tuli, rip

I hate to write obituaries for our cats. And it's especially painful when the cat dies young. Very young.

We got Tuli for Asher last summer after Eighteen died. He was born last April, so he was only about ten months old when he passed. Based on our conversation with the vet, Tuli probably had a heart attack in his sleep, and passed away without suffering. So at least there's that.

Tuli was a charmer. He was always curious about whoever came through the door, and I don't recall anyone being immune to his charms. Alla, the lay who comes to clean once a week would tell me about how Tuli was her little buddy, following her around the house as she went about her cleaning. And, as much as he kept himself busty with his cat activities, he always made sure to do them in a room where he could be near his people, keeping an eye on them and making sure to be a part of the pack.

But he gave his most ardent devotion to Asher. He had his special chair in Asher's room, where he would sit for hours watching Asher sleep, or do stuff on his computer.

We will miss Tuli. 

more cats and more names

 Some time ago, I posted a list of names of cats we have had. It's been a while and there have been a few new cats. So it's time to post an updated list. Following is the text of the prior list, updated with the new names. As before, these names are in chronological order. Copper is the last cat that was on the old list. The new entries start with Wilko

• Bungee: When I first brought this cat home, I started playing with her. The way she went after a string toy, she looked like she was bungee-jumping.
• Speck: One of his distinguishing features was his pink nose with a black speck on it.
• Lena: Ethan picked out the name Lena. I have no idea why.
• Hrothgar: Ethan was studying Beowulf when we got this cat, and I really liked the names of the characters.
• Tiger: This one looked like a miniature tiger.
• Morgan: We got Morgan used, so I have no idea how he got his name.
• Red: He had a beautiful red coat so we started calling him "Red." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Cream: He had a beautiful creamy coat so we started calling him "Cream." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Snowflake: She was white, so...
• Spiderman: This was Asher's first cat. He was into Spiderman and had picked out the name before the cat was even born.
• 18: Asher was understandably upset after Spiderman died as a kitten (while we were in Florida). As a way of consoling him on the thousand-plus mile drive home, we talked about him getting another cat. When we asked what he would name it, he suggested "Please Don't Die, Baby." That seemed a bit awkward. 18 is a lucky number in Judaism as it symbolizes life*, so I suggested that it would be a good substitute. I'm very glad that Asher went for it.
  
• Wiglaf: This name was another name from to Beowulf.
• Copper: He had a beautiful copper coat.
• Wilko: Named after British guitarist, Wilko Johnson, who was in the original ,lineup of Dr. Feelgood.
• Copic: Named after Sharon's favorite brand of professional quality markers
• Bugsy: Named for Bugs Bunny
• Tarantula: I'm not sure how Josh came up with that name. The alternative was "Brick," which I prefer.
• Tuli: "Tuli" is a diminutive form of "Khatool" which is the Hebrew word for cat. So "Tuli" is, essentially, "Kitty."
  

wilko in mourning?

Wilko has developed this habit of crying over fuzzy toys.

In the video above, it's a bunch of feathers that had been tied to the end of a stick. Sometimes it's a fuzzy glove. Sometimes it's a sock.

Sometimes she'll hunch over with the toy between her front paws. Sometimes she'll carry it around. But she keeps meowing miserably. And she'll do it for a long time. I started the video above about a half hour after she started.  And she continued long after I stopped recording.

I have to wonder if she had a kitten who died?

inked

Sharon went and got herself inked. As much as I wish she hadn't, I have to admit that I don't hate the damn tattoo as much as I thought I would.

I grew up with a strong visceral negative reaction to tattoos. In part, they weren't as mainstream then as they are now. But in addition, I grew up in a Jewish household and, culturally, tattoos were not a thing. It's not just a matter of religious law -- there are lots of religious laws that don't feel compelled to follow. But for many nonreligious Jews, tattoos are in a class separate from eating pork or driving on Saturdays. There is, after all, a widespread belief that if you have a tattoo you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery. For the record, that belief is incorrect.

And some of my objections are purely practical. For example, I remember my high school yearbook photo. When it came time to choose a quote to go under my picture, I chose something that I thought was very clever and funny. I was sure that, decades later, when I looked back at it I'd smile at my creativity. In the event, I cringe and wonder how I could have done that. Considering that, I can't help wondering how much worse it would be if that clever quote had been permanently inked into my body.

I saw it -- Sharon's desire to get a tattoo -- coming. She hasn't exactly been secretive about it. There was a stretch that she was sure she wanted to be a tattoo artist when she grew up, and she has made money designing tattoos for other people. Also, a lot of her online friends (some of whom she has met in person) are inked. And she doesn't have the same reaction to tattoos that I have, and she's confident that -- even decades later -- she will still love her tattoo. At least I can take some comfort in the fact that it's a small ankle tattoo that won't interfere with her ability to get a "straight" job (assuming that's what she wants at some point).

And I have to admit that her design -- soot sprites from Miyazaki's Spirited Away is actually a decent design. I really want to hate it more than I actually do. But if you see her, don't tell her that. Just tell her that I hate it.

copic

 And, a month after I brought Wilko home as my new used cat, the family has a new addition: Sharon's kitten, Copic.

Technically, she's "The Brewery Copic," because the cattery we got her from is registered as "The Brewery" and that's the naming convention. She's a British Shorthair, a breed that's way less floofy and more chonky than Maine Coons -- my preferred breed. But this wasn't about me or what breed I want. It was about Sharon. I point with pride to the fact that both of Copic's parents were grand champions, but Sharon doesn't care about that.

Copic definitely has an alpha personality, and it's not hard to see that she will eventually be the top cat here. But for now she's mostly trying to get used to the place. She spends most of her time in Sharon's room, which is perfect. For a couple days, Sharon was keeping the door closed, so Copic could only leave when Sharon took her out for a tour. By now, though, the door's open. So Copic spends some time exploring. She's ventured into the office a lot to look around while I work from home. But when something spooks her she runs back to Sharon's. And apparently she spends her nights in Sharon's bed. So the bonding is well underway.

And, during the day, when she's not exploring she's hanging out with Sharon, taking over the desk.

And, damn she's a cutie. 

wilko, part iii

This is a quick follow-up about Wilko the used Maine Coon I got a little over a month ago. For anyone
reading this now who wants some background, my earlier posts are here and here. 

Att this point I can happily say that Wilko has integrated into the family. She walks around the house like she owns the place. And, best of all, she acts like I'm her person. I described her behavior in a series of texts to a friend:

Such a transformation. When I work from home she spends a lot of the day hanging out in the office with me. Some of it just chilling under my desk near my feet. Sometimes she gets up and kind of walks around me, rubbing against my legs. I think that in her old home she wasn't allowed on the tables. When I see her on the dining room table and come over to pet her she runs in a panic. She lets me pick her up, but won't stay on my lap. So I pick her up and lap-put her, but she jumps down. The thing is, she doesn't run away. She gets down and stays with me.

So she has gotten to the point of normal cat behavior. I consider this a victory.

I feel kind of sheepish about being so happy to have her, my own kitten in a house full of other cats. Blair notes that I've wanted my own cat for quite a while, and having Wilko around makes me happier.

Of course, on Sunday Sharon is getting her new kitten, Copic. I have seen the pictures, and Copic is very cute. But I'll have to resist the lure of the kitten's siren song. While everyone else in the family makes a fuss over her, I'll have to stick with Wilko and give her my attention.

wilko, continued

A few weeks ago I wrote about my new used cat, Wilko. I figure we're due for an update.

Wilko still needs more time to fully integrate herself into the family, but she's making progress. To put things in context, I picked her up from her prior home on May 5, and posted about it on May 6.

In the few weeks since, we've spent a lot of energy trying to get her comfortable. She quickly found the basement, and for the longest time she didn't want to leave it. She spent most of her time hiding behind the boiler. It became clear that wants attention but is scared. Sharon could coax her out for pats, and she would occasionally relax enough to truly play. She would also let Blair pet her, but not as much. She was much slower to warm up to me, though I could coax her out with Friskies Party Mix. But with all of us, any sudden move would startle her back into hiding.

By now, she will sometimes come out of the basement to explore or to watch us, but she's still very cautious, and ready to run away if anything startles her. And she startles easily.

On the plus side, she's not hurting anybody or urinating anywhere inappropriate. Her fear is only hurting her. So I guess we can deal with it as she slowly warms up to us. I just with she would warm up faster.

love, worms and game theory

 A bit of game theory this morning...

Sharon asked me if I would still love Blair even if she turned into an earthworm. Of course I would, I told her, before asking where that question came from. Not that I should have asked -- I tend to come up with stupid questions like that a lot. But apparently this was some kind of internet thingy where people answer that question about their spouses.

She wasn't sure about my confident response. How can I be so sure that I would love Blair-as-earthworm?

But I explained that answering the question properly is really an exercise in game theory. Promising to love Blair even if she becomes an earthworm makes Blair happy* and therefore makes me happy. And there's really no downside to the answer.

"But," Sharon followed up, "if she does turn into a worm, you're stuck with that promise."

It's true, I admitted, that the downside is pretty bad. But there's a very low probability -- I would venture to say nearly 0% -- of such a terrible eventuality. So, weighing the outcomes by their likelihoods, I think I gave the right answer.

___________________________________
*Truth be told, Blair is very unromantic, and is not into grand gestures such as this. Since she considers it very unlikely that she'll turn into a worm, she doesn't spend time worrying about whether I'd still love her. But for the sake of this blogpost let's assume that she cared very deeply about my response.

wilko

When your wife says "I probably shouldn't show you this," you know it's something you want to see. In this case it was a social media post from CoonAlley, a cat breeder in southern New Jersey. She had two retired female Maine Coons that she was looking to rehome.

Ever since Wiglaf disappeared some years (six?) ago, I've wanted another cat. One of my own. Each of the kids has a cat.* But I haven't had my own since Wiggy.

Ethan has taken every opportunity to push me to get a cat. When Sharon's classmate enlisted her to help rehome a stray, Ethan wanted me to adopt it. When our breeder told Sharon there was a litter she could pick from, Ethan urged me to ask about getting one of them for myself. Though I have been repeatedly tempted, I have resisted the urge.

But this time it just seemed right. Or not. I didn't really want to get another cat right now. But I had to look. And, damn, those two cats were beautiful. One in particular, a four-year-old named Fancy, caught my attention.

Some text messages followed. And a phone call. I told CoonAlley that the breeder at The Brewery (another Cattery in New Jersey) would vouch for me. And so, I spent Thursday taking a six hour round trip drive to pick up a used cat.

I need to admit that I wasn't crazy about the name Fancy, so I had to rename her. I gave plenty of consideration to lots of candidates. These included such possibilities as Brilleaux, 20% Zdarma, Lotsalegs, Fek'lhr and Brisket. But somehow Wilko** just seemed right.

Right now, Wilko is not a happy girl. Pulled from her home and the people and cats she has known, she was taken to a new house with people and cats she doesn't know. We've been trying to give her space, but slowly ease her into the family.

When we got her home she didn't want to leave the carrier. So she spent most of last night in the back of the carrier, in my bedroom. By this morning she had moved, and had positioned herself in a corner, under an armoir. She spent most of the day in the office near me, but cowering under the desk. She's a little more relaxed by now, but still not happy. She seems to like getting stroked under the chin, she let me pull the gunk out of the corners of her eyes and sometimes as I brush her she looks up with an almost-not-unhappy look in her eye. It'll take some more time, but I think she'll get used to us.

In the meantime, world, say hello to Wilko.

_______________________________

*Technically, Sharon doesn't; her cat, Cream, died last year. But we've been in touch with a breeder and Sharon will be brining home her next cat, Copic, next month.

**After Wilko Johnson, the original guitarist for one of my all-time favorite bands, Dr. Feelgood.

sharon's cover art (new yorker edition) part ii

This is kind of a follow up to yesterday's post in which I shared a The New Yorker magazine cover design Sharon made for her illustration class.

When I posted it, I was unaware that the class assignment was to create sketches of three covers. Since they could make the covers about New York City or about politics, Sharon chose to create one of each and one that combined elements of both. Also, because they were supposed to do "sketches" which would be edited and cleaned up after they get feedback from the instructor. And that's why they may seem not quite complete.

All three are below. Sharon also showed me what some of her classmates submitted. Personally, I think hers are better than any of the others. But I'm biased. Of course, the fact that I'm biased doesn't mean I'm wrong.

The New York element of this first one is obvious:

This one combines a rat (the official animal of the New York subway) with a sunflower (which is a symbol of Ukraine):

And back to the one I posted yesterday, the Ukrainian flag with lots of animals on it:

sharon's cover art (new yorker edition)

 Not much to say here except that I'm doing the proud show-offy dad thing.

Sharon's illustration class was assigned to create a New Yorker cover. The subject of the cover could be politics or New York. Sharon created the following:

sharon and the birb campaign

 Sharon wants a pet bird. Or, "birb" as per some subset of the social media world (for some reason I don't know).

So this week she forwarded me something about birds being cute with a message that it was reason #262 that we should get a birb. I responded that she should put together a Powerpoint and we'd discuss. A little bit later she emailed. I have not edited or cleaned up these slides (except to redact her email address).

As persuasive as it is, I still don't think we're getting a bird. Another cat, maybe later this spring. But not a bird. Sorry...birb.

no more freecycling?

Grumpy me says that we should stop giving stuff away on Freecycle. I don't know if it will last, but if I get my way...

Freecycle is a very simple concept. People give away items that are still usable but that they no longer want. Blair and I have been active users of Freecycle for years -- on both the giving and receiving ends. We have gotten and given many items including clothes, furniture, tools and a lot else. I've never been particularly enthusiastic about it because of the logistics. But as long as Blair did the work I never had reason to object. It has definitely saved us some money on things we would have had to buy otherwise. And I've had fun receiving the occasional box of assorted CDs.

But things have gotten more annoying recently.

There are the flakes -- people who ask for something and then don't show up to pick up as promised. We recently threw out a box of books that had gotten soaked in rain and snow because the person who had promised to pick them up never showed. And then there have been times that people don't show up as promised, but come a week ore more later -- after Blair has given the items to someone else -- and gotten annoyed that it was gone.

Another issue that we has been coming up is when Blair puts out several items promised to different people. Sometimes people just grab stuff that's been promised to someone else. It shouldn't be a hard rule to understand -- if you're coming for a bag of used trousers, just take the bag of used trousers. Don't grab the dinner plates.

But the final straw -- for me anyway -- was when someone grabbed the snack box. We keep a box of snacks out for the mailman, delivery people, and the sanitation men. I blogged about that here, here and here. On Saturday afternoon Blair looked out the window just in time to see a couple taking the whole snack box back to their car. She ran out to stop them, and explained that the snacks weren't being Freecycle. They complained that the dishes that they were there for were gone, and grumbled about returning the snacks. By Sunday morning, however, the snack box was gone. I don't know if that same couple came back for it or if someone else took it, but it's really annoying. And I wonder if I need to wait awhile before replacing it -- so that whoever took it stops coming by.

So I told Blair that I want to stop giving stuff away on Freecycle. She said OK. I don't know if it will stick, but we'll see.

what we have left of cream

Back in June when we took Cream to the vet for what we all knew was his final trip, Blair and I were assuming that we would bury him in the yard. We're Jewish, so our mindset is to bury. We have buried a bunch of cats in the yard over the years. And we just assumed that that's what Sharon wanted too.

We should have discussed it with her.

As we got close to home with Cream's body -- with normal traffic, this vet is about 45 minutes away -- Sharon finally told us what had been on her mind. She wanted him cremated. As I would later learn, she didn't like the idea of bugs eating his body. I have some thoughts on that, but the fact is Cream was her cat so Blair and I respected her wishes.

So we drove back to the vet, dead cat in the car, and filled out the forms. But it's not quite as simple as that. You can have your pet cremated with a whole batch of other similarly situated pets. For an extra fee, they'll cremate your pet by itself and return the ashes to you. And, of course, the crematory has lots of memorial souvenirs you can purchase to remember your pet. Cream was Sharon's first pet -- she barely remembers life before him. So Blair and I pretty much gave her carte-blanche to get what she wanted.

So Sharon has a little urn necklace, with a little bit of Cream's ashes in it. And a yin-yang pendant with Cream's noseprint and pawprint engraved on it. And the ashes (except for what's in the urn necklace) are in a satin bag in a box. At least until such time as Sharon decides to spread them out in the front yard where Blair created a Cream memorial garden (mostly flowers with white or off-white colors).

I am thinking about this now because of the timing. Cream took his final ride in June, right before Sharon went to California. When I heard from the vet's office that they have our Cream souvenirs, I asked if they can hold on to them for a bit -- Sharon didn't want someone else to pick them up without us. So yesterday -- Sharon's first Saturday at home after her trip -- she and I went to the vet to pick up Cream.

And somnetime soon we have to go into Manhattan and find a suitable chain for the yin yang necklace.

In the meantime, we have our memories.

just another shopping trip

 We -- Blair, Ethan and I -- went out grocery shopping. Blair texted Asher to see if he wanted anything. Hilarity ensued.

Blair:
Want anything from Whole Foods

Asher:
yes

Blair:
What do you want

Asher:
yes

Blair:
If you only say yes, I will not know what you want

Asher:
ok

Blair:
If you do not tell me what specific items you want I will not be able to get them

Asher:
sushi

Blair:
No sushi [editor's note: Blair was not denying Asher sushi. Rather, she was telling him that they were out of sushi]

Asher:

Blair:

Asher:

k

Did you get this

Blair:
We have Makinajian chicken at home

Asher:
Did you get it

I need to know

Blair:

The closest we got was Bell and Evans and turkey slices for Eighteen

Asher:

Get out

Blair:
What do you want

Asher:

This

Blair:

Do you want me to buy a soup chicken

Asher:

Blair:
Can you come outside and help with groceries

Asher:

k

on bottled water

I've been drinking a lot of water recently. I had a brief conversation about it with my manager at work -- several times when we were on the phone he could hear the sound of me gulping from the water bottle. Or maybe it was the bottle glugging as it surrendered its contents to my waiting lips.

He wasn't angry. Actually, he seemed kind of amused. I've known him for over 30 years, so we have a good rapport. And so, when he heard my gulping, we started talking about water. But when I mentioned that I buy bottled, he paused. I could practically hear his eyes rolling. He made some kind of comment about the wastefulness of buying bottled water when tap water is a tiny fraction of the price. In fact, New York City's tap water is known for being among the best.

Slightly embarassed, I kind of downplayed it. I forget if I blamed it on the kids or on Blair. But he sympathized -- he wants his family to drink tap, but his wife and kids want bottled. If I recall correctly, he lost that fight.

The fact is, I know a lot of people who refuse to buy bottled water. And others who will buy it when they're out and about, but not for drinking at home. And I kind of understand. It seems irresponsible to pay two dollars for something when I can get the same thing for a penny.*

But the thing is, they're not the same. Some bottled waters taste better than tap. There was a time that I tried drinking tap water at home. And I just didn't drink it. I'd fill a bottle with it and have the bottle next to me as I worked. And unless I made a conscious effort to force myself, I wouldn't drink it. And the same is true of some of the lesser waters.

But if I have one of my favorites, I'll drink a lot of it without really thinking. At this point I usually have a case of it by my desk, so I will drink several liters during any given day. I suspect this has contributed to my recent weight loss. If my belly is full of water, I feel less need to eat. I'm not saying that the water is the only factor. But I am sure it's a part of it.

So, what are my favorite waters? I have found that I like the mouth flavor of the high-pH waters -- which, coincidentally, my dentist says are good for teeth. Among those, the ones that taste the best are Starkey, Iceland Natural and Fiji.

____________________

*These numbers are illustrative for making my point. This should not be viewed as an assertion about the actual prices of bottled or tap water.

hawaii - 2013

My prior post was about my 1998 trip to Hawaii -- as a single man, attending a professional conference and then staying on for some sight-seeing. Continuing in that vein, because I promised a Facebook friend that I would, I'm writing this about my 2013 trip. In 2013, I went to Hawaii as part of a family of five. Ethan was becoming a Bar Mitzvah, and he had no real interest in the traditional rituals that most Jewish boys go through to celebrate becoming a Bar Mitzvah. Blair and I, both atheists, had no interest. The only relative who seemed to have any desire for us to go through with a traditional celebration was Blair's father, Hal. But with the health problems he was having at the time, he had more important worries.*

On this trip, we spent all our time on the Big Island. There's no way that I'll manage to cover everything we did. Sorry.

On the East side of the Island, I loved taking my family to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park to show them the sights I had seen fifteen years earlier. Of course, stuff had changed -- including the location of the end of Chain of Craters Road. But the feel was still there. No one in the family was taken with the Thurston Lava Tubes the way I had been. C'est la vie.

Fortunately, Blair had a few tricks up her sleeve. She got us booked for one night in a cabin within the park, which was really cool, and she found us a really nice hot spring. But the best, I thought, was the seven (I think) miles-long walk across the Kilauea Iki crater. Yeah, there was lots of bitching and moaning. But we made it.

One morning, while we were touring a botanic garden, Ethan recalled that a friend had told us about his trip to Hawaii, getting onto a tour that got closer to an active crater and visible molten lava than one is legally allowed. We hadn't looked into it before the trip, but decided to see if it was possible. We texted our friend, and the exchange went something like the following:

Me: Hey, Jason, we're in Hawaii, on the Big Island. Do you have the contact information for that lava tour you told us about?
Jason: You're on the Big Island? I'm on the Big Island! We should get together for lunch!

So we made our lunch plans. We met up with Jason, who was touring with an old friend of his (who also happened to know my cousin -- small world). I forget why, but the tour didn;t work out. Maybe the lava wasn't flowing. Maybe the guide was uncomfortable allowing someone as young as Ethan along. So we went back to the botanical garden.

We saw a variety of beaches, including one with green sand and a couple with black sand. I loved these -- not least for the fact that they were off the typical tourist path, and I enjoyed the low-key atmosphere. And there were a couple of other beaches we got to on the West side of the Island. Fun swimming.

The kids wanted to go snorkeling, which would have been great except that Asher was too young -- he was four at the time. So I skipped that tour and hung out at the hotel pool with him. He was not happy to be left out. But he was allowed on the nighttime manta ray snorkeling trip. I'd never seen a manta ray up close before, and found them fascinating. Too bad I got seasick and ended up puking into the ocean. That did not endear me to the others on the outing.

I recently asked Sharon if she remembered the trip; I knew that Ethan remembered it and that Asher didn't. She recalls one particular trip to a restaurant. She went outside to look at lizards while she waited for her chicken salad sandwich. By the time her sandwich was ready, she had caught several lizards. On that note, I remember trying a hamburger with grilled pineapple on it. That was the best. What wasn't the best was liking it so much that I got a second one (even though I was already full). Yeah, there's a reason I'm overweight.

It's too bad that two of the kids don't remember that trip. We'll have to back.

________________________

*As an aside, people talk about "getting Bar Mitzvah'ed" or "having their Bar Mitzvah," and both of those formulations give the impression that one has to go through some ritual (akin, I think, to a Confirmation -- but I could be wrong about that, since I'm not really expert in Christian ritual) to become a man (in a religious sense). In fact, when a Jewish boy turns 13 he becomes a Bar Mitzvah (literally, a "son of the commandments"). No ritual required. No party required. It happens. For religious purposes, he is viewed as an adult. There are some functions during the regular prayer services that can only be performed by a Bar Mitzvah. Accordingly, it has become common for people to perform these functions when they are first able to (i.e., at the first Sabbath service after they become a Bar Mitzvah. And then to have a big party celebrating it. Those events are now colloquially referred to as getting Bar Mitzvah'ed. Oh, and let's not get into the gender issues here. I'm already off on a tangent.

a cat by any other name

and that's why we called him "Red"

One of my Facebook friends posted something about the different types of cat-namers out there. In the comments, we got into a discussion of our cat names. And I promised this blogpost. Here are the names of the cats that I (and my family) have had in my adult life, along with the stories behind their names. Since this post is just about the names, I'm leaving out all backstory (except what is necessary as background on the name. This is in chronological order, so the order should not be interpreted to indicate the cats' relative length of stay with me/us.

• Bungee: When I first brought this cat home, I started playing with her. The way she went after a string toy, she looked like she was bungee-jumping.
• Speck: One of his distinguishing features was his pink nose with a black speck on it.
• Lena: Ethan picked out the name Lena. I have no idea why.
• Hrothgar: Ethan was studying Beowulf when we got this cat, and I really liked the names of the characters.
• Tiger: This one looked like a miniature tiger.
• Morgan: We got Morgan used, so I have no idea how he got his name.
• Red: He had a beautiful red coat so we started calling him "Red." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Cream: He had a beautiful creamy coat so we started calling him "Cream." We never got around to giving him any other name.
• Snowflake: She was white, so...
• Spiderman: This was Asher's first cat. He was into Spiderman and had picked out the name before the cat was even born.
• 18: Asher was understandably upset after Spiderman died as a kitten (while we were in Florida). As a way of consoling him on the thousand-plus mile drive home, we talked about him getting another cat. When we asked what he would name it, he suggested "Please Don't Die, Baby." That seemed a bit awkward. 18 is a lucky number in Judaism as it symbolizes life*, so I suggested that it would be a good substitute. I'm very glad that Asher went for it.
  
• Wiglaf: This name was another name from to Beowulf.
• Copper: He had a beautiful copper coat.

______________________________

*This has to do with Hebrew numerology. Each letter in the Hebrew alphabet has an associated number, and a word or name is often associated with the sum of the values of its letters. The Hebrew word, חי, which means life, is thus associated with the number 18.

on cow drawings and cheese

TL/DR: Sharon drew a cute calf for Cabot. 

Blair and Ethan were popping into the supermarket to get some things. I asked for Muenster cheese. I should note here that I'm the only one in the house who likes Muenster cheese.

"This one doesn't have good cheese," Ethan told me.

I started to say that I'll be fine with whatever they have, but Blair beat me to it. "They have stuff that's good enough for Aba," she told him. After 21 years of marriage, the lady knows me.

And the next morning, I grabbed a couple slices of cheese just before starting work. And it was...well, I wouldn't say "inedible." I mean, it'd be disingenuous to say that it was inedible, because I did end up eating the whole package over the course of a few days. But it did taste kind of bad -- in a "thank God I finished that so I don't have to eat anymore, because there are starving kids in <fill in place where kids are starving>" sort of way.

So I learned that some brands of cheese don;t taste as good as others. I should have known. And the fact is I've gotten spoiled by Blair and Ethan's taste in food. I grumble that they buy stuff that's more expensive than what I used to buy for myself when I was single. So, yes...Fiji water tastes better than Poland Spring which tastes better than tap. And some brands (e.g., Organic Valley) make better cheese than other brands (e.g., Borden).

And, while we're on the topic of cheese, another really good brand is Cabot, which brings me to what was originally going to be the topic of this post. Yeah, I can go off on tangents when I really get going.

So, Cabot has some kind of contest going on to draw a cow for them. I don't know if it's for their logo or not, or if it's just to get attention. I don't know if there's a prize. I know nothing, except that Sharon entered with the cow picture shown at the top of this post.

I asked her to text me her picture so I could see it. When I saw it, I tried to respond with "cool." But with my fat fingers, it came up as "cook." Which, with my meat-eating ways, did not appear to be a simple typo.

Sharon's response was "Don't cook him."

Ever-observant, I made a correction. "Her."

I hope she wins, but even if she doesn't, I like the drawing. And I don't like Borden's Muenster cheese.

monday art break -- wiglaf

I used to have a cat named Wiglaf. For a little over a year anyway.

The picture accompanying this post is a portrait Sharon drew. It's based on a photo of Wiglaf sleeping on the papers on my desk. When Sharon started selling her artistic wares via fiverr (please check out her account), I thought about commissioning a picture. But she offered to do it as a birthday gift.

We got Wiglaf as a kitten from the breeder that we got our other cats from. Wiglaf was a mix -- half Maine Coon and half British Shorthair. His parents managed to get together despite the breeder trying to keep the Maine Coons separate from the Brits.

The breeder was bringing a few kittens for Asher to choose from. He was picking his second cat after Spiderman died. As soon as I saw Wiglaf (the breeder had named him Simon) I was in love. I wanted Asher to pick him. But for some reason, Asher was taken with Alvin -- which we renamed 18. I was disappointed, but this was to be Asher's cat, so we let him pick the cat he wanted. Ethan and Sharon managed to talk me into getting the cat I wanted as well.

Early on, Wiglaf had his share of health problems. He would go into sneezing fits. One. two. three...up to a dozen or more sneezes in quick succession. And by the time he was done, he'd have given himself a bloody nose. Also, shortly after we got him he seemed to have an ear infection. The vet told us he had a ruptured eardrum. Just great. The vet said he'd recover, though he was likely to be subject to illness. I asked if he was likely to just have one health problem after another. If life with him would mean a never-ending stream of worry and veterinary bills I would bring him back to the breeder before I got too attached. But if we could expect him to have a happy, relatively healthy (even if short) life, then I could deal with it.

The health problems cleared up, but they left their mark. Wiglaf never could walk straight or meow. He'd look at me, and move his mouth as if he was meowing, and no sound came out. And he loved the cold. During the winter we had to be careful opening the front door because he was always trying (sometimes successfully) to get out. But there was one time, when we had a deep snow, he shot out the door right into a snowdrift. A second later he strutted out  and back to the door looking immensely pleased with himself. Ethan picked him up and tossed him into the snow. He disappeared beneath the surface, but quickly came out and ran back to Ethan. Ethan threw him again, and again he came back. They played this tossing game for a half hour or so, until he had had enough and went inside.

Wiglaf quickly caught on that I was his person. He would spend his nights in bed next to me. And when I worked from home he would sleep on the papers on my desk -- hence the photo that served as the basis for the illustration above. He was fine with the rest of the humans in the family, but never as close. And he was a terror for the other cats. He was very food oriented, and wanted all the food in the bowls for himself. But he didn't simply eat it. When there was fresh food, he'd go to the kitchen and wait in ambush. When another cat came by, he would pounce. Only after another cat ran away he would eat. Blair would have to hold him back so that Cream (the blind, deaf one) wouldn't starve.

Wiglaf would, occasionally, get out and stay away for a few days. But he always came back -- until he didn't.

I miss Wiggy.