker.

And it was that reasoning, that relatively normal name for a pet -- coming from a young adult who not so long ago thought Caramel Macchiato was an acceptable name for a puppy -- that led me to the most bittersweet of realizations: My animal-loving little girl, the last of my three babies, had truly grown up.

Today's question:

What's the strangest name of one of your past or present pets?