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It has been an absolutely beautiful day. After a week or more of freezing temps with rain and wind, today was like a gift. I went for a long bike ride and after lunch UltraDad and I did something I had been wishing for for a long time; we loaded up mounds of household garbage and went to the dump! Those of you who live in the city are probably used to the convenience of trash pickup at your doorstep, but we have to haul it off ourselves. The cast off junk piled about the burn barrels (we are allowed to burn our paper trash out here)had come to resemble a mini-city. : old microwave, broken plastic table (you will remember that one, UltraBob. I actually fought to keep it, but Udad overruled), broken toilet from the camper Jim lived in for the summer, old plastic snowboard, broken pots, old shoes, etc.
We had been warned that the rules of trash-dumping at our local dump had recently changed. UBob, you may remember backing the pickup up to a pit and throwing the junk out the tailgate. There was a separate pit for dead animals, which we occasionally needed to avail ourselves of when a cow, sheep or horse died. Now there is a trailor that you pitch household garbage into. We didn’t bring the burn barrels this time to dump the accumulated ashes, but if we had, this would have represented a major, back-breaking enterprise. The old microwave and wire went int the metal dumping area. Poor microwave; it never liked metal and would let me know by arcing and sparking when I forgot.
Anyway, it feels like somewhat of an accomplishment to have banished the year or so’s worth of unburnable trash.
There was a very unusual occurence on our remote road as we were leaving for the dump. An ambulance and police cars were racing towards an area near Bill Stauffer’s house (this will mean something to you if your name is Bob). When we returned from our trash errand, we found out that two neighbors had a head on collision in their pickups, probably going about 40 mph. Wade Williams, so the story goes, was upset and focused on his wheel line, which had started up without permisson and the end had doubled back and wrapped around the middle. Not good. Arturo Gomez was in the other pickup with his son (not hurt). We saw Arturo’s pickup. Also not good. Not at all. Anyway, the ambulance took Arturo away, and Wade was going in to be checked for broken ribs on his own.
We have Chewie again for an overnight. He is much more at home this time, but has still managed to pee on my dining room floor twice. I’m trying to be alert to his old dog signals, and I think I’m improving.
This weather has been great for the wannabe tomatoes. I may get some yet!
UltraDad may have finally landed a job in a Nevada mine driving truck. He’s been looking since he decided to quit farming last spring, and seems to have his heart set on Nevada. He has a physical next week, and he has a sister living in that town, so that will help. We will just see how it goes.
Whew! Hope you enjoyed the “This is what I did today” episode. Lots going on!
Later,

UltraMom

My Tomato Jungle

Another view

I have mixed feelings about the fall season. Sure, we usually have some pretty nice days and some nice fall colors (not as great as some parts of the country, but still pretty). The hot summertime temps give way to cooler weather, which makes UltraDad happier. There are football games (I’m not a great fan, but have been enjoying watching Boise State games on TV with Johnny) and things settle a bit more into a routine.
But here’s my biggest problem; my garden. You didn’t know UltraMom was a gardener? Well, that’s because I’m not…......not really. I get rare surges of longing to see things grow and reap harvests of the fruits of my own labor. In one such frenzy, I bought about 12 tomato plants, a few green pepper plants, a cucumber and a crooked neck squash plant as well as 109 (or thereabouts) geraniums, petunias, marigolds and impatiens. You see, there was a big “end of the season” sale at the local greenhouse, and I got quite the deal. But then I had to actually plant the stuff. That is why there is a jungle outside my front door.
I decided the area of maximum enjoyment, minimum effort for my garden would be the areas next to the house on either side of my front steps. I artistically planted alternating cherry tomatoes, yellow bell tomatoes, green peppers and marigolds of varying sizes. It looked great, and the marigolds had the reputation of keeping insect pests away from their plant friends. Unfortunatley, this repuation turned out not to be totally deserved, as the aphid infestation came in spite of their best efforts. The other side of the house got more tomatoes and the vining plants mixed in with colorful flowers. The remaining flowers were put in another flower bed and various pots.
I believe that in my enthusiasm I may have planted everything just a little too close together. The tomato plants have “taken over the world.” If I have any green peppers, I don’t know it. There are dozens of little green tomatoes on the vines. I have harvested two cherry tomatoes, which were divine. I pore over the plants everyday, but am stymied by the tangle of branches which threaten to break if I prod too aggressively.
Enter the villian: Fall, bringing its freezing nighttime temperatures. I have rounded up tarps and old sleeping bags and have been covering my treasures every night. So far it seems to be working. That may be because there haven’t really been any freezing temps yet, but tonight …..oh tonight they are predicting the big one. I’ll do my best, but one of these nights, my best is not going to be good enough. Then we will see windowsillfulls of green tomatoes. Unless it all gets to be too much and I lose interest in the whole thing.

UltraMom, Gardener Extraordinaire (?)
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[[Picture Removed due to the request of the UltraVain]]
Me & UltraBob in front of the infant garden

You know, I have been thinking a lot about Toby, and seeing if I could remember some of the days before he got sick, and it reminded me of something that happened the previous weekend….......
It went something like this…..........

John’s brother and wife, Chuck and Joy, were going away for a few days and asked us to keep an eye on their dog, Chewbacca (named for the hairy Star-Wars character). Chewie, as he is always known, is an old, curmudgeonly, cocker spaniel. When I see him at his own house, he never stops barking at me unless I feed or pet him, and then he is usually growling. Chewie is either suffering from dementia, or is just a really weird dog. But Joy loves Chewie and doesn’t want anything to happen to him.
Johnny, who was home for a few days, went with me to pick Chewie up on Friday night. He busily barked at us; then expectantly waited for us to either leave or let him in his house. Getting in our car was not something he either wanted or could comprehend how to do. We finally corralled/lifted him into our car. The poor little guy has bad hips and his back legs don’t work very well, and it obviously hurt him to be lifted.
At our house, Chewie walked around the yard, evading any attempt to be cajoled or corralled into the house, so we finally had to lift him. Our steps are a bit treacherous; they are the “temporary” ones the house installers brought out with them more than 10 years ago when we first bought the house. They are wooden, narrow and rather steep, so I can see why Chewie wasn’t crazy about climbing up and down them.
His behavior, once in the house bordered even more closely on the bizarre. He has an obsession with….food. First, he tugged on the towel I had under the pet dishes until I removed it. Then he dug into the cat food which I also removed. With nothing left but his own food, he proceeded to flip morsels from the bowl and attempt to crush and roll them with the top of his head. Joy had left a few guidelines for his care, and one item instructed us on what to do if we chose to leave Chewie outdoors at his own home during the day. We needed to be sure that the big red bucket full of dog food was put up on the barbecue. Otherwise, Chewie would (and I believe he really would) attempt to push the bucket into the (closed) house with his head, tipping the bucket over. Then he would try to push each piece of food into the house and skin his nose. When we took him away, we were to put the red bucket back down so that Doofus and Izzabear could eat. They are Chuck and Joy’s other two dogs and they live outdoors all of the time. I think Joy may be an even more creative pet namer than I am.
Chewie spent most of his time with us roaming the house, finding the extra stash of cat food in the cat room and begging for (and receiving) table scraps. I was relieved when he finally settled down, but it never lasted long. We couldn’t seem to get our “Chewie, do you need to go outside?/Woof! I need to go ouside!” signals coordinated, and he wet inside the house 4 or 5 times. Thankfully, it was usually on the linoleum which made easier cleanup than if he had used the carpet. By the end of the weekend, he was feeling a little more comfortable with us and could manage the steps on his own and even come, sometimes, when I called him. We kept him at our house most of the time to make sure he was well-cared for, but by Sunday afternoon, after he peed in the house yet again, John decided that he might like to go home and wait for his Mommy to arrive. The weekend did serve to reinforce my decision not to get another dog at this time.

Toby was absolutely terrified of that old, senile dog. My other two indoor cats, Polly and old, senile Brenda were alarmed at first, but soon learned to ignore the dog’s weird ramblings. Toby refused to come into the house while Cheiw was in residence, about two days and nights. I really didnt worry about Toby because he often spends nights ourdoors and was by no means a skinny cat. I saw him by the door several times, but as soon as he saw the dog, he ran off again. Now I wonder if that was when he got sick. Toby came back in Sunday afternoon as soon as Chewie had gone home, and I dont’ remember anything out of the ordinary. I remember him sleeping on my bed, his favorite daytime habitat. I remember him showing up Monday morning for his little daily ration of canned food, and Ii remember Toby and Brenda going outside on Monday evening. I didn’t see him Tuesday morning, which was unusual but not unheard of. The first clue I had that he wasn’t well was Tuesday evening when I heard him throwing up in the cat room. Investigation showed him to be weak and listless, lying under the ged. When I gave him water, he drank. I called the Vet, who said it was almost certainly viral, and that medicine wouldn’t help.
Wednesday morning I found him lying in the litterbox. I got him out, laid him on a clean towl, and gave him more water and a few licks (all he wanted) of canned cat food. But we both had to leave him all day on Wednesday and by the time we got home, he was much worse and would no longer drink on his own. I forced a little water into him with a turkey baster (I couldn’t find an eyedropper), but he was too far gone. I slept nearby and set my alarm to awake every couple of hours to check on him. He would purr when I stroked his back and head. By the time I got home from work on Thursday, he was gone.
Toby was an important part of our family life for a long time. It seems to me that letting his life pass without thinking about him, writing about him, missing him, makes his life seem less significant. I didn’t want that to happen.

Ultramom

When I was a child, I wanted above all things to have animals in my life. My mother was opposed to dogs, cats and other 4-legged creatures, so I had a succession of….......goldfish! My brother got the parakeets. I had one of those round fishbowls and always had 2 goldfish; the fancy ones with the googly eyes, fat bodies and flowing fins. One was always gold, and had the imaginative name of “Goldie”. The other was black. Yep, you guessed it: “Blackie”. When one would perish, as fish often do, I would bury the little body in the flower garden and erect a tiny wooden grave marker inscribed “Blackie 2” or “Goldie 4” as the case may be. No flushing down the toilet for MY fish. Of course the fish was duly replaced with a replica.
Later, when I was a teenager, my mother relented in the dog department and we got a neurotic terrier/chihuahua cross named Smokey. He was supposed to be OUR dog (me and my sibs), but he always much preferred my parents. Sometimes when my mother would complain about his care, my father would humorously remind her that she herself always said that “if we get a dog, I will be the one to take care of it.”
When I had a home of my own (well, I guess I kind of shared it with UltraDad), I wanted pets. We had a dairy, so I spent time feeding calves and raising orphan lambs on extra milk. We got a dog and I raised 3 orphan kittens on bottles. Bright Eyes, one of those tiny felines, grew up to become the mother of many. She cared deeply for her kittens but…......lets just say that her mind wasn’t as bright as her eyes. Once she chose to deliver her kittens in the bottom of a boat with several inches of water in it, and several of them drowned.
Those weren’t the only orphan kittens we would raise. Now we’ve arrived at the story of Toby. You may have heard me mention Toby before. I think he was probably less than 3 days old when Jim “apopted” him. Grandpa (the one of UltraBob’s hermit hero stories) convinced Jim that he should take the tiny black kitten home. His mother had kicked him out and would have nothing to do with him. (the kitten’s, not Jim’s, usually) Of course, as in the case of Smokey, the Mom of the family was the main caretaker of this little orphan. We had learned a bit since the days of Bright Eyes, Pudge and Mike, my first “litter”. We purchased special kitten feeding bottles and special orphan pet milk. We wiped Toby’s tiny bottom with a wet cloth so he would “relieve” himself and not become constipated. The mother cat will lick her offspring to achieve these results, but you gotta draw the line somewhere. Toby grew to be a large, handsome black cat with green eyes and white chest, belly and paws. His whiskers and one of his eyebrows was white and this gave him a quizical look. When Toby was about a year old, he had an accident. Our best guess is that he got under a car hood and was injured when the car was started. He came into the house the day after Thanksgiving leaving a trail of blood. The leg was broken, and we had the Vet splint it. Toby remained ill and feverish, only recovering when the leg was finally removed at the first joint. After this Jim nicknamed him “Tripod”.
I sometimes wondered if Toby experienced phantom pain in his stub, a phenomenom you hear about with human amputees. He would yowl and become extremely agitated for no apparent reason. He adapted well though and could still climb trees.
Toby was not a very nice cat, but he was always interesting. If he didn’t like the way you were petting him (or looking at him), he was liable to lash out with teeth and claws. I know that UltraBob was on the receiving end of Toby’s fury on several occasions. He had many neuroses.(Toby, but also UltraBob) One was a foam fettish. Yeah, you heard me. If foam (like cusions, mattresses, etc) was left unprotected, he was rip chunks out with his teeth; he just couldn’t help himself. Lately, he couldn’t bear a closed door. If he couldn’t gain access to the room (or closet) of his choice, he would pull big chunks of fur out of his own back! He loved yogurt and cookie dough, but couldn’t stand tuna. I have read that cats raised by humans sometimes are a bit odd and lack “cat social skills”, and Toby would seem to support this theory. He never got along with the other cats. He had a running feud with Tree Cat and would run from Polly (another house cat, much smaller than Toby). His favorite napping place was the middle of my bed.
Jim always referred to Toby as his “son”. Toby was especially fond of Jim and Johnny, but lately had been jumping on UltraDad’s lap when called (when he wanted to. He was, after all, a cat).
Well, as you will have guessed from my use of the past tense, Toby is no longer with us. I can still hardly believe it. I only noticed Tuesday night that he was sick, and today he is gone. In a phone conference, the Vet said it sounded viral, so medicine wouldn’t help. I feel terrible and perhaps responsible because for a year we had in our refrigerator cat vaccine just waiting for UltraDad to administer, but we never got around to it. Even if we had, I don’t know if that would have saved Toby’s life. So, Toby, this is your tribute. You made my life richer, fuller and much more interesting. I think you had a good life too.

UltraMom

I wish I knew how to insert a picture here; if so I’d let you see a photo of this extraordinary cat.