We have 3 cats, though a visitor to the house might not know it. We love them, we so love them. But they are now in "isolation", because they were destroying the house. They had marked so many times near the back wall of the living room that we had to rip the carpet out, replace the padding, and have the carpet sanitized on both sides....and you KNOW that they would have marked all over again. It's what cats do, especially when irresponsible cat owners let their pets saunter up to OUR back window to torment our indoor kitties. So Larry is in the bedroom, Mac is in the basement, and Bean travels between the two rooms. It's working...they are well fed, they don't mark, and they seem okay.
We acquired these kittens in very different ways...here is the story of Bean.
My last year of field work, I was living in a cabin in the Pigeon River Country State Forest. The nearest town was Vanderbilt, and we often went to Darcy's Bar to unwind after checking traps on the weekends. One night when we walked in, there was a skinny white cat behind the bar. She was sniffing around looking for food, and the bartender said they were calling her "Darcy". I called her over and she jumped into my lap, and fell asleep...purring. Over the course of the night, I endured jokes from one persistent biker dude, who thought it was funny to refer to my "p*ssy." It didn't matter, I was totally in love with that cat. They said she was the bar cat, and that they were keeping her. I left my phone number just in case, and wouldn't you know, they called. "Guess what? The owner said it was a health violation to keep a cat in a bar."
A few days later I was the proud owner of an imaciated one-year old cat that I promptly renamed Emma, until one of my roommates pointed out should be called "Emmet." Huh? Oops. So his new name was JellyBean, or Bean for short. The first night he spent in the cabin, he stood on the window sill and yowled. The next night he invaded the garbage can. It was a rocky start, but once I moved him to my apartment downstate, it was all good. I had him checked out at the vet, convinced him that he wouldn't go hungry, and let him sleep under the covers with me. It's hard for me to believe that that was over ten years ago...seems like yesterday. He's always a kitten to me. :)
Showing posts with label Grad School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grad School. Show all posts
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The Many Faces of Frustration
Yesterday was a very frustrating day for me. Three individuals (myself, E, and Baby m) at home, each one in a foul mood, each one within 6 inches of the other. Ya. Bedtime could not come too soon. Lately, I've been thinking about an incident in grad school, not one of my finest moments, and perhaps one of the most frustrating days in my memory.
I was given a truck to use for my graduate work...mind you, I was not well versed in the use of a 4 wheel drive vehicle, or in the use of anti-lock brakes (this was in 1993). I got the hang of the ABS, by necessity, on the roads of the Pigeon River Country State Forest. Then one December day, the little light came on...one of those dreaded dashboard lights that sent me to the dealership in Gaylord. "Well", the mechanic told me, "it looks like your anti-lock brakes are malfunctioning. I'm going to disable them for now." My instructions were to bring the truck back to the university for repair, and I headed back to the forest.
The cabin was about 30 miles away, and I got 2/3 of the way there without incident. Then, just after I exited the highway, I hit a patch of black ice on an overpass and lost control. "Slam on the breaks, slam on the breaks!" Long-term memory overtook the short term knowledge that I had no ABS, and I spun part-way around and hit the barrier on the opposite side of the road. I was beyond lucky...there was no oncoming traffic. Some passersby helped me get the truck back in the right lane, and the only real damage was to the driver's side door and the left front quarter panel. As I finished my drive to the cabin, my blood pressure went up and up and up, as I visualized my embarrassment at delivering the damaged truck to my boss.
When I pulled in the driveway, I couldn't even get my door open. As I shuffled to the passenger side and slid out, I began to cry. I can't remember what I said to the truck, but I know it included profanity...and then I did a very stupid thing. As hard as I could, I threw the keys at the hood. In one fleeting instant, I saw them bounce off and sail away into the snow, never to be seen again. Literally. Hours later (with friend M by my side), I conceded defeat and called a locksmith. I remember it cost $70...because I did not have the money, and I had to write a check from my VISA account.
Thankfully I have grown a bit since then, but yesterday I almost threw the keys again...but what good does it do? It lowers the blood pressure temporarily, but in the end it costs you more.
I was given a truck to use for my graduate work...mind you, I was not well versed in the use of a 4 wheel drive vehicle, or in the use of anti-lock brakes (this was in 1993). I got the hang of the ABS, by necessity, on the roads of the Pigeon River Country State Forest. Then one December day, the little light came on...one of those dreaded dashboard lights that sent me to the dealership in Gaylord. "Well", the mechanic told me, "it looks like your anti-lock brakes are malfunctioning. I'm going to disable them for now." My instructions were to bring the truck back to the university for repair, and I headed back to the forest.
The cabin was about 30 miles away, and I got 2/3 of the way there without incident. Then, just after I exited the highway, I hit a patch of black ice on an overpass and lost control. "Slam on the breaks, slam on the breaks!" Long-term memory overtook the short term knowledge that I had no ABS, and I spun part-way around and hit the barrier on the opposite side of the road. I was beyond lucky...there was no oncoming traffic. Some passersby helped me get the truck back in the right lane, and the only real damage was to the driver's side door and the left front quarter panel. As I finished my drive to the cabin, my blood pressure went up and up and up, as I visualized my embarrassment at delivering the damaged truck to my boss.
When I pulled in the driveway, I couldn't even get my door open. As I shuffled to the passenger side and slid out, I began to cry. I can't remember what I said to the truck, but I know it included profanity...and then I did a very stupid thing. As hard as I could, I threw the keys at the hood. In one fleeting instant, I saw them bounce off and sail away into the snow, never to be seen again. Literally. Hours later (with friend M by my side), I conceded defeat and called a locksmith. I remember it cost $70...because I did not have the money, and I had to write a check from my VISA account.
Thankfully I have grown a bit since then, but yesterday I almost threw the keys again...but what good does it do? It lowers the blood pressure temporarily, but in the end it costs you more.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Living on the Edge
When I was in graduate school studying grouse, I lived in a cabin in the woods of northern Michigan for 8 months out of the year. It was shared housing, and you just never knew who would be bunking with you from night to night. We had foresters, hunters, deer researchers, and a few people who may or may not have just wandered in from the nearest two track. Mostly we all got along, and when we didn't, somebody would just camp out in the backyard until the other person left. It was a good deal either way...the backyard was the bank of the Pigeon River.
At one point during my second or third year, a woodsy kind of guy was calling the cabin home for a few weeks while he worked in the area. He was a nice enough fellow, but maybe just a little bit socially challenged. Returning from a hard day of trap setting, my crew and I entered the cabin to find the visitor with the heel of his foot resting in a cereal bowl. It seems he had some sort of injury or infection, and he felt the need to soak it in a little warm water. Now, I would say he had every right to soak any sore part of his body, except that it was a community kitchen, and that was a community bowl. He probably had to rinse some one's breakfast out of it to make room for his foot.
In the moment, none of us had the nerve to challenge him on his strange choice to use a bowl instead of say, a bucket from under the sink or the river out back. In hindsight we were probably too scared to find out what he had been doing with the spoons. So we just shot each other "Eeeewww!" looks and went about our business.
In the morning, the bowl of water was still resting on the table...but did we toss it in the trash, where it so clearly belonged? No. Somebody found a Sharpie, and somebody turned it over and wrote "Foot Bowl" in prominent letters. Our visitor never knew it, but he lived in infamy...each time we went in the cabinet, we would make sure we weren't putting our Ramen noodles or mac and cheese into the "Foot Bowl." We would howl in laughter if some unknowing soul (or better yet, one of us) made the mistake of using it. "Uhhh!" I can remember groaning as I discovered that in my sleep deprived, grouse trapping stupor I had grabbed the "Foot Bowl" by mistake and was eating out of it. What is a person to do? Dump out perfectly good Lucky Charms just because they might have foot cooties? When you think about it, perhaps we were all a bit socially challenged.
At one point during my second or third year, a woodsy kind of guy was calling the cabin home for a few weeks while he worked in the area. He was a nice enough fellow, but maybe just a little bit socially challenged. Returning from a hard day of trap setting, my crew and I entered the cabin to find the visitor with the heel of his foot resting in a cereal bowl. It seems he had some sort of injury or infection, and he felt the need to soak it in a little warm water. Now, I would say he had every right to soak any sore part of his body, except that it was a community kitchen, and that was a community bowl. He probably had to rinse some one's breakfast out of it to make room for his foot.
In the moment, none of us had the nerve to challenge him on his strange choice to use a bowl instead of say, a bucket from under the sink or the river out back. In hindsight we were probably too scared to find out what he had been doing with the spoons. So we just shot each other "Eeeewww!" looks and went about our business.
In the morning, the bowl of water was still resting on the table...but did we toss it in the trash, where it so clearly belonged? No. Somebody found a Sharpie, and somebody turned it over and wrote "Foot Bowl" in prominent letters. Our visitor never knew it, but he lived in infamy...each time we went in the cabinet, we would make sure we weren't putting our Ramen noodles or mac and cheese into the "Foot Bowl." We would howl in laughter if some unknowing soul (or better yet, one of us) made the mistake of using it. "Uhhh!" I can remember groaning as I discovered that in my sleep deprived, grouse trapping stupor I had grabbed the "Foot Bowl" by mistake and was eating out of it. What is a person to do? Dump out perfectly good Lucky Charms just because they might have foot cooties? When you think about it, perhaps we were all a bit socially challenged.
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