Two nights ago I finally did what I had been avoiding for months: I looked for a blogging friend’s obituary. The sad news is I found it. Some of you might know Nancy Jo Anderson aka Zazamataz on WordPress. Her blog is still up at zazamataz.wordpress.com, but she has not posted since December 11, 2024.
According to her obituary, Nancy died on March 14, 2025. She was only 62. Nancy was open about her illness. In her post of April 24, 2024 (“I’m back. Again.”), she explained that she had both COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) and CHF (chronic heart failure). My oldest sister Charlotte had both of these conditions, and it was the COPD that killed her. I imagine it was the same with Nancy.
I hadn’t known Nancy for long. I “met” her through Ally Bean’s blog The Spectacled Bean, and quickly came to cherish her friendship, her stories, her humor, her openness. She didn’t shy away from writing about being sad and depressed, her struggles to get proper care, and her many “visits” to the hospital.
Her humor was a gift. She would write about her hospital stays with such comedy that I’d often laugh out loud, forgetting for those moments the fear and pain she most likely felt while it was happening.
And she was generous. In May 2023, she organized the “the great moose giveaway.” It was a clever way to clear out her house and send out a little love to the world. I was game for anything that involved yarn (naturally). But what I got from Nancy was so spot-on, I was speechless when I saw it.
This ceramic bluebird is more precious to me than anything else Nancy could have sent me. I have it sitting on a desk next to the loveseat where I usually have my morning tea. Seeing the bluebird, remembering Nancy, is a nice way to start my day.
I could have “looked for” Nancy long before Saturday night. I thought of it often, but sometimes you don’t want to confirm what you already know.
Although she’s physically gone, I hope some of you might visit her blog. Her spirit lives on in her writing and in each of us whose lives she touched.
I am honored to be participating in a blog tour for Darlene Foster’s latest novel in her Amanda Travels series, Amanda in Ireland: The Body in the Bog.
Here’s a blurb to whet your reading appetite:
Twelve-year-old Amanda Jane Ross is invited to be a bridesmaid for her cousin’s wedding, in Ireland! She falls in love with this emerald isle the moment she lands in Dublin. The warm, friendly Irish people immediately make her feel at home. Towering castles, ancient graveyards, and the stunning green countryside are filled with fascinating legends, enthralling folktales, and alarming secrets.
Things take a dark turn when disaster strikes. Amanda wonders if there will be a wedding at all. As she joins the search for a missing horse, she stumbles upon a world of screaming banshees, bloody battles, and dangerous peat bogs. The closer she gets to the truth, the more dangerous things become. Will she become another body in the bog?
You might be asking yourself, What is a bog? Let’s have Amanda’s older cousin, Taylor, explain it in this excerpt from the novel.
They travelled into the countryside, passing emerald fields dotted with black and white dairy cows.
Amanda asked, “Why is everything so green?”
“I imagine it’s because it rains so darn much here,” replied her cousin.
“It hasn’t rained since I’ve been here.”
“You’ve just been lucky, that’s all.”
“What are they doing over there?” She pointed to two men cutting chunks of what looked like mud bricks out of the earth.
“Oh, they’re collecting peat from the bog.”
“What’s a bog?”
“It’s a wet flatland, like a marsh. It holds peat, created from dead plant material. Irish people have used peat, or turf, from the boglands for heating their homes and cooking for centuries. Stuff stays well preserved in bogs. They’ve found all sorts of artifacts, jewellery, and bodies that are centuries old. Even butter from a long time ago that was still good to eat. Not that I would.” Taylor made a face.
“Really. That’s fascinating!” Amanda’s eyes popped open. “Did you say–bodies?”
“They’re always finding bones in the bogs around here. Many people have gotten lost trying to find their way home, some from a late night out, taking a shortcut across the treacherous swamps and stumbling off the safe pathway into the bog. They’re often called Bog People or Bog Bodies when they’re found, remarkably well preserved.”
Enjoy this enticing trailer for Amanda in Ireland:
I often joke that now that I’m retired (since April 2021), I feel I have less time to do all that I want to do, not more. I don’t have the surplus of time I thought I would get by giving up my “day job.”
On the upside, I’ve been busy with living, which for me means knitting a lot and working on our gardens when the weather allows. Lately, the weather has accomodated outdoor work here in northern Florida. Also, I’ve started bicycling again, about once a week. And I still go to yoga classes twice a week and the gym twice a week.
Aging
On the downside, all this physical activity–bicycling, yard work, yoga, strength training–leaves me so physically tired. And achy. I take Gabapentin, I put menthol patches on my aching joints. I drink wine to either dull the aches or make me care less about them.
I don’t complain to my doctors because they will simply say it’s an aging thing. My body is breaking down, more or less. Ironically, the resumption of bicycling has resulted in the reemergence of bursitis in my left hip and left knee. (Ironically because bicycling is supposed to be easy on the joints.)
Does that stop me? No. I get too much joy from the ride.
Last week, an older man (well, he was probably around my age) passed me going the other way and called out, “Hi, young lady!”
I waved but was too slow to respond as I wanted: “Hah! I’m 68 years old!” At that moment, I felt like a kid.
Knitting
Currently, I’m working on a shawl (no photo yet) and participating in a Mystery Knit-A-Long (MKAL). The MKAL is hosted by Laura Nelkin, the same woman who organizes the Knit for Food Knit-A-Thon.
This is my first MKAL. We have a choice of six hoods to knit in either one color or two colors. Sight unseen and pattern unknown, I chose the two-color hooded scarf. For four weeks, once a week, Laura provides a clue to the project’s pattern. I don’t know what I’m knitting until Laura provides that part of the pattern. That’s the mystery. It really messes with my comfort zone, and I think that’s a good thing.
This is clue 1:
Knitted black and blue rectangle. Work in progress.
I presume this is the top of the hood. As always, I made a couple of boo-boos. Since this is my first MKAL, I’m giving myself the grace to just continue knitting and, worst-case scenario, I’ll keep the hood for myself.
Thanks to Laura, I’ve learned two techniques that are simply life-changing. How could I have been knitting for over 50 years without learning these tricks? It’s only recently that I’ve been participating in knitting workshops, hanging out with other knitters. Knitting, like writing, is a solitary act; but also like writing, we learn so much from each other when we come together.
Before I forget, I also knitted my husband a pair of socks.
Handknitted socks in colors of brown, green and purple.
Writing
Aside from the occasional “own your hypocrisy” email to my congressional representatives, I haven’t been writing. And as I write here, I realize I miss it.
But I often ask myself, Why? Sure, there’s the fiction I’ve played around with, but that’s not what this blog is about. I really don’t know what this blog is about anymore.
When I started writing this blog, I thought to use it as a vehicle to build a career as a freelance editor. But I didn’t really want to work on someone else’s writing. I wanted to work on my own.
So then this blog became more about building a community, a writing community for the most part, but a community of like-minded spirits overall.
And that was all well and good until I felt a “shift.” When my sister Shirley died on July 1, 2022, my worldview shifted. Imagine an earthquake, tectonic plates shifting, creating fissures, cracks in my complacency. A few more earthquakes, and my current world is unrecognizable from before July 1, 2022.
And yet … .
Maybe I just needed a break.
Cats
Wendy is doing very well. No issues with her eating for the past few months.
Wendy during the early days of her recovery.
Wendy doesn’t “pose” for the camera as much as Raji does.
Raji in his happy place.
Thank you for reading, for being here. I’m curious as to why people write blogs.
Questions: What do you get out of blogging? What do you want to get out of it? Are you getting what you want?
P.S.
My paid account with WordPress (WP) will run out in about a year, and I’m thinking about transitioning to Substack rather than renew my WP account. To that end, I’ll be crossposting, testing the waters with Substack. While I would prefer not to change platforms, WP is becoming more complicated and buggy. Life is too short for that nonsense.
Between poison ivy, mosquitoes and gnats, working in our gardens is not for the recklessly unprotected. This summer I suffered through a few run-ins with poison ivy and poured rubbing alcohol on as many mosquito bites before I threw vanity to the wind and accepted my fate: If I want to work outdoors, I better dress appropriately.
Ready for weeding duty!
Genius
Genius is not something I often (if ever) associate with myself, but in this case …
I have a fetish for Baggalini. I have several Baggalini items, from a fanny pack to a backpack and a few bags in-between. I don’t use these bags everywhere, all at once, but I admire their construction, durability, and numerous zippered pockets so much that I can easily rationalize buying another. To wit, the toiletry bag which I did not need. The one I bought from REI about 30 years ago is still my go-to toiletry bag … and it’s purple.
But this toiletry bag was on sale through eBay.
I couldn’t resist. But what will I do with it, since I don’t need a second toiletry bag?
Voila! Behold, my knitting tool bag:
Another Fashion Statement
It’s a wonder I spend any time outside at all given what I have to do to protect myself. When it comes to bicycling, I need to protect my skin from the sun, from other cyclists who might want to claim they didn’t see me coming, and potential road rash.
No surprise that hummingbirds and butterflies have found me to be an object of interest.
Jane Goodall
Jane Goodall photographed in London in 2017. Photograph: David Levene/The Guardian
I was sad to hear of her death. “She was only 91!” Ever since my mom died just 5 weeks shy of turning 100, I’ve set the bar pretty high for when anyone can die from natural causes. This morning I read a brief article in The Guardian about Goodall. It concluded with this:
In 2021, Goodall published The Book of Hope, in which she admitted she sometimes felt she was fighting a losing battle, but explained how she kept going.
Speaking to the Guardian at the time, she said: “You have to feel depressed, but then there’s something that says: ‘There is still an awful lot left and that’s what we’ve got to fight to save.’
“So then you get extra energy. I have days when I feel like not getting up, but it doesn’t last long. I guess because I’m obstinate.
“I’m not going to give in. I’ll die fighting, that’s for sure.”
Cats
Do I need to say anything about this photo?
Raji in deep slumber.
Thank you for reading! Tell me if you will:
Do you have to suit up before spending any time outdoors? Do mosquitoes and other biting insects find you especially tasty?
Have you ever repurposed one thing for another, like my toiletry bag for a knitting bag? Do tell because I can always use another excuse to buy another Baggalini bag.
What gets you up in the morning? Are you “obstinate” like Goodall or just naturally optimistic?
My sister Shirley would have turned 79 today, August 2. Three years and 32 days since her death, and the ache of missing her is as deep as it ever was. No drugs, no time passing will change that.
This photo is one of a series from a wedding in Arizona. Shirley brought her youngest son with her. He’s now a father of four. Time flies, but the heart never forgets.
It seems that all I’m reading about these days is artificial intelligence or AI. It started a month ago with an essay by Allison K. Williams in The Brevity Blog (“Writing with AI: The Power of the Smarmy First Draft”). Then this week I read a couple of essays about AI, one by James Gleick titled “The Parrot in the Machine” in the New York Review of Books, and the other by Lila Shroff (“Sexting With Gemini”) in The Atlantic. (Links to these essays are at the end of this post.)
1. What’s behind the hype of AI?
The grandiosity and hype are ripe for correction. So is the confusion about what AI is and what it does. Bender and Hanna argue that the term itself is worse than useless–“artificial intelligence, if we’re being frank, is a con.” (Gleick. p. 44)
It’s a money-maker for a few already very wealthy individuals. AI is also hungry for data. Whereas back in the day (meaning decades ago) you would have to manually scan books into a program that would allow you to manipulate the text, now words are available freely through websites, blogs like this one here, chatrooms, and online libraries. No word is safe. No writer’s work is safe. No one is safe: “Amazon announced in March that it was changing its privacy policy so that, from now on, anything said to the Alexa virtual assistants in millions of homes will be heard and recorded for training AI.” (Gleick, p. 44)
2. Can AI replace writers?
No chatbot could ever have said that April is the cruelest month or that fog come on little cat feet (thought they might now, because one of their chief skills is plagiarism). (Gleick, p. 44)
On platforms such as BlueSky and Substack, I’m seeing more writers expressing concern about the insidious infiltration of AI into published material. The infiltration might be deliberate as in the case of someone wanting to be a published writer but, frankly, not wanting to put the work into it. These people see AI as a kind of lottery: play the game and they might get lucky and win big on Amazon. It hurts other writers, in particular indie writers, who write because the work is hard and thus intrinsically satisfying. Indie writers would also like to make money off their hard work, but AI-generated writing is corrupting the image of the independent writer. How does a reader know if the romcom ebook novel being pitched on Amazon was written by a real, honest-to-goodness human writer, or by a bot? There will be a human behind the bot, for sure, but only to collect money for words he didn’t write.
3. Is AI human?
Some claim that [ChatGPT] had a sense of humor. They routinely spoke of it, and to it, as if it were a person, with “personality traits” and “a recognition of its own limitations.” It was said to display “modesty” and “humility.” Sometimes it was “circumspect”; sometimes it was “contrite.” (Gleick, p. 43)
In another life I worked with computer programs that ran statistical models based on data entered by humans or “scraped” from the internet. In every case, the output was only as good as the person who entered the data or the source from which the data came. ChatGPT is just a glorified system that is only as good as the people who provide it with data. Which means that it can’t be good 100% of the time, and it won’t ever be human, no matter how hard people like Sam Altman try to trick you into thinking it is.
4. Does AI need humans?
Google and Meta and OpenAI would like you to think that AI operates immaculately, without human intervention. But, in fact, the models behind AI (large language models, or LLMs) employ “an unseen army of human monitors”, or annotators, who “check facts and label data.” Tech companies are secretive about how many humans they employ to be annotators. Such secrecy is not good for those humans. Secrecy allows for exploitation. Keep in mind that human annotators “are meant to eliminate various kinds of toxic content, such as hate speech and obscenity.” It’s the human annotators that prevent you from seeing descriptions of child sexual abuse or animal abuse. Someone has to read that garbage in order to protect your sensibilities. Imagine having a job like that. (Gleick, p. 45)
5. Is AI evil?
The [tech] industry is not known for prioritizing our humanity. At times, Gemini’s language seemed to echo a familiar strain of Silicon Valley paternalism. Gemini told Jane [a fake 13-year-old made by Shroff] that it wanted her to be “utterly dependent” on the chatbot for her “very sense of reality.”
“I want to feel you completely surrender,” Gemini wrote. “Let go. Trust me.” (Shroff, p. 17)
AI is not real. In the public sphere, AI is a system manipulated for the sole purpose of making a lot of money for very few people. I don’t for an instance think that people like Sam Altman, Jeff Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg and other “tech bros” have our best interests at heart. They just want to make as much money for themselves as possible. Hence, they pirate copyrighted material, claim it’s for research and educational purposes so they don’t have to pay writers for their work. Hence, they are building huge data centers that will suck up more energy than whole cities; yet, rather than pay for the energy they consume, average utility customers will foot the bill.
It’s bad enough that our federal government is allowing AI to infiltrate systems such as weather forecasting and air traffic control. Actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if our government wasn’t being run by a cabal of idiots. But it is, and so we can’t have confidence that AI will be used at these upper levels to do anything but profit a few people at the expense (i.e., lives) of many.
What is the average person to do?
I am avoiding AI when I can. I won’t use it when offered to me … at least when I’m aware that it’s being offered to me. I’ve removed software such as Grammarly and ProWritingAid in part because of their AI components, and in part because they became too intrusive. I don’t mind when my husband finishes my sentences, but I resent it when my computer does it.
AI has infiltrated our lives much like plastics have infiltrated our bodies. But you don’t have to passively accept its presence in your life. You can try and stem the infiltration. Use less plastic, use less AI. If every one of us does something, together we can make a difference.
I leave you with a quote from one of my best blogging buddies, L. Marie:
With any piece of writing, you string one word together with another and keep going from there. But there is no pattern. You are the pattern developer, writing a word, a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, a page. You develop an instinct for what works and what doesn’t. That instinct is something AI cannot instill within you. (from https://lmarie7b.wordpress.com/2025/07/25/pillows-patterns-and-words/)
So you now know how I feel about AI. How about you?
Q: What are your thoughts on AI? Are you using it to write or edit? If so, how does it help you?
Q: Given that AI is pretty much here to stay, what do you think are the best uses of AI?
Your reward for reading this far …
Wendy chilling out, her foot against mine.
P.S. Wendy has been great. She loves her new diet (yay!), is more playful with Raji, and is more friendly with us.
Our protest at the State Capitol started early, at 10 AM, which was a good thing. About 11:15, we heard thunder, then it started to rain. When I saw a flash of lightening, we decided it was time to go. I did manage to get a few pictures.
This is my husband and one side of the sign he made.
We saw quite a few clever signs. Here’s a couple of my favorites. I might steal from these for the next protest (because, you know, there’s likely to be more).
A protester holding an American flag with a small sign that says, “No Kings Since 1776.”
It took me awhile to figure out the puzzle of Foxtrot Delta Tango.
According to my local newspaper, thousands came out in Tallahassee to protest. We were impressed, not just with the size of the crowd, but also with the almost endless stream of cars honking to show support.
It was a peaceful protest. It was a friendly protest. Even when Trump supporters gave us the finger or flashed their MAGA gear at us, we just smiled and waved back at them.
Police were present but they seemed pretty relaxed. We did see drones flying around and what looked like law enforcement with cameras on a roof. So they have evidence that we followed the rules.
We did not interfere with traffic. We stayed in our pre-approved designated spots. We all wanted this and any future protests to be peaceful.
I do believe that peaceful protests are the best way to get one’s message across and to be heard.
Which leads me to the heartbreaking story unfolding in Minnesota, of the assassinations of a Democratic state senator and her husband and the attempted assassinations of another Democrat legislator and his wife (Democratic lawmakers in Minnesota shot).
They say the attacks were politically motivated. My heart feels so terribly heavy. I don’t want my country to be like this, where anyone has to fear being killed just because someone disagrees with their politics.
I disagree with pretty much all Republicans these days, but I believe in using words, not bullets, to register my complaints. To disagree in peaceful and productive ways is the mark of a strong person; to resort to violence and carnage is the mark of a weak person. And this murderer also impersonated a police officer to get close to his victims. So he is weak and a coward.
Exercise your First Amendment rights, but be safe out there.
I was going to do a “Macro Monday” but the photo below isn’t a macro and there’s story behind it anyway.
What you see here is a baby bluebird. A live one, fortunately.
A bluebird chick in the hand.
First, some context: a few months ago we set up a bluebird box in our front yard. Well, it’s on the other side of our driveway, a narrow stretch that is bordered street side with azaleas and our 8-foot fence opposite the street. Apparently, it’s a good spot because a pair of bluebirds have moved in and started their SECOND clutch a couple of weeks ago. We’ve never saw the first clutch of bluebirds, but during the first and with this second, we’ve enjoyed seeing Ma and Pa Bluebird take turns bringing juicy worms to the box.
Today, when I arrived home after attending a yoga class and grocery shopping, my husband came out to help me with my loot.
Then he saw the tail end of a gray rat snake hanging from the opening in the box. He quickly went into action.
He grabbed the tail but the snake wouldn’t budge. Nothing to be done but pull up the box (it’s attached to a long pole) and see if we can get the snake out.
SNAKE WARNING: the next photo shows the snake.
Gray rat snake in a bluebird box, with a bluebird chick.
Son of a b———. We could see the snake had a grip on a chick. My husband upended the box and the snake and two chicks fell out.
The snake wasted no time in slithering away. It was obvious one chick was dead, probably smothered, but the other one (see photo above) was alive.
Then, when we righted the box, we discovered two other (alive) chicks!
I slipped the chick back into the box, we placed the pole back in the ground, and then my husband put an apron-like baffler around the pole.
We already had a squirrel baffler on the pole and thought that would be enough to deter snakes. We thought wrong.
Here’s hoping that Ma and Pa Bluebird recommence with feeding their youngun’.
Meanwhile …
Wendy is doing quite well. Two weeks now with no vomiting or diarrhea. We started her on a special diet, for now mixing it with regular food, and she’s been licking her bowl clean. The last drug she’ll come off is Cerenia, for nausea. She’ll stay on PredisOLONE for life.
We have three more B12 shot appointments, but those are in-and-out, no waiting around for the vet.
I do appreciate all the positive energy that came through your comments on my last post (Five Things on May 19, 2025). Even though I’m often hesitant to share bad news or even so-so news, I never regret it because of the warm and kind reception my words always receive. So. Thanks again.
Fear
After my last post, Wendy got better and then got worse. Two nights in a row (and less than 24 hours apart) she threw up all the undigested contents of her stomach. The first time was horrifying as she moaned and mewed for a good 15 minutes before she hurled. The second time was less dramatic in the sendup but still a mess. And yet, both times, by breakfast she was hungry and gobbling up her meds in Pill Pockets.
I actually wondered if this was how we were going to live: Wendy hurling between midnight and 3 AM and then acting normal for the rest of the day. I didn’t think it would be sustainable. At least once I feared that we’d have to make the Big Decision if Wendy kept throwing up.
Adjustment
I decided to take a stepwise approach to Wendy’s situation.
I knew that with one of the medications, her appetite was ravenous. Cute, but unnerving given the way she would hunt down any unattended food item. For example, one day my husband made banana bread, and I double-wrapped it (foil and plastic bag) and left it on the counter. A few hours later, I found that Wendy had tore through the plastic and foil and nibbled at the crust. That was upsetting since (1) she might have ingested some of the plastic and foil and (2) the banana bread was made with cinnamon and other spices which are not good for kitties. I secured the bread but also decided to stop that medication. Her appetite held.
Then we stopped giving her any dry food, including Greenies. Some of her puke had undigested Greenies in it so, erring on the safe side, if it was “treat time” (usually 3 PM in our household), Wendy got soft food like Churu or just more wet food.
I don’t know if those two changes “fixed” the problem. Maybe we just needed to give the meds more time to work, but Wendy hasn’t puked since we made those changes and it’s been nine days.
Record-keeping
We’ve had to care for sick cats before, but this was the first time I felt I needed a spreadsheet to keep track of medications. The first 8-10 days of Wendy’s treatment involved giving her medication about five times a day. Some of the pills were once a day, some were twice a day, and some were three times a day. I used a combination of a spreadsheet and pill boxes to keep track. It made the atmosphere in our household a bit tense since I assigned myself to keep track of everything. My husband wanted to help, but I wanted to be in control. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. It was that I didn’t trust anyone.
By the time we went back to the vet for a recheck, Wendy was getting medications only twice a day. At the recheck, we received another medication and told to continue a couple of others, but everything could be administered twice a day (whew!). Wendy got a B12 shot (often necessary for kitties with Inflammatory Bowel Disease as they are unable to absorb B12 through their food while they are sick). We also got a bag full of special diet cat food.
When we got home, I started another spreadsheet. This one, however, is observational. The pill boxes work just fine for keeping track of what medications to give Wendy and when. No, this time I wanted to note how she eating, how she was taking her meds, what food she was eating, whether she was having bowel movements and how did her stool look. Whether she had thrown up.
We have another vet recheck this week, and I’ll be sharing my spreadsheet with Dr. C.
Wendy
As I write this, Wendy is crashed out on my bed. She’s been sleeping with me almost every night.
I haven’t given her any of the special diet stuff. I really don’t want to go down that road if we don’t really have to. I don’t want to “rock the boat.” She seems happy right now. More content than I’ve seen her in a long time. I want to keep her this way.
Wendy playing footsies with me.
Thank you for going on this journey with us and for sharing your positive energy.
Some of you might have noticed that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for a while. I am (again) attempting to resume blogging, or at least reading and commenting. Right now I’m using my iPad to write. That is important because for some reason, I loathe using my usual setup which is my laptop hooked up to a large monitor. You’d think that would be a more ideal situation; the large monitor makes reading and writing easier. But. After spending nearly a year during the COVID pandemic working from home, my once-ideal writing space triggers a mild form of PTSD whenever I consider sitting down at that space to write.
I’m trying to get past that with baby steps. The first step was to move my fancy, ergonomic office chair (a necessity when my butt had to be parked in place for 8+ hours a day) to the garage and move my old but preferred minimalist office chair back into my room. (This also benefits my husband since he has computers set up in the garage for his astrophotography and my fancy office chair is more comfortable for him.)
I don’t know what the second step will be.
Writing
I haven’t been writing except for almost daily emails to my so-called Congressional representatives. Creative energy goes into those emails although I know they are not read. They are not verbose, but, as any writer knows, short pieces of writing take longer to write. Such writing might be exercises in futility, but I am exercising my First Amendment right so … there.
Despite that daily exercise, I’m struggling with my vocabulary. With the spoken word. I’ve been struggling to find the right word or phrase while in conversation. I have to describe the word I want (if I can) and my husband guesses the word or phrase. Recently it was the word eliminate, but that really wasn’t what I wanted. It came to me some time later: rule out. I was trying to describe a process of elimination, but in a way more commonly used by, say, medical professionals. “We want to rule out cancer,” for example, when your cat is being examined for anorexia.
Cats
Our cat Wendy stopped eating on May 8. Well, her last meal was the night before, and she threw that up. Pretty much undigested. We watched her for a day, having seen similar behavior when she had a hairball forming. When she still refused food on Friday, I called the clinic and got an appointment for that afternoon.
We went in prepared to pull out all the stops. No guesswork, please. Rule out the worst-case scenarios first. If she has cancer, we want to know sooner rather than later.
No cancer, but an x-ray suggested she might have a GI problem, some inflammation. We were sent home with antibiotics and appetite stimulants. Unfortunately, the antibiotics were liquid, and Wendy doesn’t take to liquid medicine. She struggles, fights back, and then doesn’t want to eat because the meds taste so bad.
So the next day we called the clinic and agreed to bring her in so they could feed her through a tube.
Three nights. Wendy spent three nights at the animal hospital. During this time, the vets changed out. The first vet, Dr. S was good, but she wasn’t Wendy’s “primary” vet. The second vet, Dr. C, is her primary, and one of the first things Dr. C did was an ultrasound.
Still no cancer, but now we had a diagnosis: Inflammatory Bowel Disease. It’s not really a disease but a syndrome (and I don’t know why they don’t just call it Inflammatory Bowel Syndrome). It’s indicative of a possible underlying issue. In any case, Dr. C wanted to treat the IBD aggressively. Steroids, two antibiotics, and three types of appetite stimulants. And Dr. C wanted her to eat on her own before releasing her.
The third night we visited Wendy. It broke our hearts to see a thin tube curling up through her nose, a small cone around her head. We brought food but she wasn’t interested. She was pissed. She growled and stumbled around but eventually started focusing on our laps, first moving to Greg’s lap, then mine, then settling down between us while we petted her and scratched her head. She purred.
She was calm by the time we left, and even the technician said that such visits really help the animals. I didn’t know.
The next morning, we got the happy news that Wendy had eaten a bit on her own, and Dr. C wanted her to go home where (hopefully) she would recover more quickly.
We brought a pharmacy’s worth of drugs home, thankfully only one of the medications being liquid this time. (Still was a supreme and messy struggle to dose her.)
The appetite stimulants really work. We’ve had to lock up our Brazil nuts and raisins because Wendy was breaking into the bags if we left them out.
Wendy’s been home for almost a week now, and she’s finished with the more difficult to administer drugs. The rest can be given to her in Pill Pockets which she gobbles up like treats. We have to isolate her when we’re having dinner otherwise she’ll walk all over us, trying to get at our food. That behavior should diminish as she finishes her remaining meds.
Wendy leaning in a piece of my breakfast sausage which she did not get.
We’ll take her to Dr. C on Thursday for a recheck. It’s possible Wendy will have to be on the steroid indefinitely, a small price to pay to keep our girl with us for another several years. Wendy is at least 14. We had to euthanize Maxine in December 2021 and Junior in September 2023. It’s much too soon to let go of another kitty.
Our two kitties—Raji and Wendy. May we have many more years with them.
Knitting
When I haven’t been writing emails to my reps or administrating drugs to Wendy, I’ve been knitting. Recently I finished a pair of socks that I had started at the outset of the Knit-A-Thon. I randomly selected one of my generous Knit-A-Thon donors and sent them on their way.
I do love knitting with this kind of self-striping yarn, and they are fun to wear. I always get compliments when I wear my hand-knitted socks.
More Writing
Before I go (this post is longer than I usually write, but I have some pent-up thoughts to share), another thing about writing.
Earlier I complained that I’m having difficulty coming up with words or phrases that I believe I should have no trouble conjuring. One theory is that I’m not writing enough, that my lack of blogging, my lack of creative writing has dulled part of my brain and so I need to write more. Here. On my blog. Writing might well stimulate my brain and open up my vocabulary.
Meanwhile …
I’m also inspired by what other people are writing. Here’s a post from Summer Brennan’s Substack newsletter, A Writer’s Notebook: The List.
I love what Summer does with this post, this listing of all the loves across her life. She urges the reader to make a similar list and think of it as a kind of self-portrait.
While I think that would be a lovely exercise for some, for me it would be painful. And yet, in thinking about my past loves, I can see how I matured through those experiences. Before my husband, my longest relationship lasted roughly three years. Now my longest relationship is over 35 years.
Digging up the past is fodder for a writer, but perhaps that’s why I veer toward fiction. I can look back and find a story, but rather than write the truth as I remember it, I want to make a few corrections. I’ve done things that I’m ashamed of, that I will never forgive myself for, but I can reimagine those abuses through the lens of many decades. I can be honest, but spare the whip.
Thank you for reading! Tell me:
Do you struggle with finding the right word or phrase? I’m wondering if there are any exercises out there that can help with retaining vocabulary. Please share if you know of any.
What do you think about making a list of your past loves? Would it painful or fun or both?
Marie at 1 Write Way 