So Much For Health and Transparency
It started during COVID. Politicians and their Administrations stopped publicizing statistics when the stats revealed their government was doing little or nothing to prevent spread of disease. Now, under the cover of cost reductions and eliminating fraud they are gutting the agencies that maintain the statistics and restricting publications of what few statistics are being gathered. Fortunately, private institutions and individuals are watching, keeping track, and doing their best to keep a vulnerable population informed.
British Isles: Dublin Uses Euros
We are already docked in Dublin when our alarm goes off. We had thought we would be caught up after a sea day, but no, we are not caught up and we have to meet early this morning for our excursion.
We are the first group off the boat, but it is more complicated because the boat is anchored, not docked. That means we will have the added adventure of being tendered, i.e. one of the smaller boats on board will ferry us to the docks where we will catch a bus which will take us into Dublin.
We are greeted by Sean, who is a great jokester. He looks at my ticket and my very Irish name and says “I should just hand the mike over to you!” ha ha. He had a lot of jokes, and kept us laughing all the way into Dublin where our first stop was the Cathedral of St. Patrick’s. He took us around, showing us tombs and chapels and restorations, and where the Knights of Saint Patrick were all seated, separately from other people, with their flags and helmets.
Below is a replica of the ships that took the Irish to the New World during the famine. Below you will also see statues representing the emaciated immigrants seeking shelter in our country. It is a chilling exhibit. It reminds me of the words on the base of the Statue of Liberty – “give me your tired, your poor.”
Back on the bus for a short drive around, then out to the American Ambassador’s house (just a drive by) and a toilet stop – we’re that demographic. Back in Dublin, we pass great shopping stops and Trinity College to be let off at the National Gallery.
We could go back to the ship, but we’re in Dublin. We have tickets to tour the Dublin Castle, so we ask Google to help us get there – only a 19 minute walk.
We tour the castle, an inner city castle, more of an event venue. It’s full of paintings, most on the theme of Sheherezad and the beheading of John the Baptist – dark, gruesome paintings.
The sun is out, and it is a lovely day with a nice breeze. We limp over to the Cecil Beaton museum, where I have heard there is a lovely cafe/restaurant, and indeed, there is, The Silk Road. The restaurant is popular, full, but not crowded, there are tables inside and outside. You go through a line and choose a main course, then you have a choice of three sides.
AdventureMan was holding a table, I chose a lamb moussaka, and then a beet salad, a green salad and stuffed grape leaves. The plate was heaping. I took it to the table and AdventureMan liked the look of it and I invited him to share it with me (Please, AdventureMan!) as it was way more than I could to eat so he got a knife and fork and glass of water and it dish was plenty for both of us.
As a bonus, just across from The Silk Road was a gorgeous gift shop, with truly lovely offerings, unique and artistic and yes, a little expensive but this was not the junk of the gift shops we’ve been seeing, so we found some things we liked, and for gifts, and felt very happy.
AdventureMan got us back to the Viking Shuttle pick up point, and a bus showed up right away, with double decks so they could take a lot of us, and we drove back to the docks, where we tendered back to the ship.
AdventureMan pulled out our wine and cheese, cut off some pieces and we had a few quiet minutes out on the balcony with our feet up, before I had to go to the port talk for our upcoming visit to Holyhead.
I am ashamed to tell you that not long into the port talk, I started falling asleep.
We’ve been walking well over our 10,000 steps daily. One day it was almost 18K, most days are 14K-15K. In Dublin, it was 14K by mid-afternoon. I was truly tired. Fortunately when I told our old friends how tired I was, one said “I slept through half of the presentation.” I suspect a lot of us had problems staying awake; we are all in a demographic that may nap regularly back home.
I did take a short nap back in the cabin, waking when AdventureMan tapped me and said “Honey, I don’t want you to have problems sleeping tonight.” We got to the restaurant around the same time as our friends, and our conversation and laughter revived me.
This is our first cruise where we are traveling with friends. Not as a group, but we’ve met up. Sometimes we are on the same tour, sometimes not. Sometimes we attend the same lectures, sometimes not. We tend to meet up most nights for dinner, and occasionally for lunch. It has worked out well. We have lively discussions, interrupted by trips to the salad bar or soup or ice cream, we disuss what we’ve seen and how we feel about it. We discuss our feelings about how we are changing as aging adults, how our families are growing and changing. We never seem to run out of great topics. It has become a good part of why every day of this trip is one of our best days.
British Isles: We Transfer to the Viking Jupiter
Morning came too early, the bag handlers must have started with our room! Promptly at six, the bell rang and AdventureMan had to struggle out of bed to let them in. Fortunately we were able to get back to sleep, and slept until our alarm went off. We headed down to breakfast – no room for us! We had to wait for a table, about twenty minutes, and we had not factored that in. By the time we finished, we barely had time to rush back to our room, gather our carry-ons, and head down to the hotel lobby where we were just in time. As AdventureMan checked out, our group was called. I was one of the first to board the bus and headed to a seat halfway back where we like to sit for the unimpeded view. Just behind me another couple, who as they sat behind us said a little sourly “you got our favorite seat.” Oooh kay. AdventureMan found me, and we had an hour long ride to Tilbury, not Greenwich, where the fun began.
First, we have great admiration for and understanding of the logistics involved in last minute changes, so the awkwardness of the explanations and arrangements were not surprising, but the London Cruise Port was not ready to board a few hundred people. Our buses were stacked up, and after the one hour drive, we sat another hour on the bus. Some of the passengers got testy and argumentative, and finally they let a lucky few off to find the toilets, with the understanding that they must come right back.
Our group was called, not to line up but to sit in the terminal. Maybe fifteen minutes later (we learned there was another couple from Pensacola on board) our area was called to process in – or embark, as they call it. That process was quick, with one surprise, we had to surrender our passports, which we never do, for British immigration and customs.
And then we boarded another bus which took us to a dismal part of the port, surrounded by piles of stones and dirt and cranes and bulldozers and roll on roll off containers and thousands of Hyundai cars awaiting delivery to dealerships.
We were disappointed. We had made plans for Greenwich. We unpacked, put everything away – it’s easy on Viking, we ask for the same stateroom every trip and we know where everything goes already, so unpacking is quick. We decided to go to the pool grill, where a better me would have ordered the seared ahi tuna, but the spoiled baby disappointed me ordered comfort food, the Viking hamburger. With fries!
To further soothe ourselves, when we got back to our room we went down to the gorgeous Viking spa, the only people there, and let the hot bubbling wave pool soothe our disappointment, then we napped.
We have old friends on board! We met up for dinner; these are the kind of friends that, even though we haven’t seen one another for three years, the conversation picks right up where we left off and just keeps going. We ate in the World Cafe, picking and choosing from a fabulous welcome buffet, lots of seafood, crab and shrimp and mussels! There was also a sweet potato soup with ginger that was out of this world, and of course, a choice of ten different ice creams. It’s one of the most popular places on the ship, casual with a luxury of choices.
Bernie, who, with Augustina, below, took good care of us and were a joy to know on the Viking Jupiter.
After dinner, the ship repositions to the main terminal, grand entertainment as we turned in tight quarters, then slid through a tiny canal to the locks leading to the River Thames. It took a couple of hours to complete the process. Out on our balconies, we met our neighbors on both sides, Will and Kate on one side. We dock with our cabin facing the terminal, an old-timey building with a clock tower on top.
Look how close the ship is to the canal edge!
Here is the truth. We were disappointed. We had been told we would be docked in Greenwich; Tillbury is a ways down the road from Greenwich, and more distant from London. We were prepared for Greenwich. We were both a little disgruntled, and aware of how very spoiled we are. Another truth is, until I re-read the journal I kept, and saw the photos, I had forgotten about this altogether, it was such a small disappointment in proportion to the great adventures we had in London and the greater adventures to come. We forgot about it!
Delinquent and Begging Forgiveness
It is five p.m. Pensacola Time, this 30th day of December, and I am starting a new series of posts, a trip we took in August to the British Isles, ending in Bergen, Norway.
While I am still the same Intlxpatr you remember from back in 2006 – yes, almost 20 years ago, I have aged. I still feel the same on the inside, but there are hints even I cannot ignore. I have slowed down. I have given up things that might damage me, like skiing and ice skating, and walking too fast on slick surfaces. Like staying up late at night to finish a book. Like eating too late at night, and cooking for large crowds.
None of this happened quickly, and most of happened unconsciously. We used to joke about becoming “elderly” and we don’t joke about that anymore, or we joke about it differently, with more respect.
We still love to travel, but we travel differently, too. Today I started to plan a trip to the Big Bend National Park in Texas, and to some petroglyph sites north of there, and when I went to plot the map, I discovered it was 1100 miles. When we got to Pensacola, 15 years ago, we might do that in two days, like making a stop in Houston or Fredricksburg, but now, we don’t travel like that. We fly places, rent cars, spend more time in one location. As I looked at the map and the distances, my heart sank. We could do it – and we would pay a price. I sighed, and started looking at other options.
When we finished trips, I might give myself a month or so to sort through the photos and to integrate what I had seen and learned, and then I would start writing and not stop until I had finished up the trip, a day or two. This is the first year I have not written up any trips, and so I will start with this one, The British Isles.
It’s been on the books for three years. We like to plan. We like to research. We weren’t as excited about this trip as others (almost anything on the Mediterranean). It turned out to be one of the best cruises yet.
And there were differences. We had planned to take it easy – we didn’t. This trip was so packed with destinations, we were on the run every day. We booked ahead for early tours at our destinations, so there wasn’t a lot of sleeping in. I had books with me, but the only reading I got done was on the airplanes, going and coming back. There were days, I am embarrased to admit, when we woke up and had to check what day it was and which city, which country we were in. There is one day that I uploaded photos, ran short of time, thought I had saved them, carefully deleted from my camera and disk, then discovered I had lost two days worth of photos. Fortunately I had also taken some on my camera, and Adventureman to the rescue – he had taken some beautiful photos.
All I’m saying is that I am confronted by some realities I never dreamed would apply to me. Uncomfortable realities relating to energy levels, bone density, conditions that only applied to The Elderly. Oh. Wait.
So we are traveling a little differently now, maybe just a little slower, definitely lighter, expecting less of ourselves and truthfully, enjoying it more. AdventureMan told me tonight he has noticed over the years I am putting in less written content and more photos. Sadly, it’s because sometimes I can’t remember! Sometimes I just get tired of writing! But I am committing to sharing this trip with you, starting now.
The map at the top is the route we followed. We gave ourselves two days in London to adjust to the time change before joining the Viking Jupiter. I may be rueful about aging, and less compultive about posting, but we really loved our time on this voyage.
When the News is Personal
MARTYRS OF THE SUDANS
(16 May 1983)
Photo From the Episcopal News Service
The Christian bishops, chiefs, commanders, clergy and people of Sudan declared, on May 16, 1983, that they would not abandon God as God had revealed himself to them under threat of Shariah Law imposed by the fundamentalist Islamic government in Khartoum. Until a peace treaty was signed on January 9, 2005, the Episcopal Church of the Province of the Sudan suffered from persecution and devastation through twenty-two years of civil war. Two and a half million people were killed, half of whom were members of this church. Many clergy and lay leaders were singled out because of their religious leadership in their communities. No buildings, including churches and schools, are left standing in an area the size of Alaska. Four million people are internally displaced, and a million are scattered around Africa and beyond in the Sudanese Diaspora. Twenty-two of the twenty-four dioceses exist in exile in Uganda or Kenya, and the majority of the clergy are unpaid. Only 5% of the population of Southern Sudan was Christian in 1983. Today over 85% of that region of six million is now mostly Episcopalian or Roman Catholic. A faith rooted deeply in the mercy of God has renewed their spirits through out the years of strife and sorrow.
From the proposal before the 75th General Convention
We have a friend in South Sudan, Manyan Debid Mayer. We met him with a delegation of African Journalists here in Pensacola looking at Freedom of the Press with Gulf Coast Diplomacy. He came to our house, with two other African delegates, shortly before Christmas, and we had a lovely and memorable evening together sharing our stories.
Manyan Debid told us about his childhood, as the Janjaweed attacked in Sudan, and how very suddenly, often in the middle of the night, an entire village would have to evacuate, carrying only what they could carry on their backs. It was chaotic, terrifying – and deadly. Villages would be burned and razed to the ground.
The villagers would run towards the missions in Uganda for safety. Sometimes families got separated. The children found shelter, and care, at the missions while they waited to be reunited with their desperate parents. At the missions, the priests would teach the children the basics, using a stick, and drawing letters, shapes and numbers on the ground. Manyan Debid, now a journalist, got his start with those very basic lessons at the mission churches.
We Americans know so little. Few even know where South Sudan is, or that it is a separate nation from Sudan, one of the newest nations in the world.
I got caught in a comical situation as I tried to wire funds to Manyan Debid once during continued difficulties in South Sudan. I went to my bank and asked them to wire x amount of money to my friend. They looked at me oddly. They called the bank manager, and had hushed conversations. The manager came in and interrogated me very gently, asking how I know this person, did he contact me over the internet, how often did he ask me for money, questions that were none of his business – except, as it turns out, it was. They thought I was an old lady being scammed by some internet scammer. Did I even know, they asked me, that Sudan was on the restricted countries list?
I explained equally gently and firmly that South Sudan is a separate country from Sudan, and how I knew this man, how we had met in Pensacola through a visit arranged by the Department of State, how he had been a guest in my house and that we had corresponded as friends, on Facebook for years. They didn’t believe me. They didn’t believe there was a separate country called South Sudan. At the end, I finally had to tell them it was MY money, and that I could send him this amount and even if it were a scammer, it would not hurt me. Very reluctantly, they wired the funds to my friend.
Manyan Debid and I are still in touch. Today, he is a working journalist in South Sudan, still bravely facing the forces who would like to take South Sudan, and all its oil wealth, and destroy the existence of South Sudan.
There are still martyrs in South Sudan. And most Americans don’t even know South Sudan exists.
Morocco Malta and the Med: Tunisian Interlude
We aren’t just sailing away from Malta. We are sailing toward a part of our history, and please pardon that these photos are not that great; I don’t even know what kind of camera we were using and they are now very old.
We lived in Tunis for two years, courtesy of the US Government, wanting us to be linguistically and culturally more fluent. For me, it was scary at first – coming from Monterey, CA and entering into what seemed to be a very alien culture.
It began a great leap in opening our visions to other ways of thinking.
Below is our old villa – I am showing you this because when we went to visit it, it looked entirely different.
Our son went to a local Pre-School, Joie de Vivre, the Joy of Life 😊. This is his class photo.
AdventureMan on our back porch, where we often ate. We only had air conditioning in our bedrooms. The candelabras (there were two) were made for us in Binzerte.
My French teacher, Madame Huguette Curie invited us into her culture; she lived on Avenue Habib Bourgiba in a palatial apartment and had this seaside cottage where we could swim and picnic together. She was beautiful and cultured, and helped us learn about and love our time in Tunisia.
My parents came to visit, and we had a wonderful time showing them Tunisia. This was at the Ampitheatre in El Jem.
We camped in desolate areas – now built up – in our Volkswagon Bus.
Once a year, there was a Bedouin festival in Douz (where much of the original Star Wars was filmed.) We camped there, too, and have never been colder in our lives than in the Tunisian desert in late November.
The Camel Market in Nabuel was a great weekend favorite.
So my friends, on! on! We are on our way back to Tunis, 46 years later.
Morocco Malta and the Med: Our First Lucky Day
Everything had gone so smoothly. All our preparations, packing, the taxi driver lined up. And then, just before we are to leave home, a text from Air France, cancelling our flight with them and putting us on a Delta flight. Not a tragedy, but a disappointment; we always try to book Air France because their service is so welcoming, the food is delightful, and we just feel like the vacation starts as soon as we step aboard. So we know we will have to deal with it when we get to the airport.
We are checking in, and explain to the Delta check-in lady that we had the text, which had not yet shown up on her machine. She started poking around, and said “Mind if I make a phone call?” and we said “no, go ahead” and she talked with someone somewhere and looked at us and said “How would you like to fly directly from Atlanta to Barcelona?”
“YES!” we chimed together! We had wanted that direct flight, but Viking Air had said it was not possible. With just a few flicks of her fingers on the keys, it was entirely possible. Wow! We were blown away. We would get in several hours earlier than we had thought; more time in Barcelona!
What we didn’t know at the time was that we would not be sitting together, but it didn’t matter. We had a great flight, got some sleep and landed hours early in Barcelona.
For some reason, the bags took forever to get from the plane to the baggage delivery, like a full hour. We picked up my bag (AdventureMan did his entire trip out of his carry-on and backpack) and headed out to meet up with the Viking transport.
Two people with clipboards looked for our names – and we were not there! Finally a third person said “Oh! I’ve been looking for you; you are on our bus and we are leaving now!” so we went with a very small group to the bus. It was a small bus, filled mostly with elderly passengers with mobility issues, and us. We got to the Nobu hotel very quickly, and checked in.
“We’ve given you a very large room,” the porter said, and it was. We had a large sleeping area, a separate sunny sitting room, a dressing room/office, and a generous bathroom. It felt very spacious.
We settled in, took a brief rest, then headed out to get to know our neighborhood. AdventureMan had spotted a circular something, a mall, on the map near the Plaza d’Espana and wanted to go see what it was. I was actually not enthusiastic, but once we got walking I perked up and was glad for the exercise and the fresh air.
This was the circular “thing” on the map, and it was a mall, it had an elevator to the top, and we later learned that it was once a bullfighting arena, turned into a mall after years of neglect. They really did a great job; this was a fun place to explore.
We never felt unsafe on this trip. In Barcelona, police and emergency people were everywhere. This was a car and motorcycle collision, and they were there within minutes.
This is the arena / mall, and the round thing is the elevator to the top floor. As we were digging for change to pay for the trip we spotted a sign that said something like over 65 is free. There was a couple in front of us (I think also American) who were trying to insist on paying, so she just waived us through and continued trying to explain to them that they could go for free while we went straight to the top.
Inside the mall, things were happening. There were all kinds of stores you would find very familiar – American food chains and coffee shops. The place was packed with young people having something quick and fried at the end of the day. These kids were playing some kind of game where you step on clouds that form and reform in some kind of computer-generated way.
At the top, you could walk entirely around the whole arena, viewing the whole city. In the center of the circle were all kinds of restaurants. First, we had a great view of the Plaza d’Espana.
Just behind the very tall blue building in the center is the Nobu Hotel. To the left, off the busy main street, are quiet, bustling side streets we also got to explore.
Sagrada Familia is continuously under construction. Every time we visit, the date for completion has slipped further into the future.
I love seeing how people live. Imagine having this penthouse apartment with this little lap pool high above the city.
What tourism people will tell you is that Mount Tibidabo is an amusement park, but I can’t wait to get back to Barcelona and to visit this place – the tower on the right is part of the early Barcelona water system, and is supposed to be elegantly beautiful as well as functional. Guides in the area tell us that the church can be visited for free, and the art inside is stunningly beautiful, and the views from the top of the church – yes, you can go up there – encompass all of Barcelona, and too, are stunning. Worth a trip. (So many good reasons to visit Barcelona.)
We walked right by this park going to the arena and returning to our hotel, a park with installations by Miro’!
This is what the walking path on the top of the arena looks like, and on our right is the top of the elevator from base to top. To the left you see a couple of the restaurants – there are many – at the top.
So it’s 4:30 in the afternoon and we are starving and tired. While normally we shun touristic places, tonight we are ready for any port in the storm. We find A BrassaMe (I haven’t a clue what that means) which is open and already serving people, and they welcome us inside. And they have wine, and a view of the setting sun.
We are surprised most of the customers are Spanish and maybe local. Our waiter is very kind. We ask him to help us with choosing a good wine. We know we want to try some of the common tapas – bread with tomato, patatas bravas, I want to try fidua, a noodly disk kind of like paella, and he suggests a couple others, one a “bombe” (a potato filled with highly spiced ground meat) and something which we cannot identify but we think might be a deep fried fish of some kind. Doesn’t matter. It was a lot of fun, we ordered way too much food and it didn’t cost near what we pay in Pensacola for far less.
Bear with me, interiors interest me. I love the way this restaurant has capitalized on the view and the sunset. I love the sort of Miro-esque pipes in the ceiling.
I like the quiet elegant seclusion of this private dining room.
I love this bathroom. In modest, modern Spain, none of this silliness about bathrooms. Adults share the same room, doors are marked sort of ambiguously and people use whichever is free. How very grown up.
Our waiter is from Argentina, came here to find work and loves his life in Barcelona.
This is found everywhere – bread with tomato. He tells us that everything has to go on in a particular order.
This was the delicious spicy bombe.
These are another Spanish favorite, Patatas Bravas, kind of deep fried potatoes with tomato sauce or garlic sauce.
We’re pretty sure this was fish. Have you noticed how much food there is? We thought tapas were SMALL plates. We never saw a small plate of tapas in Spain.
I really liked this – Fidua. It’s kind of like rice-a-roni, little thin noodles cooked in a seafood broth, so tasty and delicious.
l love sunsets and sunrises and am more than a little uneasy about the sulphuric haze we found in most Mediterranean seaports.
Well-fed and well-wined, we rolled our way back to the hotel and managed showers before we fell, exhausted, into bed after a day full of good surprises. We slept straight through to morning.
Saying Goodbye to Al Marai Coffee Cups
All my nomadic life, I have had to sift, sort and weigh the value of my belongings – literally. As an Army wife and later a corporate wife, I had a weight allowance as we moved from country to country. My life was full of leaving things behind – friends, churches, social groups, jobs, my identity – as well as belongings.
Unlikely items made the cut. In 2003, when we moved to Doha, Qatar, I discovered a nearby store, the LuLu (which means lovely large pearl), where a gallon of Al Rifai milk came with a free coffee cup sturdily taped to it. I was delighted. I’ve always believed good design does not necessarily correlate with price – and these cups were a perfect size and had these wonderful scenes from Doha life, where there was a dhow harbor in the center of town, dhows in the harbor, and camel races with human riders on Saturdays. Look! The dhow coffee cup even has a wind tower in the background.
So yesterday, Christmas Day, as I opened two beautiful new coffee cups, one from Giverney and one from Barcelona, my husband looked at me sorrowfully, and approached the subject gently.
“It’s time we give up the Doha coffee cups,” he said.
“They have served us well. They are over 20 years old. They were free, probably made in China from materials we don’t even want to think about. I use them all the time, and even as I do, I wonder what might be leaching into my drink.”
I know he is right. There is no marking of any kind to indicate origin. After all these years, marks are appearing where we have stirred for twenty years. And yet – these cups have served me loyally. They are still bright and unmarred. I love their memorialization of a slower time in Doha. And I have options.
At Christmas breakfast, I have the cups out on display and offer them to my son. He is a discerning collector of first editions by selected authors, first edition Legos from the space exploration collections, edged weapons, and selected items that catch his attention. He also knows how to buy and sell on the Internet when he wants to refine his collections.
He expresses interest but does not take them with him. Their departure, however, is Christmas Day chaotic – bags full of presents, the food divided to be used for quick meals in the coming week (even our grandchildren contributed to our Christmas Eve dinner, my grandson a crab dip and my granddaughter a wreath made of crescent roll wrapped little smokies. My son, who was never interested in cooking, astonished us with a baked Brie!) and last-minute check-ins on upcoming family plans.
I am a patient woman. I know those cups deserve to find new appreciation in a new home. I believe my son will get involved but if not, I have other options.
Update: This is what it is like to be me. It is not that I am getting older, it is that I will tell you things I believe to be true, and they are close, but not the same.
My friend Yusuf, below, said he thought it must be Al Marai, and that sounded familiar. AdventureMan said maybe really we should keep the cups, and as he handled them, He found Al Marai logos on the cups. Not just one. Two on each cup.
In our family, we are all very very sure we are right. When we are not right, we are required to humbly state it. I was wrong, so very very wrong; the cups were labeled, Al Marai, not Al Rifai, and YOU, Yusef and AdventureMan, were RIGHT.
And we are keeping the cups!
What Love Looks Like at 76
I’m on my way down to restock the Little Free Library and pass AdventureMan, who always asks me why I love him. It’s hard to keep it fresh. It’s hard to find new answers to that question, but this time, it’s right there in front of me.
“Who likes to clean out the litter box?” I ask. He looks puzzled.
“No-one!” I answer my own question, but I continue “I love you because you clean out the litter box in hot humid weather, even when you don’t want to, and give the cats a nice clean place to poop! I love you because you do it faithfully, and I don’t have to do it! It’s not romantic, but I consider it TRUE LOVE!”
It makes him laugh. I am not the romantic young bride he met in Heidelberg and married six weeks later. I am pragmatic and grounded. I know what matters.
We have always had cats. I used to do the litter boxes, and when I got pregnant, he took it over because pregnant women can get a disease that can infect the baby. Around when our son turned 18 he had a perplexed look on his face and asked me “just how long after the baby is born can you scoop litter again?” and we both laughed.
True love is bigger than diamonds or white roses or wonderful perfume. True love is scooping the cat litter and cleaning out the litter boxes. Thank you, AdventureMan.
Ghosted – A Happy Ending
Our housekeeper, staying in our house as we travel, sent this photo to us the day after we left Pensacola. This old, wobbly, emaciated cat showed up hungry! She fed him and asked me what we wanted to do.
We’ve never seen this cat before. We have a flock of known outdoor cats we help, and this isn’t one of them. This cat appears wretched. We asked that she continue to feed him, and add some beef broth to make sure he gets enough hydration. She checks with a mutual friend, a cat consultant with Everett Animal Welfare group, who gives us advice.
When we return, he is still alive, and looking a little better, we think. We take him to the vet; the vet requires a name and we decide to call him Sunny, for his always loving and uncomplaining personality.
The vet has sad news. He runs all the tests, the cat is negative for feline AIDS, and other diseases, but his thyroid is shot and his kidneys are on their last legs. He is not microchipped. There is nothing the vet can do, and he tells us to make Sunny comfortable and enjoy these last weeks of his life.
Sunny can barely walk, but he doesn’t know he is sick. He bleeds from the mouth, his teeth hurt him so we buy him special food. He never tucks right into his food, he always politely demands we pet him around the head and scratch under his chin. He rolls on the ground and fondles our shoes. Then he eats. And eats. And eats. He also drinks, but because he is so arthritic, we provide a bucket for him so he doesn’t have to bend down. We are happy, because while he is not strong, he does not appear terminal, and he does not appear to have pain, other than he can barely walk.
And then, last night, he disappeared.
From the day he came, he has not moved around too much, other than to be a little private in his eliminations. When we leave, we always check to see where he is and run for the car. Sometimes, if he is under AdventureMan’s car, we take my car. He is always there, and rises to greet us when we return. He greeted us when we returned from lunch yesterday. I saw him sleeping around 3. And then, we never saw him again.
He didn’t show up for his dinner (!!!) and he wasn’t helping AdventureMan with watering the plants. He was gone, as mysteriously as he had appeared. Ghosted.
He broke AdventureMan’s heart, who had quickly bonded with Sunny. He was up and down all night, checking hopefully to see if he had returned. I was sure he would show up this morning, hungry for breakfast, but no Sunny.
I was just putting away the ironing board when AdventureMan came running out this morning saying “You are NOT going to believe this.” He had his phone in his hand, but I thought maybe he had seen Sunny outside. No, he hadn’t. But he had sent a text to our up-the-hill neighbor, asking her to keep an eye out for this emaciated old cat we had been taking care of.
Her response was astonishing. “That’s Marvin!” she texted. He had disappeared when we left for Paris, and they had been looking for him. Then they got really sick with COVID and had to take care of themselves and lost hope of ever seeing Marvin again. And Marvin returned home yesterday!
I remembered Marvin – a big, fat, fluffy cat who ran around their yard in the company of their ancient aunt, who adored him. That this tiny (maybe 3 – 4 pounds) cat could be Marvin was a shocker, but happy news.
This Sunny, who turns out to be Marvin, is safely home. No wonder he is such a happy cat – he is 18 years old and has been loved all his life. His appearance at our house was a mystery – how could such a weak cat get to our house? Could he have been dumped? The mystery is solved, our neighbor is ecstatic, and we are happy to know that Sonny/Marvin will live and end his life in comfort and a loving environment. She’s glad he was taken care of during the weeks of is absence. I call that a happy ending.
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