His name was Lucky and he was the best darn Cat this girl has ever known.
He was fat, lazy, loud, annoying, he hogged the bed, he get his white hair everywhere, and he was always begging for food. And he was wonderful.
I last time I saw Lucky was Wednesday, August 19, 2009. Dad had let him out for the night, because he was so anxious. He never came back. Which is, in of itself, strange, because he rarely strayed far from home, and when he did, all I had to do was call, and he'd come running (at his own pace).
I got Lucky for Christmas was I was three years old. I popping off the tape from the wrapped box he was in and he popped right out. I don't recall this, but all my sisters and parents say that when he came out I said, "Lucky!" like he was an old friend. We were deciding what to name him, and I wanted to name him Spot (I was only three, ok?), but Caitlyn convinced me to name him Lucky. From that day on, I think he was jinxed.
He had had cuts, gashes, and scrapes from fighting other cats and other undefinable sources. He had had three abscesses on his head; two on top, one on his cheek. The second one killed a few pigments in his skin, and he had a tiny white spot ever after on his head where it had originally been solid orange. He'd had re-occurring ear mites which we were never able to officially cure. He had this great ponch on his belly, like a middle-aged man with a beer belly, and it was wiggle and swing side-to-side whenever he tried to run. That and his neck were the only places he's store all his immense fat. The rest of him was scrawny. In fact, his belly was so large, he couldn't walk like regular cats; he sort of waddled.
In his youth, his tail was a little too long for him. It would dangle over his back like a carrot dangling in front of a mule. We thought one day it would get so long, it would obstruct his vision. It never did, but he eventually grew into it.
The way to his heart was definitely through his belly. Not only would he eat himself to death if we let him, his spots took the form of hearts all over his body--especially when he curled up in his way, with his back legs straight against his head.
Near the end, he developed Epilepsy, which I hear happens to some cats once they get old (Lucky lived for 12 years). He would have seizures and strokes if we didn't get his medicine. For the first month or so we had no idea what was wrong with him. I thought he was dying. Just one day, I go upstairs, and his was twitching and foaming at the mouth, he started circling and hissing... Then I saw his first grand mall seizure: I thought he was dying then, too. He didn't die. We took him to a vet and he got medicine. He was never the same after he got sick: he didn't yowl at the door to go in and out very two seconds any more (nothing missed) but nor did he sleep on my bed and head butt me in the middle of the night when he wanted petted or stare out the window at night, listening to all the night noises of the pond. He didn't purr as often, nor play/fight with Pounce (other cat) any more. But he would still wink at me with those big green eyes and stretch out and put his paws on the counter when he wanted fed.
I still can't believe he's gone. He was here, looking at me, purring, wanting fed and petted, following me around while I did my outside chores, just a few days ago. And now I have only one cat to feed and she doesn't even have to worry about her food being ravaged by him. I keep seeing little movement in the corner of my eye and expecting him to be there, wanting fed or petted, or just trying to get around on his daily rounds about the house. There's no one to knead the stuffed tigers in my room (which he did every time he walked him there, even after his illness) anymore.
Yesterday, Mom took me to the a cat adoption place. i met a kitten by the name of Spirit. She wouldn't leave me alone, and crawled all over me and Mom the entire time. And there was the male cat at the pound named Squirrel who jumped and climbed like his namesake. And had an inquisitive face to boot. I'll admit, I'm falling in love with both. I'll have to choose only one, I know.
Whichever I choose it would not be a replacement. Nothing, No one, could ever replace that Cat in my heart. I miss him, I mourn him, and I will never forget him. Never. The first and most developing years of my life will shine golden because of his friendship. he was a Godsend. I really think so. There is no way I could have made it through Elementary, Middle, Or Junior High school without him. Whichever cat I decide to adopt, it will be a new love, and new friendship.
I know Lucky couldn't live forever. I knew he would die. I knew it would be hard and it is. But I must move on, remembering him before and after he was sick, the sweet, stupid, loving cat. I know I will see him again.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Imagination: Definition by Example
A bit of a Psychological Test: read each word(s) and see what It makes you think of. I'll post my own answers below. no explanations involved, just a few words of what it makes me think of:
Playing Chicken
Text
Sports Car
Cloud
grass
big birds
Carrot
Blue hair
Khaki's
Pretzel
Bow
Melon
Night Games
Kite
Shoebox
Yellow
My anwers:
Playing chicken: Girls Camp's freezing pool.
Text: my sister fixed my cell phone in about three seconds.
Sports Car: a stalker who drives a red car with heavily-tinted windows.
Clouds: Ships.
Grass: Monkey toes!
Big Birds: a quill made from a turkey feather.
Carrots: Being very self-concious to around a Neighbor
Blue Hair: Dragon Ball Z.
Khaki's: a fake jungle river in Disneyland in Adventureland.
Pretzel: Hanging out at my best friend's house
Bow: A bright red bowtie.
Melon: Jimmy and Plank (from an old cartoon)
Nightgames: freaking out my neighbor (different one)
Kite: my kite in the shape of a Bird.
Shoebox: a baby sparrow that's fallen from its nest.
Yellow: Pioneer Trek! and our amazing Safari Tent!
Playing Chicken
Text
Sports Car
Cloud
grass
big birds
Carrot
Blue hair
Khaki's
Pretzel
Bow
Melon
Night Games
Kite
Shoebox
Yellow
My anwers:
Playing chicken: Girls Camp's freezing pool.
Text: my sister fixed my cell phone in about three seconds.
Sports Car: a stalker who drives a red car with heavily-tinted windows.
Clouds: Ships.
Grass: Monkey toes!
Big Birds: a quill made from a turkey feather.
Carrots: Being very self-concious to around a Neighbor
Blue Hair: Dragon Ball Z.
Khaki's: a fake jungle river in Disneyland in Adventureland.
Pretzel: Hanging out at my best friend's house
Bow: A bright red bowtie.
Melon: Jimmy and Plank (from an old cartoon)
Nightgames: freaking out my neighbor (different one)
Kite: my kite in the shape of a Bird.
Shoebox: a baby sparrow that's fallen from its nest.
Yellow: Pioneer Trek! and our amazing Safari Tent!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
It's ALIVE!!!
(This is for a certain someone who tells me my posts have gotten too short)
The following passage was taken from The Editors Preface in the beginning of Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte:
"...the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master--something that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent to 'harrow the vallies, or be bound with a band in the furrow'--when it 'laughs at the multitude of the city, and regards not the crying of the driver'--when, refusing absolutely to make ropes out of sea-sand any longer, it sets to work on statue-hewing, and you have a Pluto or a Jove, a Tisiphone or a Psyche, a Mermaid or a Madonna, as Fate or Inspiration direct. Be the work grim or glorious, dread or divine, you have little choice left but quiescent adoption. As for you--the nominal artist--your share in it has to work passively under dictates you neither delivered nor could question--that would not be uttered at your prayer, nor suppressed nor changed at your caprice. If the result be attractive, the World will praise you, who little deserve praise; if it be repulsive, the same World will blame you, who almost as little deserve blame."
I have the Editor has put it plainly, if that thick, old English jargon is plain. I read that passage and immediately recognized the description. I've been the victim of several uprisings of my fictional characters, and I can tell you, it aint pretty.
Once I had to give up on an entire book completely because a certain character took leave of my control and even of my own thoughts. It took me quite the struggle for rip It (the main character gone bad) from the thoughts in order to save myself from sinking down with it. (This is the answer to some of you who wanted to know why i was discontinuing my full-blown novel).
My sister and I were once discussing book characters. (It was mainly after J.K. Rowling came out with the proclamation that Albus Dumbledore was gay.) We came up with this adage, and I think it applies to all books and their composers:
"Authors don't make the characters: readers do."
This is proven in the instances when book club members argue over a characters personality, motives, or character flaws, etc., like when A friend of mine stated she hated the character Peter Pan because he was stuck up, mean, rude, hurtful, and all those lovely adjectives; while i thought he was hilarious, adorable, carefree, and innocent, if not heartless, and that he embodied all that was the imaginative world of children.
Characters are how you see them: An author may be able to place the characters in situations that will bring out their character traits and have plots that will reveal facts about their personalities, but really it depends how a reader takes their own view of the characters' trials, motives, actions, thoughts, and all that literary drivel.
As a writer, the characters you create become something all their own. You find yourself bending your writing around a character's personality, not the other way around. In some ways, this creates great characters with depth that are believable and allow a reader to really relate. But many a time I've had to stop a character before it got it grew a mind of it's own.
In short, "you know you write too much when you love your characters in that way."
The following passage was taken from The Editors Preface in the beginning of Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte:
"...the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master--something that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent to 'harrow the vallies, or be bound with a band in the furrow'--when it 'laughs at the multitude of the city, and regards not the crying of the driver'--when, refusing absolutely to make ropes out of sea-sand any longer, it sets to work on statue-hewing, and you have a Pluto or a Jove, a Tisiphone or a Psyche, a Mermaid or a Madonna, as Fate or Inspiration direct. Be the work grim or glorious, dread or divine, you have little choice left but quiescent adoption. As for you--the nominal artist--your share in it has to work passively under dictates you neither delivered nor could question--that would not be uttered at your prayer, nor suppressed nor changed at your caprice. If the result be attractive, the World will praise you, who little deserve praise; if it be repulsive, the same World will blame you, who almost as little deserve blame."
I have the Editor has put it plainly, if that thick, old English jargon is plain. I read that passage and immediately recognized the description. I've been the victim of several uprisings of my fictional characters, and I can tell you, it aint pretty.
Once I had to give up on an entire book completely because a certain character took leave of my control and even of my own thoughts. It took me quite the struggle for rip It (the main character gone bad) from the thoughts in order to save myself from sinking down with it. (This is the answer to some of you who wanted to know why i was discontinuing my full-blown novel).
My sister and I were once discussing book characters. (It was mainly after J.K. Rowling came out with the proclamation that Albus Dumbledore was gay.) We came up with this adage, and I think it applies to all books and their composers:
"Authors don't make the characters: readers do."
This is proven in the instances when book club members argue over a characters personality, motives, or character flaws, etc., like when A friend of mine stated she hated the character Peter Pan because he was stuck up, mean, rude, hurtful, and all those lovely adjectives; while i thought he was hilarious, adorable, carefree, and innocent, if not heartless, and that he embodied all that was the imaginative world of children.
Characters are how you see them: An author may be able to place the characters in situations that will bring out their character traits and have plots that will reveal facts about their personalities, but really it depends how a reader takes their own view of the characters' trials, motives, actions, thoughts, and all that literary drivel.
As a writer, the characters you create become something all their own. You find yourself bending your writing around a character's personality, not the other way around. In some ways, this creates great characters with depth that are believable and allow a reader to really relate. But many a time I've had to stop a character before it got it grew a mind of it's own.
In short, "you know you write too much when you love your characters in that way."
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Pilgrims' Liberation
My parents went on a walk and in a field opposite our house, found a mother wild turkey and her eight chicks. Yesterday, they were discovered again. On our lawn. Eating our red currents off the bush. The chicks were positively adorable, following copying their mother in everything, even when just fanning out her wings. They seemed rather tame and later, Caitlyn, my sister, had them approach her from outside a window and look up curiously at her.
i took the picture below. Suzanne (another sister) made the comment, "They look like dinosaurs." And they did! They moved exactly like the little orange herbivores in Jurassic Park!
i took the picture below. Suzanne (another sister) made the comment, "They look like dinosaurs." And they did! They moved exactly like the little orange herbivores in Jurassic Park!
Confessions of the Appreciative Spectator
One of the day-lilies in our flower gardens.
Robin chick nestled up in a tree near our vegetable garden.
Taken in the car on our way back from Utah, right after the rain (sparkles on the window).
It looked SO much like a ship! (also in the car coming home from Utah).
Mother Robin sitting on her newly hatched chick (Different from the chick above; this one is nested in our crab apple tree in front).Some time back, My sister and I tackled eBay and wriggled out of it a lovely Kodak digital camera for only about forty bucks. Since then, the way to my fulfill one of my passions opened before me, I've delved into the mysteries and beauties of photography. I like shapes and making them fit together. All models working together to center the image and bringing out an idea; saying something through position, expression, and colors.
I'm infatuated with colors. Using each color to bring out all the others, complementing each other. Even dissonant colors that clash can bring about some new idea never thought of before. I love it. Here are a few images I've captured. perhaps the computer will behave for once and let me load up my images.
Monday, July 20, 2009
"We're alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic..."
I'm back. Alive. And smelling of bug spray. Girl's camp was a blast, let me tell ya. The skit, whatever certain critics would say, was an amazing replica of Dora the Explorer. That alone has unlimited possibilities. Then there was feeding roasted starbursts to the first years and chewing out my younger young women about air pollution and make woofums. Certification, hikes, roll-call: Ah, so good. and playing games like "Tree roots"; "Pretzel"; "Big Booty"; "Two Truths and a Lie"; and all those crazy, girly ones. My older sister wore a straight jacket and I did an excellent Swiper the Fox impersonation.
Then there was the Fourth Year High Adventure. And I was a fourth year at last! My best fried, Moriah, gave it a wonderful description:
"...put an obstacle course one hundred feet in the air and tie people to it."
But SO much fun. I would've stayed up there all day if I could.
I would've enjoyed myself much better if it weren't for the fact that half of my stuff didn't follow me there. This is how it went down: While the other girls were packing to go home and the 4th years to go on our adventure, I went to the bathroom, being all pack and ready to go. When I got back, Peter Bressler was up there with his dad, who was helping to drive and being our present Priesthood-holder.
Me: Where's all my stuff?
(Enter Peter)
Peter: Oh, I noticed you weren't here so I put it on the trailer for you.
Me: Oh, Thank you, Peter! That was so nice of you!
yeah, not so nice. He didn't know I was a fourth year and put it on the WRONG trailer, the one that was headed for Rexburg, not Island Park. I'm just glad to say that I have wonderful friends who were especially generous in donating pajamas, sleeping bags, shorts, a blanket for a pillow, bug spray, etc. They were SO kind. But I am now home and singing Girl's camp songs, being well rested for the first time this entire week. For those of you who weren't at girl's Camp, here are some of the G.C. song titles:
"We're a alive awake, alert, enthusiastic"
"Bear in Tennis shoes"
"Noah song"
"What Can Make a Hippopotamus Smile?"
"I'm a Nut"
"Bananas"
"Jello"
"Milk"
"Shark song"
"Sipping Cider"
"Tippy Canoe"
"Father Abraham"
"Three little Buzzards"
"Princess Pat"
"Mormon Boy Rap"
"Mormon Girls"
"Ice Cream & Cake"
"Chey-chey Shikolay!" (No idea how to spell that)
and all the others I can't list off right now.
While on the High Adventure, me and some friends decided why they have the fourth years go on High Adventure: It's so we can do some major bonding time and be the best of friends so that when we're Junior leaders we don't kill each other next year. It worked rather well.
Then there was the Fourth Year High Adventure. And I was a fourth year at last! My best fried, Moriah, gave it a wonderful description:
"...put an obstacle course one hundred feet in the air and tie people to it."
But SO much fun. I would've stayed up there all day if I could.
I would've enjoyed myself much better if it weren't for the fact that half of my stuff didn't follow me there. This is how it went down: While the other girls were packing to go home and the 4th years to go on our adventure, I went to the bathroom, being all pack and ready to go. When I got back, Peter Bressler was up there with his dad, who was helping to drive and being our present Priesthood-holder.
Me: Where's all my stuff?
(Enter Peter)
Peter: Oh, I noticed you weren't here so I put it on the trailer for you.
Me: Oh, Thank you, Peter! That was so nice of you!
yeah, not so nice. He didn't know I was a fourth year and put it on the WRONG trailer, the one that was headed for Rexburg, not Island Park. I'm just glad to say that I have wonderful friends who were especially generous in donating pajamas, sleeping bags, shorts, a blanket for a pillow, bug spray, etc. They were SO kind. But I am now home and singing Girl's camp songs, being well rested for the first time this entire week. For those of you who weren't at girl's Camp, here are some of the G.C. song titles:
"We're a alive awake, alert, enthusiastic"
"Bear in Tennis shoes"
"Noah song"
"What Can Make a Hippopotamus Smile?"
"I'm a Nut"
"Bananas"
"Jello"
"Milk"
"Shark song"
"Sipping Cider"
"Tippy Canoe"
"Father Abraham"
"Three little Buzzards"
"Princess Pat"
"Mormon Boy Rap"
"Mormon Girls"
"Ice Cream & Cake"
"Chey-chey Shikolay!" (No idea how to spell that)
and all the others I can't list off right now.
While on the High Adventure, me and some friends decided why they have the fourth years go on High Adventure: It's so we can do some major bonding time and be the best of friends so that when we're Junior leaders we don't kill each other next year. It worked rather well.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Reasons for Rain
I went on a Pioneer trek with my stake recently. It was fun, with lots of great food and my un-biological family was great; my sisters especially. And walking. Lots and lots of walking.
But this post is about day 3, the last of our trek before driving back home to take much-needed showers. It was the only day that rained. It was also the only day that we went off-trail. Very muddy, very wet were we. Plus, it was through a cow pasture for the most part, so there were also cat pats which we would accidentally run our hand carts' wheels through and get a new whiff every yard or so as the wheels went around. I was in back, pushing with my un-biological sister, Chantelle, when she started coming up with why the rain was a blessing. After a few moments, I started to add on with her. We were merrily thinking up new ways the rain was a good thing the rest of the way. I can't remember everything, but this is a little of our list. We called it: "Reasons for Rain."
No more Mosquitoes
No sunburns
We wouldn't get too hot
It helped wash out some of the manures off our wheels and shoes
Everything looked so much greener
It smelled better, even with the ripe cows
We weren't as thirsty
No more eating trail dust
There was much more, I'm sure, but that's what I can remember. Chantelle taught me something. Among all the other spiritual lessons I learned, this was one of the ones that really struck me: If it weren't for rain storms, nothing green could grow.
But this post is about day 3, the last of our trek before driving back home to take much-needed showers. It was the only day that rained. It was also the only day that we went off-trail. Very muddy, very wet were we. Plus, it was through a cow pasture for the most part, so there were also cat pats which we would accidentally run our hand carts' wheels through and get a new whiff every yard or so as the wheels went around. I was in back, pushing with my un-biological sister, Chantelle, when she started coming up with why the rain was a blessing. After a few moments, I started to add on with her. We were merrily thinking up new ways the rain was a good thing the rest of the way. I can't remember everything, but this is a little of our list. We called it: "Reasons for Rain."
No more Mosquitoes
No sunburns
We wouldn't get too hot
It helped wash out some of the manures off our wheels and shoes
Everything looked so much greener
It smelled better, even with the ripe cows
We weren't as thirsty
No more eating trail dust
There was much more, I'm sure, but that's what I can remember. Chantelle taught me something. Among all the other spiritual lessons I learned, this was one of the ones that really struck me: If it weren't for rain storms, nothing green could grow.
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