Category: life after the apocalypse

Warning:  the following may be upsetting to some folks.  It’s always a judgement call, what to tell people, and when.  Steve and I have always been as open as possible with our readers, which means that you get the good, the bad, and the sad.

That said . . .

I was scheduled to spend some time with family this week — and in fact did spend some time with family this week, just not as much and not in the way we all would have preferred to see the thing done.

It started out pretty well on Monday.  The bunch of us met up at a glass studio in Belfast, spent a couple hours doing glass art, grabbed lunch at the Nautilus, and headed out to Bar Harbor, where family was staying.  I followed them in my car.  The plan was that I would stay until Friday, and they would stay until the Friday after that.

Once we made base, vacation things — TV, games, talk — commenced.  It was while we were all standing around the kitchen, shooting bulls, as one does, when, in the middle of Making a Point, I — folded up.  The next few minutes were exciting for everybody but me. From my perspective, one second I was talking, the next, I was looking at the floor tiles and asking, “What happened?”

That was when things got exciting for me.  My prize for beeping out in the middle of a sentence was a ride in the ambulance to the island hospital, an overnight in ER, many tests, including CAT scan, MRI, blood tests, cognitive and physical/balance tests.  When I was admitted to ER, the Operating Theory was that I had suffered a posterior stroke.  By the time I was returned to the wild, on Tuesday afternoon, the thinking was divided between soft “stroke” and hard “stress.”

I also won both the coveted “no driving” and “no alcohol” awards which are mine at least until I can see my regular doctor, on July 9.

Local friends have stepped up to offer rides to my various appointments, including the Great Rook Recovery Run, and the appointment with the PCP.

So, that happened, and things — THINGS — are more or less in-hand.  I have been motivated to update my power of attorney and my will, both of which still listed Steve as the Instrument of my Intent, should I be unable to accomplish my Fell Purposes personally.

Now we come to the sad part of this narrative.  Fans of Princess Jasmine Sprite, Mousebane, Overseer of the Daffodils, will wish to know that . . . Sprite has cancer.  It’s been very aggressive, and she has just started to take pain medication, which is sorta the beginning of the end.  For the moment, she still seeks out open windows, sunspots, and laps; is generous in sharing purrs and naps, and is Doing the Rounds.  When she lets me know it’s time, I’ll be with her.

. . . and I think that’s probably enough news for one post.

Here’s a picture of Sprite.

We here at the Cat Farm and Confusion Factory have taken a very serious step, and decided to fill the fourth slot left empty by Belle’s crossing of the Bridge, last August.

Steve and I had been discussing this step before he passed on, and I shelved it in favor of getting through the next five minutes.

Recently, the matter came up again at a board meeting, and the reasons identified in February still held.  Trooper and Sprite are Elders; Firefly needs somebody to share her energy with.

We have therefore contracted to receive a Maine Coon kitten, photo below.  He will be coming aboard in July, and we’re all very excited.  Or at least I’m very excited.  The other cats are of the opinion that this “kitten” I keep talking to them about is a Plot Point in the WIPnovel.

The kitten’s name is Rook, and already there’s a Story about him.

As I was considering the issue of a name, I thought how unfair it is that black cats are so often named for their color.  I decided that I didn’t want to do that; I wanted a good, strong name that reflected sophistication and style.  I mulled names for quite some time until (Steve) suggested Rook.  For those who don’t know, a rook is a powerful and flexible chess piece, and of course Steve had been a chess player all his life.

Rook.

I liked it.

More, I liked that it came with the nickname “Rookie,” which he certainly will be.

So, there I was, armed with a name of something that could be either black or white, chosen for its inherent virtue.  Very proud of myself, was I.

I remained proud of myself right up until my talk with the breeder this afternoon, where I shared with her my choice of name.

She immediately said, “Oh!  I like that!  I know what a rook is — it’s an English crow!” — and I realized that I had been foiled.

Regardless, Rook he shall remain, and I hope to add many Stories to this, his first.