Spring Might really Be Here!

What a crazy time this is! With spring finally showing its warmer side here in Michigan, I find myself feeling overloaded with things to do. Most of them are good things, which is a plus but sometimes I wonder how I'm keeping up with anything! It's seems I'm slow with replies, slow posting, slow with home things. Spring fever? Could be.

Just Another Day with Lizzie

Lizzie has been awfully sweet of late. I don't think she likes the rain storms -- I often find her huddling at my feet or even (shock and awe) jump up on the couch, curl up and sleep. I'm not complaining!

I think back to the time eight years ago this month.

My sweetest boy, The Marmelade Gypsy, had lived a long, loving life and when he moved on, I didn't think I would ever smile again.

It took a few months of coming home to a quiet house, of so many tears that came and went with remarkable unpredictability. But when a friend was fostering an abandoned mom-cat and her kittens and the kittens had found their forever-homes, the mom-cat was still at liberty. I went over and "met her" and I laughed for what seemed like the first time in ages.

She may have been a mom-cat, but she was still a kitten herself when she came my way. My vet bet she was about 10 months old when they "met" in October.

I have to say, the first months were not easy. Lizzie is nothing like Gypsy. He never met a lap he didn't like, especially mine. And it didn't matter if that lap was filled with a newspaper, book or craft project. I was his. Lizzie, on the other hand, didn't "do" lap. She didn't like to be picked up, sit close. She was her own girl.

It took more than seven years for her to fully settle. We would practice lap, thirty seconds at a time. And it's still not her favorite place. But she has turned into a loving close-sitter, a yappy girl with a tone that rivals Ethel Merman, and an animal that seems to have vocabulary comprehension of three phrases -- "Birds!", "Good Girl Treat!" and "Food!" I'm not sure she even knows her name.

She's been a good companion in these days of quarantine. The secret keeper for when my anxiety gets too high, the creature that needs me if for nothing more than two squares a day and maybe a snack before bed.

I think I'll keep her!

For the most part I have ordered groceries online through Instacart. It's a little more expensive but for now I feel more comfortable doing that. But I did my first grocery pick-up. There is a small "general store" in Lansing's Old Town that had wine and locally sourced meat. I want to see them continue to thrive when all this is over.

Easy peasy! I loved that I could pop the trunk and hands-free all the way!

I didn't order scallions because I am learning how to grow them on the window sill, thanks to an article in the New York Times. If you save the root and a bit of the onion part of the scallion, put it in water and change the water daily, new scallions will grow! So far, so good!

Meanwhile, groceries and mail still stay in quarantine, I worry about every rain storm (and kicking myself I didn't replace my basement windows in the fall instead of waiting till the spring and then Covid-19 came along.) There's a problem not with my sump pump but in its "trough" that will require repair and I'm not looking forward to welcoming a repair person to the house. He'd better be wearing a mask. (I couldn't get an appointment till June 16!)

But the lawn is green and growing...

...and the neighbor's crab apple tree was beautiful. Alas, the petals are gone now but it was good while it lasted!

No complaints.

And, if I have them, I know who to tell.

The Real Gypsy -- Three Years Later

Those who have started following The Marmelade Gypsy over the past few years may not know there was a real Marmy Gyp. So please indulge me while I remember Gypsy, the namesake of this blog and my good buddy for 14 years, on the third anniversary of his passing this weekend. For many years, this photo was the banner for The Marmelade Gypsy.

Everyone who has a cat thinks theirs is the greatest -- even if they periodically despair of bad behavior. And they're right.
And so was I.

I won't go into Gypsy's story here, apart from the fact that he found me when he was just a kitten, about eight weeks old. It took two months before he became our cat. Well, admittedly our cat. As Rick said to me about six weeks before that, "You've got another cat."

He was playful and sweet and he loved his treats.

He also appreciated hanging out under the tree at Christmas. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille," he seemed to be saying.

He was always ready for his close-up and there was a secret to the good photos I had of him. His limited vocabulary had two words that made him look up alertly. "Fancy Feast." Long after we had moved from Fancy Feast to a better food, he still would perk at the name. So, instead of "cheese," we'd mention the FF word and bingo!

Like many animals, he liked the sink.

And, he was tolerant of the seasonal humiliation of bow ties and Halloween costumes...

 

...and one couldn't do laundry, knit, read the paper or a book without his crawling up for attention. Which I was always only too glad to give.

So many of us have had our pets leave us, hopefully after long, happy lives. When Rick and I went to Europe, we left a very sick cat in the hands of a wonderful woman named Jan who came to stay with him for the nearly three weeks we were gone. It was tough duty -- she had a lot of phone calls with Friend Kate and our wonderful vet who talked her down more than once when Gypsy stopped eating. She gave him his IV fluids like a champ and he hung out with her while she did her bead work. Before we went away, we did pictures with the sweet boy.

And Jan took this photo while we were gone. It's part of a series of his last pictures. When we returned he was so thin. I didn't want to remember him that way. I am convinced he hung on during our trip and for two weeks after so he could be with us when he let go.

Blogger Vagabonde kindly made me this wonderful waterlogue version of Gypsy which I've since had made into note cards.

I find his fur in the keyboard and he's still a part of this blog, even though Lizzie now has center stage in the banner.

Time helps heal but it doesn't always stop the tears. Lizzie is filled with play and a big purr and I love her to pieces. She is Lizzie -- she is not Gypsy. There is no other Gypsy, nor will there ever be.

And I'm OK with that.

Rediscovering Gypsy

In May it will be two years since Gypsy moved up-up-up to the Heavyside Layer and every day I miss my sweet boy. I continually think of his sweet presence surrounding me in that way that only a beloved pet can.

But in this news flash from the department of bad housekeeping, I had a far more tangible Gypsy sighting. This is a reminder to those of you with pets who never think about cleaning your keyboard to consider doing so now and then!

I'm sure there are better tools for this but I was running a bent paper clip in the spaces of my portable keyboard and look what I found!

Yes, a fistfull of Gyppy fur. And it shouldn't surprise you to learn that there are a few glitter sparkles, too!

I knew he shed a lot and like Lizzie, he loved to sit close to the keyboard while I worked -- or sometimes, after I'd gone.

But I had no idea he'd left so much of himself behind! Or perhaps I should say how much of his behind he left behind!

And so, take this tip from the Offices of Bad Housekeeping -- check your keyboard now and then. You never know who might show up!

(And a note -- while I was a little disgusted with myself for not cleaning the keyboard more often and frankly, uncertain whether I should even post this because it is a little embarrassing, I have to say, it kind of made me smile to find a little of my boy, right where I work, every day.)

Dreaming of Paris and Remembering Montmartre

I have been listless and more than a little down in the dumps lately.

The visit of my long-time friend Suzanne from London, Ontario, brightened my mood some, as we filled our time together with long talks, movies, shopping and eating at some of her favorite spots (mine, too!) But it has been cold and I have been gloomy and when I am I often think back to Paris. It felt like a good time to participate in Paulita's Dreaming of France party.

Because of the sadness in my heart, I suppose it made some sense to revisit the Montmartre Cemetery in Paris. Rick and I did this with "Peter's Paris" blogger Peter who was a terrific guide to not only the cemetery but to the area in general.

It was a rainy day as we walked by the graves of the famous and the ordinary. The rain made the stones deeper, richer in color. The flowers just "popped." (I believe this was composer Jacques Offenbach's grave.)

I can't hear the guitar music of Fernando Sor (which Rick will play on occasion) without thinking of seeing his resting place.

The sculpture was beautiful and poignant. It cried out with emotion, sorrow and grief.

This is my favorite photo from the trip. As you know, I love cats and there are generally more than a few roaming the cemeteries of Paris. But on this day, it was very rainy (think "April Showers," which capsulized our April in Paris.)

At the time we were in Paris, our Marmelade Gypsy was back home in Michigan, every day closer to his last. (We lost him about two weeks after we returned). I was having a lot of separation issues on that trip, for though I knew he was in safe hands, I also knew his health was very fragile, something that if I'd known when we booked the trip, we may not have gone at that time.

Eager to see one of the "cemetery cats," I was thrilled to find this one hiding on a shelf in an elaborate marker. I didn't dare get too close -- I didn't want to scare him. So I snapped the photo and thought little more about it. But when I saw the pictures later, I was entranced by both the memory and this handsome cat.

I didn't get another cat right after Gypsy died. I couldn't. But then a friend was fostering a mom-cat and her kittens and while the kittens were easy to place, Mom was less so. But I was willing to take her on.

Right now she is purring right beside me and every time I look at her I think of the Montmartre Cat. No, they aren't dead ringers for each other. But perhaps that cat imprinted its pretty black-and-white features on the heart of this soul who loves her orange cats. Maybe. Just maybe.

Postscript: For more on the beautiful statuary at Montmartre's cemetery, visit Peter's great post HERE.

So Much Can Change in a Year

May 15, 2012. We were having a lovely birthday dinner for my friend Jan at a restaurant where the food was delicious as the atmosphere was elegant. The converted home-turned-inn was once owned by one of the executives at Oldsmobile when cars were young and we weren't even born. The wood walls were rich and polished, the paintings suitable for a spot like "Downton Abbey" and the service elegant. We were dining with friends visiting from California. It was a happy occasion.

And yet, I wasn't. Any gaiety on my part was false. Forced. I knew the next day would be one of the hardest of my life.

We returned home and I said to Rick, "Unless Gypsy shows an improvement tomorrow, we have to call Dr. Anne. It's time to let him go."

That night, we went to bed. Gypsy could barely walk, his poor back legs giving out on him, his once overly-plump body a gaunt, fur-covered skeleton. We had to feed him baby food on my finger. As Dr. Anne said, "He was wasting away," the kidney disease taking its final toll.

When we woke in the morning, somehow -- through the grace of God, I think -- this wee, weak, beloved creature had somehow -- we have no idea how -- made his way into our bed. It was the ultimate gesture of love, Gypsy's gift.

We drew him between us, and when we woke to call Anne, we left him there, where he stayed until soon before she arrived.

When we sat in the yard, under the unseasonably warm May sun, holding our boy, Dr. Anne came, and helped him through the last hour or so. There was warm, a gentle breeze, and if we weren't saying goodbye, it would have been a perfect day.

Gypsy was more than fourteen. He had come to us as a dumped kitten and this wee ball of orange fur quickly won our hearts.

He lived for treats. For Fancy Feast. For cuddles and love, forcing his way onto my lap no matter what I was reading, knitting or writing. He ruled the screened in porch at the lake.

He was legendary for the catching of a mouse and presenting it to me at five in the morning in bed. Not our finest hour, I think, but a memorable one.

 

And he always let us know exactly what he thought.

 

I've rarely known such grief. For my parents, yes. Maybe once or twice otherwise. Maybe. I truly thought I would never heal from this deep, impossible sorrow.

I wasn't sure either of us would. He was Rick's cat as much as mine.

 

A year has passed. We grieved long and deeply.

We had vacations up north and out west. Kevin graduated and became engaged. Greg was finding more work as a working artist, including two gigs at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Rick had a summer bike crash, then MRSA. And you know I've had my share of trials.

But we did learn to smile and love again. And while Lizzie Cosette is not Gypsy, she is Lizzie Cosette. We love them both. 

But we'll never forget our sweet boy.