The Curious Incident of the Calico Cat

Yeah, so, this is a post about Pepita.  If you're not here for strange cat tales, please tune in another day.

A year ago, this happened and then this.  To recap in brief:  A year ago, while out walking the kids and dog, we found a small calico cat, and she followed us home.  We didn't take her in.  And then she followed us home again a few days later and I felt bad, so in she came, disrupting the delicate feline equilibrium of our household and resulting in what has been a year long territorial dispute (urine fest) between her and our other female cat (now incarcerated in Husband's room on a permanent basis and bitter about it).  In the early days, I tried to find Pepita's owners.  Her microchip led us to a man who had recently died and whose wife (?) informed us grumpily before abruptly hanging up on me that her son was supposed to be looking after the cat.  And posters in the neighborhood advertising the loss of a cat who was the spitting image of Pepita led us to a very nice chef, who assured us Pepita was not in fact her cat. 

The chef's lost cat was named Sorrell.

This morning, while walking the dog and kids, we cut down the alley behind Juniper street to check on the progress of the fig tree we like to poach from (its branches overhang the alley, so I figure fruit there is "public access").  Today, about half way down the alley there was a man in his yard, in his PJs, with a bassett hound wearing a blue T shirt (yes, the dog is wearing the shirt):

"Hey look, a beagle!" he announced loudly to his dog.
"Actually, beagle-bassett mix" I clarified, pausing.

Dog-related chit-chat ensued, with interruptions from Winton ("Mummy, I want that man to ask what my name is").

A cat appeared behind the man: small, calico.

"Oh!"  I said "We have matching animals! We have a calico cat at home too."
"Her name is Sorrell," said the man.

!!

Turns out that a year ago, after a month of looking for her, and then giving up, Chef and Man got a call from someone in Owings Mills saying that they had found their cat.  This seemed so unlikely, given that the cat (and today's conversation about her) happened near the intersection of York and 39th in the city (Baltimore city, btw), and Owings Mills is about a 25 minute drive away, if you take the highways.  Owings Mills finder said "Well, we got your number from Sorrell's collar, which she is currently wearing."

Sorrell, when retrieved, was clean and well-fed, as though someone had been looking after her for a month, not as if she had been living at the Owings Mills light rail station where she turned up.

What the hell?

1) It's an odd coincidence to have this conversation almost exactly a year after I had met Sorrell's other owner, Chef.

2) Do you think there's a chance that Sorrell (an indoor-outdoor cat) wandered off, was abducted by dead man's son (Pepita's heroin-addled  and reluctant caretaker, or so I imagine), and did he take a month to realize that the cat was wearing a collar indicating someone else as owner?  Did he drop her off in Owings Mills rather than call Chef and Man, after a month of feeding the animal, to admit he had mistaken their cat for his (father's) cat?

Pepita herself has been noteworthy in the last 24 hours.  I have always assumed that mother cats teach kittens where to pee, and that if adult cats transgress, it is by choice.  But there was always the possibility that Pepita's past involved being removed from her mother early, perhaps.  Who knows?
I recently acquired another new litter box (we have 7 now), and more fresh litter, and last night I dug around in the box, hopefully, with a scoop, while Pepita watched . . . and then she climbed into the box, peed, and looked at me quizzically, waiting for approval or approbation.  Much praise ensued.
Apparently this cat needs to be potty trained, and is somewhat willing.  It's taken me a year to figure that out.

Winton, naked butt

Mommy. Mommyy! MOMMY!
Watch my naked butt run!
and, and, and,
Watch my naked butt run backwards!

End of Semester

Last day of classes yesterday.  English department party (which I organize) this afternoon.  Husband home to help with kids b/c I have to deal with party.  But right now: no classes.  And it feels weird.  It should feel good, but I am riddled with the insecurities that come when I step out of routine.

Here's the email I recently sent to Husband:

Weird day . . . transition times are always a bit disorienting and I feel esp off kilter just now.
Tea and Hunger Games for a bit, I think.

Hope your day is going well.  Not bad out right now--supposed to be foul later (hot and wet).

Clara will be mad at me b/c she was talking to Gaia and so didn't see my car drive away.  She usually waves.  Oh the guilt!

xoxox


From email, I went to reading Facebook and a post someone had shared about marriage.  Now I am concerned that I am terrible in bed and am consequently destroying my marriage.

Garh.  Time to drink that tea and go back to (re)reading The Hunger Games (which is actually work, when paired with the stack of inter-library loan books on my desk about the USAF, military psychology, military ethics, and Air Force base protocols).

"I have a surprise for you"

"I have a surprise for you!"  is Winton's typical announcement when he has peed or pooped in his potty, delivered in excited tones in anticipation of my delight at his achievement.

Yesterday afternoon I met him at preschool and he greeted me with "I have a surprise for you!" 

Uh-oh, I thought.  Where'd he poop?  Surely not in his cubby?  If in the class toilet, surely someone will have flushed by now so . . .?

Winton ran to his cubby and dragged out a small, wilted buttercup: "I picked for you, Mummy!  As a surprise!"

My (butter)cup of pleasure overfloweth.  My son is the sweetest little man in the world.

Eye Exam

Opthalmologist, sternly: "Well, your daughter has excellent vision, and is very good with her letters.  But I should tell you medically that an eye exam without dilation is like going to your internist and not letting them take your blood-pressure."

Me: [Silence, anxiety, attempts to reassure self that opting against dilation for Clara's first eye-exam ever was a good choice, Silence]

Clara: "Let's dilate Ruthie's* eyes!"

*Ruthie: toy mouse and co-star in ongoing bedtime story series about adventures of mice Frederick and Ruthie.   On nights when Daddy tells stories instead of Mummy, Frederick and Ruthie are replaced by Freddie and Ruthrick, imaginary camels at the Baltimore zoo.

Lunch Prep

Winton, helping me pack lunches; Me filling Husband's tupperware with rice noodles.

Winton: "Oh!  My friend Liam has a lunch box just like that!"
Me: "That's cool.  What does he have for lunch in his?"
Winton: "Yucky things.  Like you make."

What I woke to

Clara and Winton in Bathroom (me, in bed)

Clara [whispering]: "No, pull your pants down all the way."
Winton [shuffle shuffle, scrape-- as he presumably moves the plastic potty across the bathroom floor]
Clara: "No.  All the way.  Or. You'll. Get. Pee. On. Them."
Winton [silence]
Clara: "Now poof your penis."

[Longer silence followed by sound of potty being emptied, mostly, into toilet]