A House is not a Home

I miss Mowgli so much today. I have been here, in the Atom Mill town, since Monday, and the first night was just awful. The second day was kinda melancholy, and the past couple of days were okay. Today, however, I am aware that Mo is not at the vet, or in another part of the house, but gone. I’ll never get to hold her, or rub her fur. She’ll never purr in my ear again.

Freddy seems to have “claimed” me. He seeks out my attention, sits on my lap, lies next to me on the bed, and loves it when I rub the base of his tail. I’ve never seen a cat’s butt go so far up in the air. He is lovely and soft, affectionate and sweet.

But he’s not Mo, nor would I wish him to be.

Esso used to say, “home is where the cats are.” No. Home is where the Mowgli is, and Mowgli isn’t here anymore.

Goodbye, Mowgli

Last night, while I was working for the Fringe, Esso had to make the decision to let Mowgli go to her rest. The bladder infection she got had really taken a toll on her little body. She had rapidly lost more weight, and was losing muscle mass. Her kidneys were bascially done, and her system was shutting down.

The best way to remember someone is to talk about them, and so, in no particular order, here are some of the things I remember about my Mo.

Mowgli had a middle name, which I gave her: Arthur. I know, I know, it’s a male name, but it has a certain majesty to it (Dudley Moore notwithstanding), and it suited her.

She was my baby, and I love her more than I can possibly say.

Mo was the biggest pest in the West, I swear! She got into everything, and even after Floyd died, she still had to check out what we brought home when we came in with bags—especially groceries. Boxes never sat empty for long, and on more than one occasion, breaking down a box for recycling meant extracting a Mo first.

When she was a tiny kitten, she loved to climb up until she was sitting on someone’s shoulder. Our friend, BW, is 6′ 6″, and he was her favourite to climb, because his height meant she got to see further afield.

One time, I found her sitting in the refrigerator. BW (who was our roomie) had gotten himself something to drink, and Mo jumped in to investigate. By accident, he had shut her in. About 20 minutes or so later, I opened the fridge to get supper started, and there she was. She just hopped out, mewed a bit and went to the food bowl as if nothing had happened.

She was a sloppy, sloppy eater. When we gave her wet food, she licked it towards the opposite side of the saucer, until it fell on the floor. I’m not going to miss cleaning up after that.

Mo was a master at geometry. Within seconds of entering a room, she could always determine the best place to sit so that everyone could see her. If it was up a bit high, so much the better. She liked to be seen, because that usually meant she would get skritches, rubs and pats.

She had the loudest purr, and when she purred, it was like her whole body was rumbling. Best yet, she purred most of the time, even when annoyed. Too numerous to recount are the times when I fell asleep to the sound of her purr.

She was untrusting of children. Early on, we had taken in “Fiona” and her husband and child, and the child would grab Mo and pull her into the playpen. Children, for all their wonderful enthusiasm and interest in cats, are not typically gentle, and so Mo learned early that kids can hurt her. My niece, Mini-Me has an affinity for animals, and was very hurt that Mowgli automatically didn’t like her. She and her brother tried several times to make friends with Mo, only to be scratched and hissed at. I tried to explain that Mo was far more afraid of them than they were of her, and she was trying to defend herself. After they got a cat of their own, they began to understand.

Mo loved adult humans, though, and was a keen attention slut. She would roll over at the slightest indication that she would get petted, and she absolutely LOVED belly rubs. She would often lie on her back in the middle of the room (as in the picture above). I’m not sure if it was just for the pats she got. She always looked really comfortable.

She was an inveterate MOOCH of the highest order. From the beginning, she wanted to know what we were eating, and we made the mistake of sharing nibbles with her early on. Dinner time meant shooing Mo away from plates, and never, never leaving food alone if she was in the vicinity—even if she wasn’t in the vicinity, come to think of it. She liked nearly everything (except oranges and mint). Some things she tried once and then couldn’t be bothered with, but she had favourites. She adored every kind of thing you can do with a potato: mashed, roasted, french fries, raw, covered in sauce, with butter, alone, all of it. I won’t be able to look at a potato the same way ever again. Even in her old age, leaving a glass of milk unattended was a bad idea.

Every cat is special in its own way, but I think Mowgli was THE MOST SPECIAL.

Fringe Vignettes #3

Today was the Trouper Appreciation Breakfast, and it was a smash hit, because the organizers included the performers. It was a casual atmosphere, and I had the chance to talk to several of the performers and my fellow volunteers. The food was AWESOME! Lots of pancakes, fresh fruit, sausages (both regular and veggie), coffee, iced tea, water and juice. I’m so full, and so happy!

Last night, I was asked to work The Arts Project, which is not my favourite venue to manage. I always end up having an issue, and I am starting to wonder if it’s me. Though, frankly, I behave and interact the same at every other venue, and rarely have problems elsewhere. I had a new volunteer, a guy who says he wants to get more involved with the Fringe, and to be honest, the man baffled me. I got to the point where I just basically let him do whatever he wanted, because trying to get him to fulfill his role as Box Office person wasn’t worth the argument. I did draw the line, however, at letting him sell buttons for the festival out on the street.

Tonight, I’m going to be working at what some of the troupers are calling the “nightmare” venue. It’s in the Club Fringe, which is in the dive bar I spoke about earlier. The thing is, the Venue Manager (that’s me) doesn’t go into the show, but instead, has to sit out in the dive bar with the cash box—near the bottom-rung clientele that look like they have been ridden hard and put away wet many, many times. Oh, joy.

Still, I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else right now.

Fringe Vignette #2

This morning my head hurts, probably as much as my feet did Thursday night.

People never believe me when I tell them I have never had a hangover. I now have concrete proof that the way I feel “the morning after,” is mostly due to not getting enough sleep. Last night, I got home from the Fringe at about 1:15 a.m. after hemming and hawing about going to the late night Fringe talk show. I had no alcohol, and left with a piece of excellent cheese and a bottle of water in my hands. Much to my chagrin, I woke up this morning at 7:15. That’s 6 hours of sleep, and that ain’t quite enough.

I am functional, but in pain.

Opening night of the Fringe shows was interesting. This year, we are opening the Box Office for each show 15 minutes earlier than in past years, and while it makes sense for the audience (you never heard such complaining when people were early!), it certainly makes my job as Venue Manager a little more difficult. I think we are going to have an upswing in people who buy their tickets early, then go have a smoke or grab a snack and come back after the doors have shut. There are no latecomers allowed, and NO REFUNDS. It’s a total headache for a VM, whose only real recourse is to send them to HQ, where they apologize, explain the rules, and give the disgruntled patron a free pass for a future show.

I did manage to go see a show, the wonderful Weaverville Waltz, by Randy Rutherford, who has been to our Fringe as many times as I have volunteered. His shows are always poignant, funny, sweet, and somehow, always, a little bit sad. I had also meant to go see An Evening with Nick Wallace, a magic show, but at the last minute, decided to hang out at HQ instead. I regretted this decision when I saw Nick perform a little teaser at The No Show, and am now trying to figure out where and how I can fit in one of his shows into my schedule.

Ugh. My head still hurts.

Fringe Vignette #1

My feet hurt.

I wasn’t smart enough to wear good shoes tonight, and as usual, I ended up standing throughout the performer showcase. Eventually, I had to leave Wally’s side (more about Wally in a bit), and find a seat, because my heels felt like someone had tenderized them with a jagged block of concrete.

This year’s shows are going to be very good. The out-of-town performers really seem excited to be here, and there are a whole whack of new local companies, some of whom are hilarious, all of them compelling in different ways.

Unfortunately, Club Fringe is, yet again, being held in a dive bar, which usually has bottom-rung clientele who are loyal because they sell bottles of Blue for $2.50. My friend from the TV station calls them “Whitesnakes,” because it’s a good bet the last time they were sober was when Whitesnake ruled the airwaves. Here I Go Again (On My Own). Frankly, I hate this place. The food is virtually inedible, and so I think I will probably smuggle my snacks in. I didn’t think it was possible to screw up a hamburger, but…

I think the crazy woman I used to be sort of friendly with (until she forced herself on me and my friends in March) has finally gotten the hint. She has submitted some of her art to the Visual Fringe, and when I complimented her on it, she didn’t get all weird and gushy on me. And she basically ignored me tonight. Her ex-boyfriend remembered me, though, and stood chatting with me for several minutes. I was secretly pleased when it looked like his attentions to me were bothering her.

Wally is a true gem in our city. He’s in his 90s, and he still has energy and true vitality. He has volunteered every year since the Fringe’s inception, and he is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met. When I first volunteered, Wally was often my House Manager, helping me out, answering my questions and sharing funny stories with me about shows he had or was going to see. When you stand next to Wally, you meet everyone, because he’s the sort of man people flock to. And Wally gives me hugs. I dread the day when I hear he has passed, although I know, at over 90, the time left to him is not on the long side. But for now, I can enjoy Wally’s company, his conversation, his wit and his calming, loving presence.

My Last Fringe

Tonight is the opening of the 10th annual London Fringe Theatre Festival, and my 6th year volunteering. It has been the highlight of my summers, and I have enjoyed nearly every minute of it.

Because I will be moving up to the Atom Mill town after I graduate (yes, that’s still the plan, Stan), this is probably the last time I will be able to volunteer for this amazing festival.

Why is it so amazing?? Quite simply put, the Fringe allows creative artists to produce and promote their acts with next to no limits. You wanna do Shakespeare in the buff? No problem, just make sure you note it in your description for the program—and don’t break any decency laws. Fair warning and all that. Plus, 100% of the box office goes straight to the performing company/artist. There are no juries, save for the audiences. It is freedom for creative performers.

For the audience, it’s relatively cheap, yet high-quality, entertainment. This year, the maximum ticket is $10, and from my perspective, that’s still pretty cheap, especially considering we’re less than 45 minutes from the Stratford Festival, which charges $50 for the least desirable seats during the previews. (As an aside, we have had Stratford veterans in some of the productions at the Fringe in the past.)

As a volunteer, I have seen some fantastic theatre, music, magic, comedy and aerial acrobatics for very little money, because I can often get in for free with my pass.

I am going to miss the Fringe dearly when I have moved, and so, for the next 10 days, I will try to write a little something of my experiences at this year’s festival. And of course, there will be the odd Mowgli update for the curious.

So goodbye sleep, goodbye coherence, hello exhilaration and escape!

The Mowgli Report Week 1

Mowgli has been having a bad week. She developed a very serious bladder infection, and was having a great deal of trouble eating, or finding the box. Esso whisked her off to the vet—TWICE—where she was forcefed, drained and given shots of antibiotics. She has since had one more shot of antibiotics, and seems to be doing better.

Some of this has to do with the coldness of her food. Between servings, Esso puts a lid on the can and sticks it in the fridge. Well, now he has to warm that stuff up a bit before giving it to her, and possibly mix it up with a little water first. The temperature was hard on her digestive system, and this probably led to the infection.

To be honest, I am not sure how many more of these “scares” I can deal with.

Maybe I *AM* A Heartless Bitch

About two months ago, a little girl named Tori was abducted after school. Her mother searched, phoned neighbours, friends, and waited for a few hours before reporting her child’s disappearance—as most people would. The first few hours are recognized as being crucial to finding missing children, and the delay probably cost Tori her life. But it’s impossible to blame this woman, because any one of us would have waited to hear back from aunts, cousins, friends etcetera, as she did.

It’s June 6th. She was taken on April 8th, and on May 19th, two suspects were arrested. Despite a vague description of the area the police were given by one of them, Tori’s body has yet to be found.

Throughout the fruitless searching, an outpouring of condolences, support and anger flowed out of the hearts and mouths and fingers of hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Despite the arrests, and the acknowledgement that Tori is definitely dead, there is still a groundswell of emotion out there, and it has spilled over into my Facebook news feed.

I feel badly for Tori’s parents, I really do. What happened is one of the more horrible things I can imagine, and not for one minute would I ever think I know what they are going through. I would gladly write a condolence note on the wall of a group started by her mother, father or grandparents. However, there are people who have made Facebook groups to commemorate the memory of a girl they didn’t know, from a family they have no connection with, and these people really annoy me.

Some people make cheesy compliation videos of published photos of Tori, complete with music that only gets pulled out at times like these (Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” or some New Country ballad with the word “Angel” in the title come to mind). Some people write out paragraph after paragraph, telling the dead girl how much they “miss” her, or are thinking of her. Remember, these are people who a) never met her, and b) don’t know her family. Very few of the messages are directly written for her parents, expressing sympathy or condolence, or telling them how this story affected them personally—no, most of the messages are for a child who will never, NEVER be able to see them. I have to ask: who are these folks really grieving for?

Worst are the groups that have used her name to start a petition for stiffer sentences for crimes against children. While the idea is noble and just, no matter how harsh the punishment, having tougher laws would NOT have saved Tori’s life, nor prevented her abduction. The two people arrested have not even been TRIED yet. There is no miscarriage of justice if justice hasn’t been given an opportunity to be levied, so calling any new legislation “Tori’s Law” is a misnomer. It simply preys on the emotions this case has engendered.

None of this is going to bring this child back, nor will it help prevent it from happening to other children. And perhaps my attitude towards all this emotional stuff is why I am a heartless bitch. I think it is all ineffectual wailing and gnashing of teeth, a chance to rail at the unfairness of life and the cruelty of the people of this world. It is not a productive exercise, and serves no one but those who, for whatever reason, cannot move on to the real concerns of their own lives.

Mo Update

Just in case any of you were curious…

Here’s what we have done so far to change things up in Mo’s world so we can extend her life (and quality thereof):

1) changed her food to a low-protein, low-phosphorus one. Mostly, we are giving her wet (i.e. canned) food, since she turned her nose up at the dry, except as “treats.”

2) put the food for Willy and Freddy up on an end-table in the kitchen. Mo has never been much of a jumper, but now that she’s getting old, she’s even less likely to.

3) started feeding her in the downstairs bathroom two or three times a day, closing the door behind us so the other two can’t get in there.

4) removed ALL treats from her diet.

5) stopped eating on the couch in front of the TV, where Mo was used to mooching bits of our meals. She can’t mooch if she can’t jump in the table.

Esso is going to try and get a urine sample from her tomorrow, for more testing. She’ll be seeing the vet a lot more often…

As the disease develops (I don’t want to say “worsen”), we will likely have to look into subcutaneous fluid injections and other treatments. Right now, and for some time, we can keep her comfortable and happy. If either of these changes, we know what we will need to do. I hope it will be later, rather than sooner.

Making Plans for Mowgli

A grumpy Mo?

This is my 16-year old cat, Mowgli. Esso and I adopted her from the Humane Society when she was 9 weeks old, and for all intents and purposes, since I haven’t been able (thus far) to have human children, *she* is my baby.

And my baby was diagnosed yesterday with Chronic Renal Failure. Kidney Failure. It is an irreversible, fatal, and debilitating disease. Luckily, she is still in the early stages, and there is a lot we can do to treat this thing and give her a few more comfortable years. Our vet said maybe two.

I have been doing some research, and it looks like it’s going to be A LOT of work. This is going to be especially difficult because Esso has the other two cats to look after, plus his job, and I’m not there.

I have a lot of questions for the vet, and Esso and I are going to go in this week to talk with her.

I am having some trouble processing this news, and so I am trying to compartmentalize my feelings so I don’t become overwhelmed. I have tried not to get emotional in this post, because, as I said, there’s a lot we can do, and the time for grief is not quite here yet.

If you care to, spare a thought or a prayer for us. Thanks.