John Denver lied.

John Denver lied.  That was my thought as I was heave-hoeing 15 forty pound bags of wood pellets into my basement in the drizzly pre-winter weather last night.  John Denver, in his ever-cheery voice,  sang out, “Life on the farm is kinda laid aback, aint nothing a country boy like me can’t hack:  it’s early to bed, early in the sack: Thank God I’m a country boy!”  I am not a boy – I am a middle aged woman and my life in the country is not any kind of “laid aback.”  I do not know the definition of “early to bed.”  In fact, as I microwaved my stouffer’s mac & cheese dinner at 8 pm and was talking to my sister on the phone and she petulantly announced:  “You shouldn’t be eating this late at night; it’s not good for you.”  To which I replied, “It’s better than going to bed hungry, which was the only other option.”

People who don’t live it, don’t get it.  I’m not complaining – I’m just explaining.  You work a forty-hour week elsewhere and come home to continuous catching up to keep the place functioning.  There’s one of me and a million tasks keep presenting themselves.  Life itself doesn’t seem to give you a break.  I had three dogs, each was requiring its own special attention for health reasons.  Then a couple of weeks ago, my big dog had a stroke which led to the Final Vet Visit, and the other two dogs were requiring some sort of special treatment at mealtime because they were protesting hard kibble.  You understand what a dog protest looks like by the floor around the dog dish being covered by individual pieces of dog kibble.  Every meal now involves ME making scrambled eggs, or French toast, or boiling chicken, or making rice…. Then the puppies will come in a week and it will be a whole new rhythm in the dog world and I will have to adjust to it.  This is because I am out-numbered by the dogs.  I should have seen this coming when I allowed Madeline to stay and live with us.  (But I love her and wouldn’t trade it for the world.)

The cat situation is quite a different story.  Cats are much less demanding.  My fourteen year old Snappi is on the retirement plan and just naps on the couch.  She really has worked out well for me pulling her off the city street so many years ago.  My younger cat, Gracie, has now eaten herself to the size of the cocker spaniels.  Somehow I think that whoever labeled her a sealpoint Siamese mix made a mistake.  She is not vocal or genteel like Siamese.  She is just a regular lovable housecat who is quite particular to have her head massaged every morning.  Gracie hops up on the bathroom counter to graze at her breakfast dish and I try to contort myself around her in order to not disturb HER as I brush my teeth and slap some make up on my face.  Finally I installed a mirror for myself in the hallway so that I don’t have to bend like Gumby around the cat.

Last week, I was just thinking out loud:  It is strange to live in the country on the farmlands for six years and no one has dropped off a box of kittens yet.  (For those not familiar with this, it is what lazy people do to avoid bringing “unwanted” kittens to shelters.  To be fair, if the shelters asked for a donation instead of demanding a drop-off fee, people might dump cats in the wilds a lot less.)  So imagine my surprise when I opened the door to find a beautiful long-hair cat that immediately began the hunger chant at me.  

A drizzling of rain was falling upon us.  She was just telling it like it is:  hungry, damp, cold.  I thought back to the previous evening when my neighbor told me, “I told my family NOT to feed the stray cat, let it go over to Chris’ house.”  Yeah.  He really said that.  And here is the very same cat asking for the hand out.  A stray thought went through my head:  It is too close to Christmas to make the mistake of saying “No room at the Inn,” and slamming the door.  I went inside and got a dish and filled it with fresh food and water.  I brought a cat carrier out to the deck and put a dry clean blanket inside.  I advised the cat that the barn next door would be warmer and I couldn’t bring her in to my house just yet.

Why couldn’t I bring her in?  Because all I was thinking about was that I have puppies coming in a little over a week and they will need all of me to take care of all of them.  The cat ate and disappeared.  Two days later she came back for another meal.  Two days later I saw her from a distance working her charms on the farmer next door.  He was heading for his pickup truck and she was reading him the riot act in cat language as he walked away.  I wonder if he is married and walks away when his wife nags him.  It was the same thing, really.

You would think that would solve the problem.  She could sleep in the barn and live off diseased mice and risk getting stepped on by horses or butted by goats.  Tomorrow I will go look for her and see what we can do.  I might as well put a “Bed & Breakfast for Pets” sign on my front lawn.

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