Our new kitty, Gracie, is a grunter. When she jumps from pillar to post (which she does regularly) she emits a guttural grunt that sounds very much like a dog’s bark.
I’ve tried catching the sound on my phone, but she won’t grunt on cue. The closest approximation I can find is of Monica Seles at the height of her career.
Maybe Gracie is a tennis prodigy. She does have a wicked backhand.
Peace, people!
When Studly Doright and I finished watching the series, “Dexter,” we were conflicted about what to watch next. I was rooting for “Weeds “ while Studly really wanted to watch “Peaky Blinders.” Since I’d chosen “Dexter” I gave in to him this go around.
Now, we’re seven episodes in, and if I could understand all of the dialogue I believe I’d really like “Peaky Blinders.” Even so, I comprehend well enough to keep watching.
Set in Birmingham, England, in 1919, the series centers on the Shelby family, and their gang, for which the series is named. I won’t reveal why the gang has such an odd name; that’s something one has to see to believe.
Thomas Shelby, the protagonist, is seriously flawed. He’s struggling with PTSD from his service in World War I; although, they didn’t call it that back then. He’s cruel and ruthless, and somehow we find ourselves rooting for him against our better judgement. Played beautifully by Cillian Murphy, one wants to alternately kiss him or knock some sense into him. Maybe that’s just my reaction. He is rather delicious.
His love interest, the barmaid, Grace Burgess, played by the stunning Annabelle Wallis, is a match for Thomas in every way. She’s not who he thinks she is, and that could cost him everything.
Perhaps my favorite character is the matriarch of the Shelby family played by Helen McCrory. She’s tough as nails and you don’t want to mess with her family.
As much as I hate to admit it, Studly chose a great series. If I could just get him to let me use closed captioning, it might be my favorite series so far.
Peace, people!
Our new cat, Gracie, all but ignores her name. When I call her she flicks those outsized ears then turns her head away, determined not to answer to this construct of human language.
Studly Doright calls her Pretty Girl. She doesn’t answer to that either. After watching her make thirty-nine non-stop trips around the island in our kitchen, I began referring to her as Crazy Gracie. Still no reaction.
I wonder if she has a name she likes better? She meows conversationally all the time. Maybe she’s trying to tell me her real name.
Oh, occasionally she makes a sound that sounds very much like a bark. Studly thought I was imagining things until he heard it, too. Maybe she’s a German Shepherd trapped in a cat’s body. I could try calling her Heidi or perhaps Gretchen.
Until she provides additional information, she’ll just be Gracie. I know she calls me “Meow, meow?” I answer to it every time.
Peace, people.
Gracie, our new kitty, is a hoot. It’s been many years since we’ve had such an active cat, and both Studly Doright and I are having to relearn the dangers of extra sharp claws and crazy cat antics.
Today, I watched Gracie launch herself halfway across the den, where she knocked over a couch cushion before hurtling herself underneath the television. She bonked her head on the wall, turned around and did the whole thing in reverse. Afterwards she flopped down in the middle of the room and fell asleep almost instantly.
We’re working on the appropriate use of claws. She gets a stern “no!” any time she scratches the couch. Treats are given when she uses the scratching post instead. Savvy readers should invest in companies that make cat treats. you’ll be rich. Rich, I tell you!
I’ve had to resort to drinking copious amounts of wine just to maintain my equilibrium. Fortunately, I really like wine. And cats.
Peace, people!
Lately I’ve felt overwhelmed. Between our crazy political situation, the virus that never ends, being separated for way too long from my children and grandchildren, and the heartbreaking loss of our beloved kitty, Scout, I’ve been tempted to just go to bed and not get up until life feels worth living again.
My husband, Studly Doright has always been a “glass that’s more than half full” kind of guy, but he has been devastated by Scout’s death—so much so that he seriously considered dropping out of a golf tournament. That’s just unheard of, and he finally decided he’d go ahead and play because other golfers were depending on him.
Yesterday morning, before he left for the tournament he kissed me goodbye and with tears in his eyes said, “We really don’t want to live in a house without a cat, do we?”
I could only shake my head.
“Go find a cat who needs us,” he said.
And so I did. Meet Gracie:
This precious rescue kitty was languishing in a showcase at PetCo when we first met. When I spoke to her she stuck her nose through one of the holes and said “hi!”
Now, she’s keeping me company on the sofa.
Gracie is just over a year old and came to a local shelter as a pregnant feral cat. After her kittens were weaned, each one found a home, leaving Gracie on her own in the shelter.
She’d been adopted twice, and returned both times. The first family discovered that their child was allergic to cats, the other family had a dog who felt threatened by her. We’re her lucky third chance.
Gracie is doing well here at Doright Manor, but we can tell she’s a bit reluctant to go all in. And who could blame her? She really likes our screened-in back porch, and spent much of the evening perched on the cat tree Studly made for Scout.
When we turned in for the night she sat at the foot of the bed watching us for a long time. Studly tried to coax her to come closer, but she snubbed his efforts. I thought maybe in a week or so she’d feel comfortable enough to snuggle with us.
But I woke up around one a.m. and her sweet little face was just inches from mine. She’d curled up next to my head and was so deeply asleep that she didn’t even twitch when I extricated myself from the covers to make a trip to the bathroom. When I returned and slid back into bed she opened one eye as if to say, “Make up your mind, lady.”
I must admit to feeling like we rushed into adopting a new cat so soon after losing Scout. There was a moment of panic after I’d paid the adoption fee and realized I was now in a committed relationship with this little girl. But, Studly was right. I really don’t want to live in a house without a cat. And magically, I feel like I have a reason to get out of bed again.
Peace, people!
We are missing our Scout, but my blogging friend at Savoring Sixty and Beyond savoringsixty.com reminded me of this A.A. Milne quote.
We really were so lucky to have known this special cat who never met a stranger. If you were a guest in our home, you were a recipient of her affections.
She enjoyed playing endless games of fetch. Her favorite activity was “helping” me make the bed, making that activity last at least twice as long as was necessary.
She felt she needed to be present when either David or I took a shower, and she loved being wrapped up in a towel. She danced with me and gave me kitty kisses. For much of her life she thought my left ear was something to suckle on. Even after she’d outgrown that need to nurse, every now and then she’d nudge my earlobe as if to say, “Remember, Mommy?” She loved to lay across my neck and massage my shoulders. Her purrs were epic.
Studly Doright was the recipient of many head butts (aka, kitty kisses). Scout had to help him any time his computer was being used. She often made him choose between her and work. He always chose her. During Hurricane Michael, when I was in Texas, she kept Studly company. The two of them patrolled the grounds, watching trees fall and hunkering down like good Floridians. She slept beside him while I was gone.
She adored her stuffed toys: mice, birds, candy canes, small bears, catnip pillows. But her favorite toy was a stick with feathers on the end. She loved “feathers” as we called it at one time. Over the years, the feathers fell out. Then we called it “feather” until finally, when every feather was gone, we just called it “stick”. She still loved it and up until her last couple of weeks of life Scout would bring “stick” to us for play time.
The day before she died she insisted on going out on the screened-in porch. She’d refused food for more than 24 hours, and could barely walk, but still she wanted to go out one last time to enjoy her favorite place. I’m certain she was remembering all of the lizards she’d chased in her lifetime.
And her last morning on earth, she found the strength to join Studly as he finished his shower. “See, Daddy, I remembered.”
We will miss this sweet kitty for the rest of our lives, but we were so lucky to have known her.
Peace, people.
This morning we said our final goodbyes to our beloved cat, Scout. She had been struggling for several days, and after many tears we decided to let her go. I’m a mess, so that’s all for now. Peace, people.
I’m still celebrating my October 5th birthday. Look at the beautiful orchids my equally beautiful daughter and her family sent me.
Sixty-four has been good so far.
Peace, people.
My 64th birthday was wonderful! Studly Doright surprised me by taking a day off of work, and we enjoyed a late breakfast at a local restaurant. Afterwards we dressed in our riding gear and took a motorcycle ride to Seminole State Park.
It was supposed to be a short ride—no more than sixty miles round trip, but a section of the road was closed due to a bridge being under repair. Did we give up? Hell, no. Studly programmed a different route into his gps and off we went.
Many, many miles later we reached the state park. There, we found a shady spot to park our bikes and hiked for a bit. The weather was perfect—temperatures in the mid-70’s and an almost cloudless blue sky. Studly posed for me in the “chapel.” See the steeple?
Afterwards we stopped at Spring Creek Resort somewhere near Donalson, Georgia, for a terrific lunch. I ate way too much, but hey, calories do not count on one’s birthday. That’s a fact.
The ride home was easy and uneventful. That is, until we turned into our housing development. The road to Doright Manor is filled with curves and hills, and for some reason, going around one curve I rolled on the throttle and came mere inches from becoming an off-road rider. Fortunately, I corrected my path and stayed on the pavement. The alternative wouldn’t have been pretty, and I likely wouldn’t be writing this blog post right now. 😳
Still congratulating myself for avoiding a major disaster I rolled into the driveway and up to the ramp into Studly’s garage. The bike was at an awkward angle, so I killed the engine and asked Studly if he’d ride the bike into the garage for me. Of course he said he would. That’s why I call him Studly Doright!
But guess who tried to get off the bike without putting her kickstand down? Yes, that would be me. In the blink of an eye I was hitting the driveway, my helmet bouncing off the asphalt and the bike laying on top of me.
Miraculously, only the windshield was damaged in the fall, and we’d already decided the aftermarket shield was too tall for my liking, so we will just replace it sooner rather than later.
My helmet saved my noggin from serious injury. My head literally bounced when I landed. And I landed on my right side. That’s the same side I injured when I fell into/out of bed a few weeks ago, so at least I still have one operational side.
So maybe it’s time I got a stunt double. Contact me if you’re interested. I can’t pay much, but you’ll never be bored.
Peace, people!
Does anyone other than me go off the deep end when it comes to adapting to new technology?
For my birthday Studly Doright bought me a lovely new Mac Book Air. Within ten minutes of opening it I was ready to throw it out the window.
My password didn’t work. I called Apple Support and got a guy who was brusque and not at all helpful. A Google search proved to be much more productive.
The new laptop doesn’t have Microsoft Word installed, so I’ll need to figure all that out if I’m to transfer my documents from my HP. And, how does one transfer files when the Mac Book doesn’t have a slot to insert a thumb drive? My manuscripts are all on the HP. Argh!
As of today, I’m 64 years old. I want things to be easy. New tech is never easy. Will there be a point when I say, “Enough!”? How will I know?
Pardon me now. I need to retrieve my new Mac Book from the trash heap.
Peace, people.
Praying for Eyebrowz 