Wednesday, December 21, 2005

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First We're Miss Americas, Then We Grow Old & Grow Beards

I may not be able to write this if Autumn claws her way up my legs again. I already have completely pock-marked bloody legs thanks to her. I don't think I can stand anymore even though I adore my kitten. She's gazing up at Moon chowing down on her food; he must have put on ten pounds since she got here. Just to eat her food is important for him; his food is exactly the same but it's not in the same bowl or on top of the computer mouse table, therefore his food is inferior and he must eat hers.
Autumn spent half this evening snoozing in my arms on the sofa. Forget books; she thinks they're some kind of weird toy and doesn't understand why they don't move or do something entertaining. She loves the television and computer screens and all her toys. Autumn sometimes carries a stuffed animal as big as she is around in her teeth. But she's a real baby--timid, needing Mommy. I know what breeders say about purebred cats, "You know what you're getting. You can expect a certain personality." No you can't. Moon is totally outgoing and self-reliant and Autumn is people-oriented and fearful. She's not going to be happy staying with Moon for two or three weeks while we travel with only our children popping in every other day. At least, I don't think she would. It's true they're not big talkers but we'll see how the personality thing works as time goes by.
I spent most of this afternoon with Pumpkin and Bubba Freda. After Bubba's falls last week, she can't change the kitty litter or Pumpkin's water so I promised to come do it and I have been. I bought the kind of kitty litter box my guys prefer and Pumpkin seems to like it too. Pumpkin talks, not quite as much as Siamese cats I've met, but he usually comments on everything he sees or desires. Harry and I still worry about the possibility of Pumpkin vacationing or even living here. He was a terror just for Moon and Autumn is a REAL scaredy cat. Well, we really will have to see what happens as time goes by. Meanwhile, I'll drive up to Bubba's and clean out the poop with a smile on my face and a song on my lips. (As long as the shit isn't on my lips.)
Bubba Freda isn't looking good; she's going to be 85 soon and she doesn't get enough help. Even with lots of people coming to assist her, nothing is enough. She's tired; she hurts; she isn't interested in much--certainly not eating or going out. Her teeth remain in the glass; her immaculate environment isn't any longer; wild hair and a mustache adorn her. Even Harry told me about her beard; now I have to bring a shaver. I'll be going in to talk to the folks that send out services for frail old people if I can remember to get them on the phone tomorrow. Harry tried but Bubba Freda drowned him out saying she was well and could care for herself. I've seen people do that before and die for it. This is a problem, more than a challenge--the new word for corporate suits and optimistic therapists. I hope I can convince Bubba Freda to find dignity somewhere else and shut up when the social worker is there so I can get her more services.
We're the only industrialized nation who has no free health care and the only ones who treat our sickest citizens so horribly. We aren't allowed to die while living is an impossible chore every day. (I don't mean Bubba Freda should commit suicide. There just aren't enough services to keep her rolling. Whatever she gets has to be fought for tooth and nail.) This is a very mean-spirited nation.



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