You came into our lives just shy of 15 years ago.† You arrived through the woods behind our home and staked out your claim beneath the bird feeder that now stands empty.† You were so attentive as I watched from the family room window, you crouched stone still below that feeder.† You would observe the comings and goings of hundreds of birds, cataloging the behavior of each.† You waited for the visit to your side of the feeder of just the right bird, one that dipped below the level of the feeding perch on its departure.† On the first flutter of its wings after eating its fill, you sprung straight into the air.† With a front paw at full extension, you clubbed that bird to the ground, and on landing raked it with your rear claws.† Mercifully (for me, at least) you carried your prey into the woods to consume your prize.
Thus was our introduction to you.† Unlike little Mitten, our cat at the time who preceded you from those same woods by four years, you were friendly from the start, following one or the other of us around the yard waiting for a rub or scratch.† It was inconceivable to us that a cat of such sweet disposition was homeless.† We fashioned a collar for you containing a note for your owner to call us.† We scoured the “lost pet” columns of the local papers, looked at signs on utility poles, and called local veterinarian offices.† No one claimed you.
You were short in two dimensions with stubby little legs and a squat frame, nothing at all like the lanky and lithe Mitten.† We were sure you were not yet fully grown.† Imagine our surprise when we learned that you were five years old (according to our vet’s examination of your teeth), neutered and front declawed (very poorly as your paws were like mush).† Someone had owned you and abandoned you.† Why, we have never been able to imagine.
We took you in and have been all the richer for having done so.† We named you Boris, after the cartoon character Boris Badenov.† You resembled him so.† Your coat looked for all the world like you wore a black suit with white spats and gloves and a white shirt.† From below your eyes, your face was bright white, but you had a tiny black goatee.† Together with Mitten, you looked a bit like Boris and his sidekick Natasha, she so long and thin.
We laugh every time we think of your first night in the house.† We were quite concerned about how Mitten would accept you and how you would treat her.† A book on introducing a new cat suggested that we ignore you for a couple of days and fuss over Mitten.† The entire day we treated you like a piece of furniture or a sweater left by a guest.† That night, we confirmed that you were downstairs and closed the doors to our bedroom.† Imagine our surprise to awake in the middle of the night to find both you and Mitten curled up together in our bed.† Evidently you sneaked into the closet or under the bed while we closed the bedroom up “cat tight.”† The two of you were inseparable from that moment forward.
You instinctively understood Mitten’s physical and emotional fragility.† Her time on her own in the “wild” taxed her to her limits, and her personality reflected it the rest of her life.† In demeanor, you deferred to her need to feel primacy.† In play, you could have overpowered her at any time; yet you always permitted her to initiate play, and when we heard a yowl of “enough,” it was unfailingly you pinned to the floor.
About seven or eight years ago, you presented symptoms of feline herpes virus (FHV-1) infection in your eyes.† Thus began a constant struggle against the virus and recurring outbreaks.† Depending on the state of the virus, you received no fewer than three medication doses (huge pills, oral anti-viral liquids, topical anti-viral eye drops, gel tear replacement drops) every day since.† During active outbreaks, you took as many as fourteen doses of medicine.† No one believes us when we tell them how bravely and willingly you took all that medication.† For you, the extra attention and time on a lap made the indignities of being pried, squirted and dropped worthwhile — the treats offered at the conclusion were merely a bonus in your opinion.
When Mitten died just over four years ago, you lost your best friend.† For weeks, you toured the house looking for her in all her favorite places.† Truth be told, so did I; to this day, I can still catch myself looking across to her favorite chair as I start up the family room stairs, expecting to see her snoozing there.† You recognized that we felt her loss too; since her death, you have been much more cuddly in your affection, particularly toward your mistress.† You simply couldn’t wait for one of the other of us to sit to watch television or read a book; you were right there to sit beside or on a lap.† I will never forget the feeling of anguish I had as I left the house on that first Monday morning after Mitten died — and realized that until that moment you had never, not for an instant, been alone in the home we shared.
As cats go, you were ancient, 20 or so years old.† And yet, until several days ago, you acted like a much younger cat.† We knew all was not right when you couldn’t fight off the herpes outbreak that began in the late summer.† Historically, you became symptom free within weeks of our ramping up treatment.† This last outbreak lasted through the fall and into the new year.† Was it just a sign of your age or was something competing for your strength and the efforts of your immune system?† You also began to lose interest in food generally, something we had never experienced before.† Through this episode, you remained yourself in every other respect — active, cheerful, playful, affectionate.
Ten days ago, you and I visited the vet to check out your disinterest in eating.† You seemed hungry, but no food particularly appealed to you.† You were eating, but barely enough.† He reported that you had all the appearances of a much younger cat.† Yet, he was clearly as concerned as we were that there was something quite bad lurking.† We tried many simple things that might help you and got you the nutrition you needed.
The vet was right to be concerned.† This weekend, everything changed.† Your gait became unsteady and uncoordinated.† You acted confused and out of sorts.† You were tired, but didn’t sleep. You were obviously uncomfortable.† Those symptoms became progressively worse.† Your body was failing you before our very eyes.
Letting you go was among the most difficult things I have done.† We simply were not willing to let you suffer any more or any longer.† We made the decision on Monday and you knew.† You had a quiet day, better than the past several.† You slept a bit and spent the day alongside or on a lap.† If you weren’t wet from splashing water from your bowl trying to drink, you were damp from our tears.† I know we did the right thing, but the pain today is enormous.† I can only imagine the first day I come home from work and you are not at the kitchen door reminding me that you have been home alone all day — and that it is past time for your supper.
Boris, you were a gift that we well treasured.† And we will treasure your memory forever.
Requiem in Pacem, Boris.† As for me, forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said “Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people.”† I have seen this statement quoted — and misquoted — many times over the past six months or so, usually in the context of the presidential election or the writer’s view of one political party or the other.
I could quibble with Ms. Roosevelt’s grammar; minds don’t discuss anything, people with minds discuss.† We sometimes refer to a person possessing a great mind as being simply “a great mind.”† I have never, however, seen one of small mind similarly denominated.† Rather, we refer to him or her as “small minded.”† I will assume that Ms. Roosevelt intended each sentence to begin with an understood “those with.”
The statement has an elitist tone to it.† It conjures up visions of the great minds (see?) of the Enlightenment spending their days in the coffee houses of London thinking and discussing Great Thoughts such as the perfect form of government, the intersection of science and religion or how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.† Based on my recent experiences, discussion of ideas encompasses much more.
I had the recent luxury of spending several days with friends I see too infrequently.† This week when I read Ms. Roosevelt’s words for the almost-one-too-many-eth-time, I reflected on the conversations we had with these friends.† Those conversations were filled with ideas — not Great Thoughts or Big Ideas, simply a collection of little thoughts, ideas and observations about our lives and the world around us.† I realized that the difference between gossip and a discussion full of ideas is one of degree and nuance.† Are people and events the focus, or are they the jumping off point for something less tangible, yet more real?
I returned from my time with these friends rested both physically and mentally.† That’s the power of ideas, to invigorate and refresh.† One of my resolutions for 2009?† I will spend more time with people who think.
Yesterday marked a social event I look forward to all year — the once-a-year tailgate organized by our friend Mark from New Jersey.† The food is fantastic; the wine and other beverages, plentiful; the company, better than either the food or the wine.† The weather this year was brisk, perfect in my opinion for a tailgate.† Who cares about the game?† Fewer than half the guests bother to attend it.
From memory, the food included:
Just Cured smoked and cured salmon (of course), wild boar patÈ, mushroom bisque, grits with chorizo gravy, sauteed shrimp, steamed mussels over linguine, Italian sausages over polenta, wild boar and white bean chili, pheasant roulade with pineapple and mushroom, seared scallops with foie gras butter, lamb racks cured, smoked and roasted, a platter of artisanal cheeses, fleur de sel caramel corn, and bananas Foster.† (For the record, the salmon, patÈ, bisque, pheasant and lamb were my dishes.† Most of the other dishes were by the top restaurant chefs in the city.)
I spent the morning and early afternoon with friends, colleagues and acquaintances I see every day, only occasionally and once a year.† As in past years, I also met interesting people I would enjoy getting to know better.
For all the fun and fellowship, one person didn’t attend this year and I missed her presence.† The self-proclaimed “Empress” of our group was AWOL.† The Empress moved out of town for work a number of years ago but has made a point to return for this annual party as well as several other events dear to her.† I am not even sure if anyone heard why she could not be with us.
Empress is a fitting title for our friend.† She has a way of making others do her bidding and making them feel good about it.† Her spur of the moment parties are the stuff of legend.† All they took were several phone calls along the lines of “[Location], in two hours, you are cooking [insert one of her favorites].† Several times yesterday, I was sure I heard her order “Honey! It is time for the [insert next dish.]” or “I need foie gras — and champagne.† Now!”
Well, Empress, it was in your honor that I remembered to contribute the foie gras butter to Mark’s scallop dish.† And I thought of you as I opened the first bottle of the half case of champagne I brought.† Your subjects performed admirably yesterday.† You would have been proud to have joined us.
In this post, I mentioned a chef’s special dish and his sharing the secrets of its preparation.† In large part because my wife enjoyed this dish so well, I have experimented with several versions of it since we returned home.
Under ordinary circumstances, the first question we ask a dinner guest to our home is “what may I offer you to drink?”† The first question my wife asked tonight’s guests was “would you like to take a shower?”
Our dinner guests this evening were my wife’s sister and her husband.† Their home has been without power for 55 hours.† The second offer we made them was to charge their cell phones.† The third was every (11 in total, 3 badly out of date) D cell battery we had in the house.
For the unaware, Cincinnati suffered a major windstorm associated with the remains of Hurricane Ike on Sunday.† Sustained winds were in the 50 mph range with gusts to 80 mph.† There was virtually no warning of such severe weather.† As of the open of Tuesday’s 10:00 p.m. news, nearly 500,000 utility customers in the area were still without electricity.† Duke Energy estimates that some customers may be without power until Sunday.
The first things to disappear from the market were ice, batteries and gasoline from the few stations that had electricity to power the pumps.† A few grocery stores are fully open; most are operating on generator power that will support a few lights and the computer systems, all perishables have been removed from the cases.† Despite fires in buildings surrounding Findlay Market, the Market House never lost power.† All Market vendors should be open and operating normally on Wednesday.
On Monday, that same sister and her daughter separately delivered the contents of their home freezers to the walk-in freezer at my landlord’s facility.† My landlord loaned his refrigerated truck to his cousins so they could save some of the inventory of their retail store.
Every conversation in this city opens with “do you have power?” and follows with offers to assist in small ways.† Our city’s residents don’t prepare for an event like this; in hurricane zones, residents collect emergency kits of canned goods, bottled water, batteries, battery powered radios and TVs, candles and the like.† As a result, those affected here have limited supplies, and the stores are long sold out of the things in short supply.
At least we have adequate water, cool temperatures and otherwise benign weather for the cleanup phase.
I have felt an amazing sense of cooperation and camaraderie among all I have encountered this week.† I wonder what it would take to make that attitude last a while longer?
My mother dined with us last evening, and she arrived bearing a gift for me from a family friend. I laughed heartily when I saw the title of the book she was carrying. And, I am still smiling as I look at the cover across the room.
My gift:
The title proverb is attributed to Barney Greengrass.
I also note that the author is a graduate of Columbia Law School and appears to make his entire living as an author. Hmmmm.
I trust that you have noticed that the new home of Just Cured is live.† Thanks to Chris and Alison of Urbanscript for the design and implementation work and to Profitability.net, our new web host.
Let me know what you think of the site.† Drop me an email or leave a comment.
In this city, the highlight of the summer social season for most of the population is not the Opera; rather, it is the run of Church Festivals. I have met people who plan their summer travels around the festivals of the parishes they grew up in or those festivals of the parishes to which their friends belong.
The format is fairly uniform — cheap beer and picnic foods, carnival rides, raffles, bake and other sales and games of skill and chance. Note that this description is from a festival ignoramus. I have spent perhaps six hours total at church festivals over the past 30 years.
And of those six hours, three of them occurred last evening. I attended the performance of the band Snidely Whiplash at the St. Martin of Tours Festival held at Harvest Home Park, Cheviot. For those of you too young to remember, Snidely Whiplash was the arch villain in the Dudley Do-Right series of cartoons on the Rocky & Bullwinkle Show from my youth.
In the present time, Snidely Whiplash is a cover band performing as a hobby of the members, each of whom has another full time gig. The band leader, guitarist and co-lead vocalist is my across-the-street neighbor Tony Scalia. His son, Pete, plays the keyboards and shares vocal duties. For a gang that performs perhaps a half dozen times a year, they are quite in synch with each other and are enormously entertaining.
That’s Pete on the far left and Tony next to him.
The crowd at the festival spanned all categories, from young to old, from hale to infirm, and included people of virtually every economic means. By the second set, the crowd had played enough games and drunk enough beer to be more interested in the live music. People started dancing in place, they way they do when they want to hit the dance floor but no one else has yet headed there.
It took a bit of encouragement from her mother, but one young lady hit the floor before any others. And she wore the asphalt dance floor out. She hit the stage, played tambourine, sang backup vocals and lead a dance troupe of her friends. She was unknown to the band members and virtually all of the crowd when the evening started. By the end of the night, we all knew Caitlin — and will remember her for some time.
Caitlin, keeping time for the band:
Here she is singing a duet with Pete:
When I last saw Caitlin, the band had rolled into a slow medley of Jackson Browne’s Load Out and Stay (Just a Little Bit Longer) and she had asked her mother for the last dance. Caitlin had her head tucked onto her mother’s shoulder, and was sound asleep.
This is for all the Caitlins out there who know how to have fun on a Friday night.
I discovered yesterday that there is something extra special about spending the Fourth of July with people who chose to come to this country. At the party we attended yesterday, the guests included natives of France, Germany, Hungary, Morocco, Turkey and Japan. We missed the company of our Filipina friend and enjoyed talking with the gang’s Brit who phoned from Switzerland.
The guests from around the world got to this place for many different reasons. Some came here to build careers, others were transferred here at the discretion of their employers, a few attended school here and stayed, and a couple followed a family member. To a person, however, they left their homes, families and cultures to make the USA home, forever or for now. I spend a lot of time with some of these people, yet I still find their takes on things “American” to be refreshing and stimulating.
Those of us born here often take for granted our liberty and independence. For us, July 4 is a day off work and an excuse to make loud noises with fireworks. We assume the outcome of the Revolution and the efforts of so many to make this country a reality.
Our fellow guests, several of whom were experiencing their first Fourth of July holiday, assumed nothing. For the first time in years, I heard discussion on the Fourth of the principals of American independence — Adams, Franklin, Jefferson and Paine — and the principles they espoused. We had lively discussion on the manner in which holidays are celebrated in different countries and cultures, and which ways are better.
Our hosts provided a marvelous venue decorated to the nines, and their generosity with food and drink will become the stuff of legend. The tables overflowed with pan fried chicken, burgers and hot dogs, boiled shrimp, baked beans, potato salad, cucumber salad, macaroni and cheese, corn on the cob, guacamole, strawberry shortcake (with chantilly cream whipped by the French chocolatier in attendance) and several dishes that I have overlooked — each carefully prepared by our host.
Special kudos to Ota-san for sharing bottles of Clos des Mouches 1985 and Chateau Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande 1983 from his cellar. Not your typical July Fourth wines to be sure, but surprisingly good pairings with the fried chicken — particularly the Burgundy.
I will remember this Independence Day celebration for a long time, for its fellowship, conversation, food, drink: all of it.
