PLAYING CHEF TO FINICKY CATS

Some cats won't eat anything new; some want it all.

Why are cats so finicky? Or, I guess I should say, why are domesticated cats so finicky?

I mean, feral felines do just fine scrounging for scraps and hunting for mice and birds. In fact, they establish vast colonies that become problematic in cities and on islands, making it necessary for humans to trap and neuter them to reduce their number. So, why must my fat, lazy and lovable companion animals demand that I search the earth for the most select morsels of tasty delights to place in their dishes before they will deign to eat?

Now, to be fair, it’s only my younger cat, Flash, who is the picky eater. Shadow, my older cat, will eat anything. She’s lived on the streets and eats like every meal is her last. That’s the problem. She’s overweight and has health issues, so she needs “special food” (read: expensive food) to manage both.

For a while that meant actual diet food, which she happily ate, but it did nothing for the health problems. So, I switched to “fresh food” for both cats, which I buy on subscription and arrives frozen. Shadow scarfed it up, so no problem there. And it helped. She lost some weight and her health issues improved. Hurrah!

Flash, though, doesn’t like change. The transition to the new food was rough. She turned up her little nose at the new food in her bowl. I mixed it with her old food. Nope. I put salmon flakes on it. Some interest. Beef was a complete no-go. Turkey was only occasionally okay. Chicken was acceptable.

Oh, but then there was an interruption in shipments from the food supplier! (There was a mix-up with an order.) To keep the flavors and texture similar, I ground up canned salmon and chicken for the cats until the cat food folks could get back on track. All well and good; the cats ate it. The fresh food has arrived this week from the cat food supplier, but now I’m back at square one with Flash, who won’t touch the “new food” again. AAAGGH!

My daughter, whose cats willingly eat plain kibble, thinks I’m crazy. Maybe you do, too. But “free-feeding” isn’t an option for my cats, since Shadow would eat her food AND Flash’s food all at once, then throw up. I have to measure out her food in three feedings and monitor the meal so she doesn’t eat more than she should. Plus, wet food is better for elderly cats, who need more water to avoid kidney problems. Yeah, I know, the things we do for our pets!

On the other hand, my daughter’s cats aren’t the least bit friendly. They hiss and won’t let me pet them. Mine, meanwhile, like to cuddle and purr. Shadow seeks out pets from our guests, and Flash likes to play with the dogs. So maybe all that fussing over their food has some benefits, after all.

Cheers, Donna

 

COUNTING THE FOGS IN AUGUST

 

Each morning fog in WNC in August means a winter snow.

I'm currently on vacation, so no long-winded post today. But as I enjoy my family's visit here in Western North Carolina, we're in an extended cool, rainy period. That means lots of foggy mornings. Traditional folk wisdom here in the mountains means every morning fog in August means a snow the following winter. So far, we're in for a very snowy winter!

 

I'll be back next week with my regular post.

 

Cheers, Donna

HAPPY 70th BIRTHDAY TO MY GUY

No long-winded post today about science fiction or world affairs. I just want to use this platform to wish my wonderful, supportive husband a happy 70th birthday! We'll be celebrating with a big party this weekend (though his actual birthday is July 25), so I'm a little busy today, but I didn't want to waste the opportunity to give him the credit he's due for having my back in this crazy writing life I've chosen. We've been together for two-thirds of those 70 years, and he's put up with a lot. And still looks good! So, thank you, honey, and Happy Birthday to you!

Happy 70th birthday to you, Graeme Frelick!

COVID STRIKES CLOSE TO HOME

Last week the coronavirus pandemic in the United States claimed another victim. And, this time, the loss was intensely personal to me and my family. My father-in-law, Paul Frelick, age 95, contracted the disease as part of an outbreak in his assisted living center here in North Carolina, despite all the precautions the staff had taken to prevent such a health disaster. He was taken from us in little more than a week. Our only consolation was that, given Paul’s advanced health directives, the fight was brief and the end peaceful.

Paul Frelick, right, in better days with son Graeme.

One of the often-told stories in our family is that I knew my father-in-law long before I ever met my husband. Paul was my faculty advisor at Beloit College in Wisconsin, as part of his duties as professor and head of the World Affairs Center there. He often invited students over to his house just off campus for get-togethers, so I’d met most of his family before I ever met my future husband. Paul always joked that he regretted he never got the chance to play matchmaker for his son and his independent-minded student. We found our way to each other on our own.

As an ordained Presbyterian minister, though, he did serve as pastor at our wedding in 1976, a year after we graduated. He did the same for my daughter Jessie and her husband in 2005 and for lots of other family members in the years in between. He was always glad to perform that service, bringing people together on a joyous occasion.

Before and after his position at Beloit, most of Paul’s work life was spent in a similar kind of service, bringing different groups together in a mutual effort to build social justice. He worked with factory labor in post-WWII Paris; directed the John Knox Ecumenical Conference/Student Center in Geneva; was a local chapter director of the National Conference of Christians and Jews in Louisville, Kentucky; served as a Presbyterian mission educator in Cameroon and Lesotho; and finally as an educator at Warren Wilson College in North Carolina.

Even after he had stopped working, he was active in his Black Mountain retirement community, interviewing new residents for articles in the newsletter and meeting with a men’s group. He liked to say—and it was certainly true from my observation—that he had “failed retirement” several times.

Paul leaves behind his beloved wife of 53 years, Ellenor, and three children from an earlier marriage (my husband Graeme, brother Andy and sister Nancy). His family legacy also includes six grandchildren (including our two daughters) and six great-grandchildren (including our three grandchildren). We will all miss him profoundly.

Sadly, Donna

A REPEAT POST: GIVE A BOOK, GIVE THE WORLD

I looked up to my brother from a young age.

When I was nine years old, my much older brother gave me a book for my birthday. It was a big, heavy, hardback copy of the complete works of Lewis Carroll.

This was no watered down kids’ version of Alice in Wonderland, with lots of colorful pictures and a few whimsical words that told Carroll’s story in easy-to-understand form. No, this was the real deal, with the original black-and-white Victorian drawings by John Tenniel and the dense Victorian writing, too. It was WAY beyond my skill level, and included poetry, for God’s sake.

I loved it. I struggled for years to read it. And I’ve carried it with me through all my moves, even here to North Carolina.

A few years later that same brother gave me the complete works of Arthur Conan Doyle. Same thing, though I’ve passed that one on to my daughter who reads.

A gift of a book is like no other gift. It says as much about the giver as it does about the receiver. I’ve always treasured these books not only because they opened wonderful new worlds for me, but also because they meant my brother thought I was smart enough to read them. I worked hard to live up to them, to devine their secrets, because that would help me understand my brother—and his world. He was smart, and I wanted to be like him.

But what he knew, and I eventually discovered, was that the books held their own marvelous appeal. The stories they contained captivated me, swept me away to another place and time. They weren’t my first or necessarily my favorite such fictional worlds, but they were certainly a level up from the Nancy Drew mysteries I was fond of at the time.

Book revelations can come to you in surprising ways. I found Ian Fleming’s James Bond by looking out a high school bathroom window. I was there between classes, hanging out with my friends. I looked out and saw a pink cover (maybe it had once been red—rain had damaged the book) splayed in the grass. I could read the title—Diamonds Are Forever—and knew it for what it was. I suspect someone was reading the juicy parts out loud to a friend when a teacher walked in. Whoops! Out the window it went!

I waited all day to retrieve the abandoned piece of salacious writing, worried the whole time that its owner would go back to get it. But it was still there at the end of the day, pages woefully swollen with damp. I took it home and dried it with a hair dryer—you know, the kind you put over your head like a cap. (The year was about 1966.) Then I devoured it. Wow! James Bond was one sexy guy!

Then I went out and spent all my allowance and babysitting money on others in the series. My mom finally noticed and wanted to call a halt, thinking maybe I was a little young for all this. I convinced her I was “mature” enough by suggesting she read one. (he he!) Since most of the action was implied, she relented. I only gave up my 007 series last year when I moved to NC.

Finally, I have a long grocery store line to thank for my career as a romance writer. I was standing there, bored, having read all the fantastic headlines on the NATIONAL ENQUIRER to my left, when I looked to my right. I found a display of paperbacks, which was unusual in itself. But in that display was a dramatic dark cover highlighting a beefy male biceps with a tattooed circlet. Oooh! I picked it up and checked the back cover. Seems this was a time-travel romance (Kiss of the Highlander) by Karen Marie Moning. Say what? Who knew there was such a thing? I bought it to find out more—what’s it like? Who writes such a thing? Who publishes such a thing?

Once again, the story swept me away. I loved it. I bought the whole series. And the science fiction story that I’d been struggling with suddenly worked as a science fiction romance. The rest, as they say, is history.

Books can come to you from anywhere. Take it as a gift and be grateful to the universe. Or be the agent of change and give a book you love to someone special. They will love you for it forever.

AND, AS FOR THAT BROTHER . . .

I'm very sad to report that my brother Reg just passed away this week, after a brave and prolonged struggle with cancer. He gave me any number of gifts, in addition to those books--a love of learning, an ear for storytelling and a wry sense of humor among them. We will all miss him.

Sadly, Donna

WHAT I DID ON MY THANKSGIVING VACATION

I’m not sure how Thanksgiving got to be my favorite holiday of the year. I mean, stuck between the candy-extravaganza of Halloween and the present-orgy of Christmas, I don’t think I gave turkey-day much credit as a kid. But now, after being in charge of all holiday productions at my house for more than 35 years, I have to say the one day where all you do is cook, eat and enjoy people’s company is the best.

This Thanksgiving holiday at my house was no exception, especially since it almost didn’t happen it all. My youngest daughter had a baby in September (her first), and little Savannah was not ready for a seven-hour car ride to Nonna’s house just yet. My oldest daughter and her family had planned to spend the holiday with her husband’s mom. And my 92-year-old father-in-law no longer drives after a bad accident in the summer. Up until about ten days before Thanksgiving I was contemplating a trip to Cracker Barrel for the day.

But then my daughter’s mother-in-law had to work and couldn’t have guests, so daughter and her family hit the road for my house. We worked out transportation for my in-laws, and Thanksgiving was back on!

 

Reading is always on the agenda at Nonna's house.

Now, every family has its own turkey day traditions, from the food that graces the table, to the programs that light up the television. My Thanksgiving dinner menu was passed down from my mother (who learned it from the friends she lived with as a WWII war bride in Nashville, Tennessee), with just a few tweaks in recent years to accommodate gluten-sensitive members of the family. Usually my youngest daughter helps me cook; this year my 16-year-old grandson stepped up. 

We spent all morning in the kitchen bustling about while the first Christmas carols of the season played in the background, then sat down with the whole family to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (which had been recorded so we could skip commercials and particularly annoying lip-synching acts). We recorded the football games, too, so no one whined about missing anything during dinner.

When it came time to serve the meal, four generations of the family gathered around the table, with our friend Lisa, the town’s holistic veterinarian. And, as we loaded up our plates, we each shared what we were thankful for—turned out to be plenty, despite the year’s ups and downs.

Hubby and Grandson perform at open mike.

The Thanksgiving weekend usually involves decorating for Christmas around my house, but since my daughter’s family was going to be traveling home early we just relaxed. We had football to watch, of course, but there were other distractions. My husband and grandson entertained at the local open mike night. I fended off my grandson’s challenge at SCRABBLE, but went down to ignominious defeat at LIFE. We laughed at several silly Seventies martial arts movies courtesy of the El Rey Network’s Way of the Turkey Marathon and re-enforced family values by watching the Corleones defeat all comers in The Godfather. And, finally, after everyone had gone home, my husband and I joined the crowds oohing and aahing at the entries to the National Gingerbread House competition at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville.

Feeling Christmas-y at the National Gingerbread House competition.

Maybe you can see why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Family, friends, food and fun—what’s not to love? I already can’t wait until next year!

Cheers, Donna