It dawns on me, as I write this little-read blog, that readers may not know what I am talking about at times. So, a brief description…we are a household of veterans here sharing a wee bit less than a half acre and two dwellings. My husband’s nickname is the Minotaur; he is at last facing his long-standing PTSD issues from childhood and war in Viet Nam. That is him on a slab of rock somewhere in Utah.
I have three children, all grown. The eldest son, who looks like a Viking raider, is called the Manchild, or T-Rex. (The pic below, with him looking very young in his “Jayne Cobb” hat, belies his 35+ years) The youngest son is called the V-Raptor or Runaway, because that is what he did at age 14, his picture is the one with the bike and dog, in between tours of duty at war. The Runaway has moved back into our home after fifteen years away, yay! The Runaway ran away partially in grief over the suicide death of his beloved Grandfather — my alcoholic dad, and partially under the influence of his elder sister, the Middle Child, telling him that his parents should not “be the boss of him”. She is not on speaking terms with any of us, she took her minor brother out of state and abandoned him in California. No picture of her.
The Manchild is back living here since being medically discharged from the Army in 2006 and having his life destroyed further by being abandoned by his wife the Pyrite Hunter (she wouldn’t know gold from glitter if it FELL upon her). The Pyrite Hunter took his child and went home to her Mommie Drunken Dearest when the Manchild refused to re-enlist and conveniently go die in war so she could collect the life insurance. She left him three days before the surgery that ended his military career.
We also have the regular four-legged inhabitants in the two dwellings here. Two of the cats and one dog live with the Manchild. I am allergic to them. There is Zaya the German Shedder Girl, Beatrice the Enchantress, and Uncas the Terror-Kitteh. Beatrice is the slightly malevolent-looking, but extremely loving tortoiseshell, and Uncas, the harmless-looking upside down cat, is the silver clouded tabby threat even Homeland Security quails from discovering.
The Runaway’s dog “Ladybug” in the pic above lives with us now and is a sort of dog version of Lady Grantham. Also, his younger dog, Marley, keeps us on our toes with her antics.
But we couldn’t sensibly stop there, could we?
We sent the increasingly tetchy and animal-hostile Jack Samoyed back to the rescue folks who claimed he was a big fuzzy love — tho’ even they noted he liked to be like Greta Garbo “alone”. We replaced him with a rescued terrier that we named “Fen” for German “Fenster” for windows. We were supposed to be getting windows when we found the dog instead!
I have NOW moved back from my temporary lodgings in the Haven(that is me vamping it up Halloween, 2012) — a smaller work shop we converted to living space when the Manchild first came home. Our son lived there until the the Minotaur and I needed space during the first terrible part of his PTSD melt-down in 2011. On Veterans’ Day 2011, I moved to the Haven with my three ferrets: Helen, Candy, and Farley. AND NOW, in summer 2014? A huge renovation of both houses is finished at last! We are finally enjoying the Minotaur’s retirement and time in peace and quiet.
The ferrets? Helen is beside my elemental condensor bottles, either demanding magical action or more treats — could be either with her! Farley is a-snooze in the tissue paper basket, and Candy is only captured on film when utterly unconscious since at other times she resembles a milk chocolate streak of energy.
**To my recent grief, little chocolate Candy died of a sudden and inexplicable illness before we could even get her in shape for surgery to find a cause of her sudden near-anorexia. Helen, near age eleven — ancient for a woozle — is hanging tough. Farley had some of his bad teeth pulled for the New Year, but is feeling much better.
Life goes on, furry and busy!
***Life doesn’t always go on. 😦 February 23rd, 2015, I took both my beloved “cagemate” Helen, and sweet Farley to be euthanized. Helen was failing, at last just before her eleventh birthday — with adrenal cancer beginning to take her down. Farley, who had a very good year without the massive spleen, had cardiomyopathy and several other organ issues (liver and kidney) hitting him. Neither was enjoying a good quality of life, so I said goodbye and buried them beneath the stones of the Labyrinth. They were the last ferrets, an era of their rambunctious love and joyous theft is over.
I mourn. But I will go on. I am kept company by a recent (Sept 2016) gift from my sons — a little inkspot of a cat named Magpie (for her jewelry thieving ways). I admit, taking on a new pet terrifies me — other adoption events ended so badly in recent years. But she is a delight and even likes the dogs!