Inspiration

How Do We Know If They’re Meant to Be Ours?

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Times come in our lives when we are ready to open our hearts and homes to a new animal. But how do we know which is the right one for us? The one that is truly meant to be ours?

A little over 13 years ago, one of my two pit bull terriers passed away from complications of cancer. She had been starved and brutally abused. She’d had a very high prey drive and was dog aggressive, but she thrived in my care, and in time, also did so with my other pit bull terrier, Chloe. Chloe was at the opposite end of the spectrum; she truly loved ALL animals. With Chloe then twelve years old, I wanted her to truly enjoy her golden years with me and without the competition of another dog. But I knew she’d love a cat, and I began my search.

Every day that I was at work in the large city shelter, I took my lunch time to look at the over 200 cats awaiting adoption, asking that I please be shown the cat that was meant for me. That cat wasn’t there. Or at least not yet. Not so coincidental to this story, by the way, was the fact that in the office adjacent to mine, worked a lovely man in his 60’s. He was about 5’4″, and his wife was about 4’11”. They were a petite and adorable couple, totally devoted to each other from the days of their young marriage. I told him how happy it made me to see a couple still so in love. He told me it was bashert, i.e., “meant to be” in Yiddish. What a perfect word, I thought, and how perfectly fitting for them. I, too, was on the lookout for bashert, but on a much smaller scale.

One day in early August, I needed to go into work on my day off. Traffic on my usual route was at a standstill, so I took the back way through the neighboring town. As I drove over the familiar railroad bridge, I passed what looked like a crumpled piece of paper, but intuitively I knew better. I backed up and spotted a 5 week old tuxedo kitten, waiting to be hit by a car or plunge to his death 100 feet below.

I managed to catch the terrified and elusive kitten, brought him to the medical department for a gentle baby bath for fleas, and then to my office. Too young for inoculations, he wouldn’t fare well in a shelter with so many animals, so I decided to foster him until he was stronger – in my office on workdays, otherwise, home with me. He was so tiny, I was afraid he’d got lost or stuck in the house, so I set him up in my bedroom in a large Great Dane crate, complete with bed, blanket, litter and food and water. He screamed bloody murder.

The next evening the same. I closed the bedroom door and let him out. He made a beeline for a comforting spot under my Chloe’s chin. Mom! For two more weeks I followed this routine, everyone suggesting I keep him. My reason for not wanting to do so was that everyone will adopt a kitten; I would take a middle age or senior cat, a bonded pair, a cat with feline leukemia, i.e., a hard-to-place cat. Someone would surely fall in love with him quickly.

Then it happened. I looked at this very verbal little pipsqueak of a kitten, nestled with his new adoring mom, and found myself saying things like, “Now appearing in the Shakespearean production of I Claudipuss ….” or coaxing him with Monsieur Claude, or “Where’s my Cloudy Paws?” You get the picture.

I had asked to be shown the cat that was meant to be mine, and it had nothing to do with what I thought I wanted, but everything to do with who needed me. And so we need to be open to our choices in animals. I do believe every animal that I have had was truly meant to be mine. Perhaps I saved his or her life, perhaps in some other way, she or he saved mine. Animals are our teachers and guides, and may come to us in the most unexpected species, breeds, time and manner. They may be brought to us, or we to them, but we must always listen to our hearts.

Today that teensy feral kitten is a long and lanky 16 pound cat with tuxedo markings, but with all the features of an Oriental breed – short, smooth coat, long face, body and tail, and oh, yes, the (sometimes very annoying) vocalizations. His names today are Claudie the Dog Boy, (for all the dog tricks he happily performs), Mr. Freshy McFresh Face, and just plain Claude or Claudie. But it was those first silly names that were the tip off,  (that and his instant attachment to Chloe), that he was meant to be mine, kitten or no.

It was simply bashert.

Thanks, Halls, for the Pick-Me-Up

/ still a dreamer

Finally. My head was starting to clear a wee bit from this seemingly endless flu/virus/whatever and I actually had something I wanted to write about. So I popped a Halls honey-lemon cough drop, gathering my thoughts, and then was stopped in my tracks. There was a message on my cough drop wrapper!

Now, anyone that knows me or even occasionally reads this blog knows how hard I lean towards a positive or inspiring message. And suddenly, there was a whole bunch of them! I decided to scrap what I was planning to write and scan a couple wrappers just to share this unexpected little find. On the unwrapped cough drop at left, is “Dust off and get up.” Always good advice!

And here on the other two, you can read some more, plus a trademark saying Halls seems to have called “A pep talk in every drop.” Who knew?

I swear I don’t work for Halls Cough Drops and am not related to anyone who is, but this just took me aback. Do I expect a bit of wisdom from Celestial Seasonings or my Yogi tea? Of course! But my little ole OTC cough drops? Nah. Who’d think?

And what’s more delightful than a happy – and uplifting – surprise! So – keep your chin up, hi-five yourself, put a little strut in it and heal your sore throat. Go, Halls.

Some Authors Just Never Get Old

/ still a dreamer

Sometimes it seems like it will take forever to finish a book. No comment on the book itself, just a million distractions, some good, some bad. But how wonderful is it when you are reading an author you love to read and can finally come back to and re-immerse yourself in the story.

I am always amazed when people tell me they don’t like to read. I can’t figure out how that happens. I was most fortunate to be reading at a very early age, perhaps because I was being read to at a very early age. Whether my mother, grandmother or father – or actually even my grandfather sometimes reading us the Sunday comics! – it does seem that there was always someone engaging us in the magic of reading. For this, I am deeply grateful.

I am also deeply grateful that there are so many wonderful authors writing. One whom I’ve loved to read, though I have admittedly only read 3 of her novels thus far, is Barbara Kingsolver. When I first read The Poisonwood Bible, I was blown away. The storyline, the characters, the premise, the setting, but most of all, just how she wrote. So recently, I read The Bean Trees and reread Pigs in Heaven, more wonderful than I remember it.

I am sad to end one of Kingsolver’s books, though I have another one from that annual book sale awaiting me on the shelf, but I got the chance to peruse the many novels I’d chosen from the sale, and am starting The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. Having shelves of books awaiting to be read is, indeed, an embarrassment of riches.

Reading Feeds Writing (still)

/ still a dreamer

One of the things I love talking about with friends is what books we are reading and what we are writing. The two topics are often in the same conversation.

One friend is working very hard on her middle grade novel. I am generally working on picture books; however, a middle grade novel is slowly writing itself in my head. I’m asked if I’m not writing this down. I am not. But little by little I am getting to know my characters and I have a fair idea of where they’ve come from, what is shaping their dilemmas and where they are going. When the time is right, and when I know them better, I will begin the writing process.

Meanwhile, I read.  In talking with my friend, we discussed the 3 books I have just finished. She had not read two, but was interested in doing so for the reasons I’ll describe. She was reading, but lost interest in and abandoned, the third.

The first is The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants by Ann Brashares. I had seen the movie – it was light, probably a “chick flick” – but I liked it.
Advantage to Writer? Observing and understanding realistic  dialogue and relationships between teenage girls.

The second is The Divide by Nicholas Evans, probably best known as the author of The Horse Whisperer. I also read The Loop by him. What a way Evans has of engaging you in a story, building up suspense, then taking a sharp turn away to another character, leaving you wanting more. I only hope, whenever I write my novel, that I can hold a reader’s interest like he does.
Advantage to Writer? Learning how to pace a novel for maximum effect.

The third, (and unfinished by my friend), is The Lovely Bones by Alice Siebold. This was a daring first novel, told from the first person POV of a 12 year old girl who is raped and murdered, and is now in heaven. This could have been really strange, quirky or sappy. It was none of these, and it had my attention through to the end.
Advantage to Writer? Learning to trust in your own unique story ideas, that writing from the deepest and most real place within is where the best stories will always come from.

I trust that all I’m learning is soaking into my unconscious and always making me a better writer. And so the enjoyment of wonderful books continues. What is your reading bringing to you?

Re-Finding Ourselves

/ still a dreamer

I woke up this morning not feeling fully awake – I remember waking at 12:40, then 1 something, then 5:40 with a jolt – a disturbing noise that may have only been in my dream. When I finally got up at 6:30, I hardly felt rested.

In the kitchen, I found that one of my cats, who has recently returned to dragging food out of the bowl with his paw, had dragged the entire bowl to the center of the kitchen floor which was now littered with many small pieces of half-eaten food. Are they trying to attract mice?

With coffee in me, I was thinking of work, how much I had to do right now, and how much time I was spending in my office. The open doors and windows brought in a breeze and drew me out to the porch, where I sat down and realized what an absolutely gorgeous morning it was.

I watched a little spider on one of the yews valiantly mending her web as fast as the breeze would blow a bit of it away. Sunlight glistened on web strands of larger spiders, and as the breeze would move them, it seemed as a scintilla of light traveled a diagonal from the porch rail to the roof.

I heard birds I didn’t recognize – I heard what sounded like the high pitch of a seagull, but I’ve never once seen a seagull in this area. Perhaps it was a late-summer baby clamoring for food, or maybe one of the numerous catbirds had mastered a new voice.

Sitting there, peaceful at last, I wanted to stay … to delay the inevitable, and just enjoy a cool summer morning and do nothing. I am always amazed at the healing power of even a few moments spent appreciating nature, if only from my porch. We can usually re-find ourselves by taking a little time away from our many demands and just being with the simple wonders of the natural world.

And then I saw him. It was a seagull, indeed, circling in the sky. I wondered if he had lost his flock and was calling out to be found. His cry had such a desperate air to it, and he flew in wider and wider circles, but still in view. I hoped someone would come looking for this seemingly lost soul. I returned inside, having found myself, and hoping that he, too, would soon find himself where he needed to be.