Whose Cat is it Anyway?

Backstory: back on Aug. 7, Reggie the Cat's father paid a visit, claiming him and explaining that his cancer-stricken wife was beside herself with worry over this missing cat who was her sole source of comfort and so on and so forth. Since then, a little urchin from that house (evidently a grandchild) has also come looking for Reggie. I've gotten into the habit of walking Reggie down to his house when I decide he's been up here too long and is probably missed by his "real" family (even though he's here about 80% of the time.) So:

I just got a visit from his mother, the cancer-stricken one, who had just observed me bringing Reggie home again. She drove up here ("I tried to catch you, but I can't run anymore, I can't even get down the driveway") to tell me not to do that anymore. It seems that they have three kittens that Reggie can't stand, and consequently he's something of a terror when he's trapped inside their house. She says she wants him to be happy, and anyway you can't keep a cat where he doesn't want to be (oh, really?) and Reggie's gotta be Reggie and if he's happier here, then that's fine with her. It was all a little confusing, as well as a little pathetic. I told her that I thought Reggie was a great cat and that he certainly loves being here, and her response was essentially "so be it; I have other cats anyway."

And I was actually going to the Humane Society this afternoon to get another cat. Now I'm not sure what to think, especially if Reggie/Trouble has issues getting along with other cats.

There's Good Advice for Me in Here Somewhere

Brain Is a Co-Conspirator in a Vicious Stress Loop, by Natalie Angier, New York Times, 8/17/2009, Page D2 of New York ed.

The Times has been reading my diary again:

chronic stress has been shown to raise blood pressure, stiffen arteries, suppress the immune system, heighten the risk of diabetes, depression and Alzheimer’s disease and make one a very undesirable dinner companion.

The article reports on new research that indicates that natural stress-fighting techniques can be habit-forming, even when they are no longer needed and actually may inhibit positive outcomes. In other words, chronic stress can become a self-sustaining feedback loop. No duh.

There's hope, though. It seems that rats subjected to Gitmo-like torture regimens that subsequently lost their ability to see any situation as non-stressful and turned into little automatons were able to regain their natural brain function by going on an extended stress-free vacation. That seems like a good prescription (doesn't it?), until you recognize one crucial difference between rats and humans:

In humans, though, the brain can think too much, extracting phantom threats from every staff meeting or high school dance.

I've been able to find small stress-free islands of calm and luxury, but maintaining that state is difficult. It takes a lot of focus to keep the nagging worries at bay, especially when one is engaging in a completely self-indulgent manner (such as soaking in a hot spring, my current favorite stress therapy) that holds no promise of providing a real-world way out of the rat maze.

Still, it is a little comforting to know that, when I feel better during and immediately after another 24 hours at my spa, it may be because I am better; a little bit of brain healing may have taken place.

More Blathering About the Cat

I'm sure you're all good and tired of the Reggie/Trouble saga, but I just have to post this.

As expected, he keeps coming around. I'm not sure how well-treated and/or well-loved he is at home, but he clearly expects me to feed and love him. I'm determined to not do the former and limit the latter as much as I can.

So tonight, as I've been going in and out watering the roses, he has slipped in here twice, both times going straight for the area where I used to feed him, only to be disappointed. I let him see the lack of food, and pick him up and take him back outside, closing the door in his pathetic little face.

Now he's back for a third try, this time with a fresh kill for me, clearly intended as a quid pro quo.

Must ... not ... break ... resolve...

UPDATE:
Ick. It was not a quid pro quo after all, it was a substitute dinner. And given the speed in which a whole rodent turned into a couple of entrails on my doormat, he really is a hungry kitty. Poor Reggie.

Somebody has offered Lori Drew a job

Lori Drew Requests Internet Access (by Robert Patrick, St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Aug. 6, 2009)
"Attorney H. Dean Steward wrote that Drew got a recent offer of a job that would require her to use the Internet."

I think I'm going about this job search all wrong.

No More Troubles

Trouble, aka Reggie, has been found by his rightful owner. He belongs to one of the nearest neighbors, who thought he had been consumed by a mountain lion while they were on vacation. Although I expect him to continue showing up around here, I'm not going to let him in the house or feed him anymore. *sigh*

I only wish they'd have shown up before I dropped $100 on the vet for his (unnecessary) shots.

"It’s a whole package of awful events.”

Divorce, It Seems, Can Make You Ill (by Tara Parker-Pope, New York Times, Aug. 3, 2009, page D5 of the New York edition)

Punch line: “With a divorce you’re disrupting your life, but a long-term acrimonious marriage also is very bad.”

An Aptly Named Cat

Trouble and I are just back from the vet, where the heretofore bundle of love seen at left morphed into a tiny ball of holy hell. He turns out to be a very healthy, nearly 11 pound, 3-ish year old neutered male, one who has definite ideas about what should and should not be done with needles and thermometers. After the vet took him to the "treatment area" ("to spare your arms," she said) to de-worm him and give him his shots , the offscreen ruckus was almost comical. I was genuinely surprised when the vet returned unbloodied. And yet, not five minutes after we get home, this is his demeanor.

So he is someone's pet, or at least ex-pet. I wouldn't expect the farmers here to neuter a barn cat, and he's in terrific condition with no fleas or scars or any of the other calling-cards of a stray. He could be a dumped cat, like Pippi was, but I don't know why anyone (other than a vet tech) would want to rid themselves of such a loving, mild-mannered, healthy cat. He could be a runaway, but he's been here more or less consistently for at least six weeks, and nobody has come looking for him. I'll get my landlord, who knows everyone in the valley, to ask around, but there's really not many houses in runaway-cat range, so I doubt that will turn up anything. Plus, nobody at the vet's office recognized him--and believe me, they would have, given his performance this morning--and they are the only vet in town. So it looks like he's my little bundle of joy mixed with a dash of terror.