The Naming of Cats

We've inherited a cat.

A kitten actually.

As she was something of an unexpected addition, were a bit at a loss at first for a proper name for our latest refugee.

Our other two cats are Mojo-Jojo - black-as-pitch with a hellish temper and an overdeveloped sense of her own importance, sometimes referred to a Basement Cat - and Mocha - a sweet Siamese mix with a tendency to shed and drool, also known as Ceiling Cat.

This latest feline refugee is something of an in-betweener: She's a sweet and somewhat fearless little ball of fluff - a gray tabby with little white boots to match the tip of her tail.

"Boots" seemed an obvious choice. But as she doesn't show any signs of talent for the long con, we decided against it.

The Professor's first choice was "Sneaky Ninja Kitty" after she affected a daring escape from her carrier right under our noses on her first night home and managed to stay hidden for almost an hour. But that was a bit of a mouthful.

Bam-Bam offered up "Bam-Bam" and "Mr. Potato Head" as possible monikers. But we convinced him that having more than one of each would just get confusing.

After a few more rounds of suggestions from the kids that would have had even Hollywood Moms doing spit-takes, I decided to pull out the big guns. And I sat down to read to the boys Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.

Then I had them sleep on all they'd learned about the Naming of Cats. The next day, they made their decision.

And so, I'm pleased to introduce you to Ms. Jennyanydots:

When the day's hustle and bustle is done, then the gumbie cat's work is but hardly begun,

Zen

Laughter and tears

My father-in-law's funeral service was today.

At one point, the pastor invited people to come up to the mic to share a personal memory of my father-in-law. After several people spoke, my 4-year-old, who had been standing a few feet away from me holding my own father's hand, calmly pulled away from his Papa and confidently strode up to the pastor.

Silently, solemnly, he met the pastor's eyes and pointed to the mic.

The smiling pastor lowered the mic and lifted my son, who clearly and boldly pronounced to the assembly: "I hafta go Potty."

The crowd dissolved into giggles and guffaws as my Dad caught up to my little Bam-Bam and led him off to take care of business.

I have to tell you, I think my father-in-law would have been rolling in the aisles with laughter.


Zen

Give sorrow words

"Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break."
~ William Shakespeare Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 3

"Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure." 

~ Tom Stoppard
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

Inhale. Exhale. Gone.

Death is a wound - a hole where our loved one used to fit snugly.

It might be a violent puncture, leaving you bleeding out and fighting for every breath. It might be a slow burn, devouring you by inches. It might be an illness, weakening you from within.

We know, from experience, the wound will heal over. Time will knit ragged flesh together, transmute the pain to numbness, cover the gaping emptiness with layers of scar tissue.

Still, we fight it, for a while. We huddle over our wounds like protective mothers, hating and loving the pain. Because to heal is to admit that life goes on, that the clocks don't actually stop, that the stars and the moon still shine. Without them.

Every day is a step farther from the love we knew. Every day the now becomes the then. Every day is another layer of memories sliding in on top of the old.

Every day becomes a reminder that our entire lives are spent within the tiniest span between the breaths of the universe.

Inhale. Exhale. Gone.

The knowledge would be humbling to the point of paralysis.

If it weren't for those moments.

Those moments that are so beautiful, so painful, so brilliant that they rip the breath from your lungs and scream through your brain: This is life! This is why! This is what is so fucking amazing about this fragile existence that we persevere through the knowledge that we are only candle flickers on an insignificant rock at the ass end of the universe.

"You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? ... If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. ... For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

~ Kahlil Gibran
The Prophet

The ultimate irony is that the knowledge of death is what makes every moment of this life so heart-achingly beautiful. And the ultimate tragedy is that we are so preoccupied with "life" as a whole that we miss SO many of those moments. Because they're not just the big moments. They're the "normal" moments, all day, every day, every moment. If we just stop to live them.

Inhale. Exhale. Gone.

But, oh, what comes between.




Namaste,
Zen

Where I'm From

I am from science fiction stories and Saturday morning cartoons.

I am from summers that melt and winters that drizzle.

I am from acres of farmland, spring fruit blossoms and fall harvests.

I am from laughing voices raised over classic rock radio in crowded kitchens with kids and pets underfoot; from hand-me-downs and potlucks; camping and fishing; climbing trees and running around barefoot.

I am from mom's patience, dad's temper, brother's humor.

I am from fierceness and freckles.

I am from more-the-merrier and anything-for-family and own-your-choices.

I am from logic and reason, from compassion and kindness, and from just doing the laundry.

I am from the Emerald Isle and the Dust Bowl, pan-fried chicken and homemade biscuits.

I am from hallways lined with photo collages, doorways climbed by faded pencil marks, concrete impregnated with tiny hand prints, cedar chests filled with handmade quilts.

I am from simple homes and strong roots. From extended families and generational gatherings. From births and deaths, celebration and mourning, love and loss - all made better by the sharing. 


Inspired by: Where I'm From and SFD and TwoBusy.

Zen

All for one; one for all

We got a lot of great suggestions for names for our new puppy - thanks to everyone who chimed in! And it was a tough choice! But we narrowed it down to three or four names and the boys picked ...

*drumroll*

Porthos!

This name works on a few levels for us (we like literary names, he's our third "kid" and he's part Beagle), so I'm happy with it, too.

So, please welcome to our Cast of Characters, Porthos the (near as we can guess) Cheagle. ;)

All for one and one for all,
Zen>

The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven not man's.

I am a dog person who has been dogless for too long.

Our long-time canine companion (the ZenHusband actually adopted him just before we started dating in 1998), died almost 3 years ago. Patch, a Dalmatian, was the Best. Dog. Ever. He was well-mannered, loving, energetic and fun - our 60-pound lapdog. When he died, it was hard to even think of "replacing" him. Especially as we had a toddler and a new baby taking up all of our time and attention and then some.

But, as time passed, I found myself really missing the presence of a dog in our lives. We still have two cats - Mojo and Mocha (though they are getting on in years as well). They're nice, but, well, cats are not dogs.

I've been periodically nagging explaining to the ZenHusband for almost a year that I thought it was about time for a new dog in our family. He, would in turn, made all of the logical arguments against - reminding me how much time and attention a dog - especially a young one - needs. And I would, reluctantly, agree that "now" was not so good.

For a while.

And then I would bring it up again a few weeks later.

The final straw for me was last weekend.

I took the boys to visit my parents and grandparents and an aunt and uncle. (They all live on the same street.) And I almost died of OMG-I-WANT-A NEW-DOG-SO-BAD overload - they have TWO new sweet-and-adorable puppies: My dad has a 3-month old Lab-Chow mix and my aunt just adopted a 2-month old Blue Heeler.

My text messages to my husband that weekend included:

• Reason #10 we need a dog: It would eat the crumbs the kids drop around the table! Less vaccuuming! 
• Reason #9: Home protection! You DO want the kids and I to be safe when you're not home, right?
• Reason #8: The need to walk the dog will inspire us to take more walks as a family = Family bonding! Healthier Family!
• Reason #7: Scooping poop builds character! The Professor is old enough to handle a shovel, now!
• Reason #6: Dittto on feeding, watering, taking care of a dog = More Character!
• Reason #5: The cats are getting fat and complacent. They need someone to keep them on their toes!
•  Reason #4: Every kid should have a dog growing up! It's the American way!
• Reason #3: I promise to help scoop aforementioned poop.
• Reason #2:There is scientific evidence that dog owners live longer than non-dog owners.
• And the #1 Reason why we should get a new dog: Dog = Happy Wife. Happy Wife = Thankful Wife. Thankful Wife = Happy Husband. (Yes, I totally did just  promise sexual favors in return for a puppy. See how desperate I have become?!)

Can you believe he puts up with me?

I also emailed him photos and info from the awesome PetFinder App on my iphone of several cute puppies and young dogs who needed to be rescued from the local Animal Control kennel.

I'm not sure what it was that finally wore him down convinced him, but, The ZenHusband surprised me on Monday by agreeing to see one of the puppies I had emailed him about. Taking advantage of his moment of weakness Gracefully accepting his change of heart, I rushed the whole family over to meet this adorable guy:

I know, right?! How can anyone possibly resist that?!

Turns out, he's just as sweet and adorable as he looks.

So we adopted him!

He's at the vet's today getting neutered and microchip'd and all checked out and he will be coming home to us on Thursday!

But - and here's where you guys come in - he needs a NAME!

The boys have been brainstorming - and we've gotten a few great suggestions from friends on Facebook and Twitter - but we haven't settled on a name for this little guy, yet.

Wanna help? Here's his CV:

• He's 4 months old. He was found as a stray with another dog about a month ago.
• The Pound listed him as a "Beagle"and he looks like that might indeed be a dominant breed in his mix, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had some smaller dog DNA in his cocktail as well - like some Dachshund or maybe even Chihuahua. He's smallish and his head and nose are just a little on the narrow side for a Beagle, I think. And I doubt that he will get very big. Small-to-medium is my guess.
• He's very happy and friendly: He got along with the kids right away and his tail wags like crazy when he sees new people.
• He seems energetic, but not hyper: He likes to run and play, but he was also very happy to cuddle up in my lap and get petted and scratched and otherwise loved on.
• He's afraid of cats - he runs the other way when he sees one. (Considering one of my cats is somewhat eeeevil, that's probably for the best.)
• He seems to be a bit on the quiet side for a Beagle(ish), but time will tell on that one.

So, that's what we know about our new little family member so far. And we're trying to find a name that's a good fit for him. The list, so far, includes:

• Porthos
• Darwin
• Shoeshine
• Otis
• Murphy
• Dragon
• Toby
• Elvis
• Oliver
• Baxter
• Buster
• Brodie
• Bailey
• Jasper
• Tucker
• Sout
• Scotty
• Bilbo
• Flip
• Whiplash
• Rex
• Shepard

I also suggested "Eddie", because the Pup's adoption day - October 25 - is coincidentally, the birthday of BNL Lead Singer Ed Robertson. But the ZenHusband used his veto to shoot that one down. Spoilsport.

The boys have also already vetoed "Tank", "Bruiser" and "Goliath". These kids have no sense of irony, I tell ya.


So, People of the Great and Powerful Interwebs: It's your turn.

What name do you think fits our new dog? Or do you have a suggestion to add the list?

I'll be sure to let you know what we decide. And to inflict upon you share more pictures when he comes home to us, as well.


If I had a tail, it would be wagging,
Zen

"The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven not man's." ~ Mark Twain

Lived Well. Laughed Often. Loved Much.

My Grandpa would have turned 86 this week. He was a good man. And I miss him.

"He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often, and loved much; who has enjoyed the trust of pure women, the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children; who has filled his niche and accomplished his task; who has left the world better than he found it, whether an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul; who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had; whose life was an inspiration; whose memory a benediction." ~ Bessie Anderson Stanley

Camping By The Numbers: Part the Second

Camping by the numbers:

1 - The number of books I read.
2 - The number of fish caught and (eeeww) eaten.
3 - Number of days without Internet access. (The horror!)
4 - The number of miles we hiked with the kids on Saturday (earning The Professor his Hiking Badge! Yay!)
5 -Approximate number of times per hour The Minions asked some version of "Are we there yet?" on the drive to and fro.
6 - The number of people living for 3 nights in a tiny, tiny cabin. *Cue Minor Key*
9 - The number hours it took us to make the "5-hour" trip from home to the cabin. (Bonus: Number of people who threw up on the curvy mountain roads: 1; Bam-Bam, for the record.)
10 -Approximate number of times we lamented the fact that the car DVD player broke 3 days before the trip.

So, what'd YOU do this weekend?


There's No Place Like Home,
Zen

Camping - by the numbers

Our Labor Day Camping Trip: By the Numbers ...

1 - How many of us came home with sunburns.



2- The number of naps I took. (Yay, naps!)

3 - Times my 2-year-old walked right into the lake with his shoes and socks on.


4 - How many books I read during the trip. (Yay, books!)

5 - How many deer we saw.



6 - How many "improved" Deer Crossing Signs we saw.



7 - The number of "hikes" we took around the lake and streams.



8 - The average number of seconds a 4-year-old can stand to watch a fishing line without reeling it in and recasting it. Again.

9 - The number of times I had to untangle a child's fishing line.

0 - How many fish were caught.

Yeah, we had a blast. :)

Playin' 'possum

I'm pleased to present today my first Guest Post by the original zen mom - MY mom - AKA Lady Elizabeth. She sent me this hilarious story about her nocturnal adventures this week, and I convinced her to let me post it here. Welcome to the blogosphere, mom. :)

So… it actually started yesterday morning.

I came downstairs to find the power was off to my computer and all of its peripherals. I immediately noticed the Garden Gnome (Mr. Farty Pants) was gone.

When I approached my desk, I discovered that the mouse had been jerked to the back of the desk; my webcam, my digital camera and my camera dock were missing from the window sill and the clock was turned around.

I looked behind the filing cabinet and there they were. When they fell, they hit the tangle of wires behind the computer unplugging things and pulling down the webcam and other things. So, I gingerly reached down into the dust bunnies and retrieved everything. I reconnected the wires and the power and got everything back up and running. I moved Mr. Farty pants to the other end of the window sill and blamed it all on the cat. I was late for work.

Last night about 11:00 pm I went downstairs to get some water. I knew that when I went upstairs for the night, I had put the computer on standby so I was surprised to see the login screen glowing in the dark. I approached my desk (in the dark) and noticed the mouse was jerked all the way to the back of the desk again. I pulled the mouse forward and decided I needed to check this out further.

I went to the kitchen and refilled my water, came back into my office and turned on the light. As I approached my desk the second time, I noticed a tiny movement of something sticking out from behind the monitor. It was a very long, almost hairless tail. It was big and long and ugly. I leaned to one side to get a better look and noticed that the tail was attached to something with very coarse spiky grey hair.

What to do? Hmmmm, Ron had been asleep for an hour and a half, so he would not be pleased if I woke him up. I immediately ran upstairs and woke him up because he knows where things are like heavy gloves and guns and things. As he groggily responded to my nudge, I told him I thought there was an animal downstairs and I suspected it was an opossum. He mumbled something about my sanity and trudged downstairs in his underwear.

He approached the desk with much caution and soon confirmed that Mr. Opossum was indeed hiding behind the monitor on the windowsill. He also confirmed that it was not in a good mood and had big teeth. Now we are both standing there saying, hmmmm, what to do?

He went out the back door and headed for his garage. I watched closely and the opossum did not move. Ron returned, still in his underwear, but now wearing his heavy welding gloves and holding a large fishing net.

I suggested that we might be able to remove the window screen and allow Mr. Opossum to exit through the window. However, this was not really feasible because Mr. Opossum was right in front of the window that was open and we couldn’t get to the screen without reaching right past him. So, Ron placed the net between Mr. Opossum and the computer monitor, which only annoyed him.

A woman of action, I ran to the laundry room and retrieved a baby-gate to keep the opossum from entering the kitchen and thus gaining access to the rest of the house. The back door was open in case he decided to do the smart thing and leave that way. We were ready to make a move.

Ron used the net to gently prod the opossum into moving down the windowsill and out from behind the monitor so he was exposed. He tried again but he still couldn’t make any headway with the net, he decided to remove the screen now that Mr. Opossum was no longer in front of it.

Voila! Now Mr. Opossum could leave via the open window.

He didn’t.

Ron, not so gently, coaxed him toward the open window with the handle to the fishing net. Meanwhile, I moved closer and climbed on to a chair in case he decided to run. I was barefoot, so this seemed necessary. In the process, I stuck the handle of the broom I was holding in the ceiling fan, thus scaring Ron and me half to death. Since the chair had wheels, I sort of wobbled and the broom hit the ceiling fan again before I regained my balance.

Ron looked at me sideways. After making some comment about my sanity again, Ron poked and prodded until Mr. Opossum was hanging onto the window ledge with one front paw. One final poke and he was outside. Ron closed the window.

We looked at each other and shook our heads. The cat walked by and looked at us both with disdain. Mr. Farty Pants gave us a blank stare. The window screen could be replaced tomorrow ...

Still

My grandpa died today.

And even though I knew it was coming,
I'm still hurting.

And even though he lived a long and wonderful life,
I'm still angry.

And even though I'm glad he's no longer in pain,
I'm still selfish and want him here with us.

And even though we spent most of the weekend with him,
I'm still missing him already.

And even though I feel like I should be moving and doing ...
I'm still.

Moments in a Life Well Lived

"There's a shadow on his x-ray."

In my mind, I can see the photographs that have lined my grandmother's bookshelf for as long as I can remember: My grandfather ... in three-quarter profile, looking impossibly young in his Army uniform ... standing ramrod straight in a simple suit next to his beautiful young bride ... in front of the family car with his two strong boys, his brightly smiling daughter, and his baby girl in his wife's arms ... Standing behind my grandma, his big hands resting on her shoulders, celebrating their 50th anniversary.

"It started in his lungs ... "

I am seven years old and my Grampa is a giant with a booming voice and constant grin. He tells funny stories and teaches us to play card games ... He pulls quarters from behind my ears ... he "sneaks" me extra cookies from grandma's jar ... he sets me on his knee and we shell nuts as we watch Star Trek on the tiny TV in his living room ... He picks me up and dusts me off and sends me back into the game to "show those boys what you can do."

"... but it's spreading."

He's in his overalls and worn work boots, a holster on his hip, straw hat shading his eyes. He's mounting his big red horse, more at home on the farm than he would ever be in a city.

He's in a suit for my wedding day and he tells the whole room how I was an ornery little tomboy and "then she finally got boobs" and shoots me a joyfully wicked grin when I blush to my ears.

"Considering his age and medical history ..."

He's lying in a hospital bed after surgery. He's tired and in pain, but he's still giving the surgeon a hard time and flirting shamelessly with the nurses.

He's sitting in his backyard on a sunny Spring day, smiling as he watches his children's children's children run and scream and play.

"... there's nothing they can do for him."

It's his 80th birthday and he's holding my tiny two-week-old son, smiling so proudly you'd think it was his first child rather than his 10th grandchild. "You done good, Sis," he tells me with a wink.


You too, Grampa.

Thank you.