Clematis

I don't even know where to post this, so I'll put it here under "Still Slogging Along". Yesterday Lena's vet diagnosed her with Kidney Disease. I am devastated and worried and grief-stricken. She is tired and looks like she isn't feeling well. It is an early diagnosis because she has been getting annual bloodwork for several years. Also, she has had health insurance for several years, which makes this not a Pre-existing condition going forward. So hopefully the insurance will help in the future. Still, it is really disheartening news...

I know you do...I really feel for you.

You are right - this is such a very personal decision with such potential to affect how you feel later, making decisions for people or beloved pets who are near the end. For anyone to tell you what you should be doing is overstepping, and it shouldn't be up for debate . No one but you can tell you what to do, because only you will have to live with the consequences. These end-of-life situations are so heart-wrenching as of themselves, and we know that grief is around the corner. The last thing you or any of us need is to have someone push us into something we'll regret later. You know from all your years here that people are able to take some comfort from knowing they did the best they could for their beloved at the end.

Oh Kay, I am so sorry to hear about Arlie. I haven't been on the site for awhile and didn't see your earlier posts. And your friend - or former friend - ouch! That really hurts when people say these things. I think it's because they feel badly and don't realize they are making you feel better in order to feel better themselves. Only you know what's best for you and for Arlie. I am so sorry to hear this; I know he has meant the world to you and that he's really been a support and wonderful companion to you through all that you've been through.

I am so sorry to hear about your beloved cat Tiger. That is so sad and what a heart-wrenching experience. It is surely a devastating loss, and I'm sure you will miss him terribly for some time. When we lose someone, the last events and images tend to stick in our minds. Those images don't get replaced, but we kind of add to them as time moves along with other images. I'm sure it was awful to discover like you did that he was dead, but animals and people do have some ability to choose the moment when they pass on. It seems likely that he wanted to be there close to you sleeping when he took his last breaths. It seems to happen a lot that a person or animal seems to be doing better when they were actually very close to the end. We never know for sure - and doctors don't either - when the end will be. Grief is a long path and no one can tell you what you need the most. You can read through this site and see what has been helpful to others; there are many kind and compassionate people here who have been on the same road as you. Each person's grief is unique and don't feel obliged to walk your path by anyone else's directions. People will say all kinds of things that don't help and may even feel hurtful. Try to accept what is helpful and feels good to you, and let the rest go. My suggestion is that you be kind to yourself and realize that it takes time. Also, keep reaching out to us here...

Did you like them?

Here is one more. I hope I'm not being a pest. The assignment here was to write a story in two parts - the first from the perspective of a child but in the present tense, and the second part looking back from the mature perspective of an adult. I am fourteen and my family is in West Virginia for the summer. Visiting relatives here at our “Camp” on the Greenbrier River is the best thing every year. I love them all and it is so much like heaven I even have fun with my sisters. Most of the time. Sometimes I really want to get away from all of them and enjoy this paradise alone. I get up early. No one gets up as early as I do. They were up late playing cards last night. So was I, but I am not about to miss a moment of my time alone in nature. I slip on my same clothes from yesterday and take my sandals in hand, tiptoeing to the door. The screen door is a squeaker and I open it very slowly so it is silent. The heavy wooden main door is quiet all by itself. Daddy must have oiled the hinges. Outside, I slip on my sandals and breathe the moist air. I can see fog hanging tight over the river and the aluminum canoe upside down over the cement pier, but I’m not going there yet. I head for the fruit trees to my right, carefully avoiding the bigger plants that are dripping with dew. My feet get wet anyway. My grandfather Jack planted the apricot and plum trees while he was alive. That seems so long ago. But it seems like he is right here with me. I hardly ever see an apricot, but the plum trees are heavy with fruit. I am thrilled at how the skin is so bitter and the flesh so sweet. I eat one after another. I begin to focus on the birds as I walk down the cement pier to the water, still slurping on plums. I hear the mourning dove. Hoo-ee-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo. Marion told me yesterday that it wasn’t a morning dove, but mourning, like it was sad, and that’s why we hear them in the evening as well. I hear another bird song back and forth from this side of the river to the other. Two birds. Call and response. Their song is very complex. I sit on the pier’s end with my feet in the cold water as I focus on another mystery bird and its song, trying to ignore the kitchen sounds I now hear. Marion and Jack know all the birds and they would know what it was. I wonder how they learned all that about birds. I don’t think I will ever know that. It is decades later and I get up early in Sedona, walking with compact Nikon binoculars I found in my father’s dresser after his death. I also found Jack’s old binoculars and their optics are fabulous, but after learning that they are circa WWI, I’m not sure that schlepping them around is the thing to do. Nevertheless, I love having the glasses that connect me to my father and grandfather. Here and now, the only fruit around is at Safeway and here in arid Arizona I’ve seen neither dew nor fog in ages. Early morning walks always take me back to those dawn strolls by the log cabin on the Greenbrier. Decades ago, Hurricane Hugo trashed the cabin’s foundation and my mother sold the property, but even if not I couldn’t go back there because I can’t return to the magic in a child’s mind. The fog over the river was a velvet barrier to all that lay beyond and the dew sparking in the early light was that of fairy gems. I remember so clearly how it felt like I’d stepped alone into the wilderness less than fifty feet from my sleeping family but I can’t quite get back. I’ve not since had a plum with such dramatic contrast of sweet and tart, dripping down my chin onto my shirt. Are plums really so different now? I am finally learning to identify some birds; the first entry in my Bird Watching Notebook is the house finch. I was thrilled to positively identify this bird by its song, using the Sibley app on my iPhone. It adds to the dimensionality of my early morning walk to play the song on my phone and hear birds in the trees responding, but it’s not the magic I felt drifting around our “Camp” in my sparkling fairy dew fog. I endeavor to be in the moment while simultaneously floating in my childhood memories. I remember the magic of rising early.

This is another. Youall know that I worked out on the Hopi reservation for five or six years. You may not know that I was terribly disturbed about the way animals were treated out there. People love their pets, but those animals have a hard life and die young. Anyway, three days ago I woke up from a dream about a grey kitten and wrote it into this poem: Hopi Kitten Oh tiny grey kitten, you crawled through a hole Of the grade school out here at Hopi. After school now but still I’m at my desk How can you have lived in those walls? Tiny and damp, healing scratch on your cheek, You welcome me with shyness but spunk. Tremble on my lap with a purr in your throat, You accept my stroking with caution and grace. I have to go home now, but what about you? To hear of pets’ lives here hurts my heart. Seems daily the stories of children I counsel Talk of dogs got run over and cats eaten by dogs. You were born here, you fur-ball, you streak of delight, But can I just leave you here to some fate Of nightmares and cruelty, of starving neglect? Can I leave you to live in this school all alone? I could feed you right here with a bowl near my desk Let you wander the school every night The students would love you but what of the staff? A janitor would whisk you away with no tale. I can’t take you home – my cat Lena won’t let you You can’t live with us. She hates all other cats. But far from this school you’d surely do better. But then, You were born in the walls of this school. Is this wrong? Be silent, my kitten, as we slink to my car, with you in the depths of my pack.

Here is a poem...you, my friends here on the forum helped support me through this one...The assignment was to write about something we had found to be abhorrent or repulsive, but then had a transformation towards it - internally, like an attitude change. I love everything about her! It’s been two days now – two days of no pooping The box I keep scooping smells clean but I worry, Those horribly nasty deposits are absent My vet friend Paula says keep watching. If she doesn’t start pooping she’ll be in deep trouble She can’t live if that motion stays halted. Oh Lena, sweet Lena, please drop off some cat poop You’re eating, I know, but where is it going? Precious pet, you had cancer removed from your ear. E-Collar you sport, and you stumble by day. But by night we both sleep, our faces together, Face to face inside that big cone you must wear. And then one fine morning I wake to some scratching Is my precious kitty in the bathroom and pooping? She is! I smell cat poop! Oh glorious day! All parts are working of my fabulous pet - she will live! It’s been like two years now and my cat she is healthy, Every day tasty meals are followed by pooping. The truth is, my friend, the smell hasn’t changed, But now I celebrate cat pooping!

Here is another piece I wrote for my class: Leaving the love of my life The black suspension bridge over the Colorado River recedes behind me as I hike along the broad sandy trail just downstream from Phantom Ranch. The trail parallels the river amidst a series of rolling hills, surrounded by the rugged black cliffs of Vishnu Schist that form the inner gorge. I scuff along in my Teva sandals through silky sand that is too soft and deep to leave footprints. Above me lie the sandy layers of Tapeats Sandstone above the Schist, but I don’t look beyond the Tapeats. The impossibly thick layer of Redwall Limestone above is more than I care to contemplate. Every hike out of the Canyon seems daunting, but this time is different. Am I going to go through with this? I never wear a watch in the Canyon, but know it is late morning as I try to ignore the August heat as well as the ten-mile trail that climbs one mile. I drenched my clothing before I left the river, but my draped outfit of worn white cotton is already dry. I am trudging up the Schist, swinging a full canteen fashioned from a Log Cabin syrup bottle in one hand. From my other hand swings the slim white ammo box that houses my Walkman II. For this hike I am not listening to the Grateful Dead Reckoning or Van Morrison’s Moondance. I am too busy with my thoughts. Am I really going to leave this fantasy life and be like people who visit? I focus on the rhythm of my plodding feet. The Tapeats ledges run beside me now and my mind drifts to years of naps taken in the shade of these sandy rocks that shelter themselves like shelves. So many memories of river trips and hikes and the luxury of living as if the Canyon were my own. My husband and I work for a Grand Canyon rafting company and he, unaware of my plans, is continuing to row a raft on the two-week river trip I just left. Our VW Jetta is in the Bright Angel Lodge parking lot. I will drive it back to Flagstaff and then I will move out of the house that we purchased the morning after our wedding three years ago. I tell people how I met Alan and fell in love with the Grand Canyon. The most typical response is, “Don’t you mean the other way around?” Nope, I do not. I surely love him, but the Canyon is the rhythm of my heart and the breath of my soul. Am I really going to move out and leave him and this life? Even to imagine this loss seems more than I can bear. So I don’t imagine or even think of it. I feel the heat through my clothing and fine sand on my feet in the sturdy sandals. Perhaps I could stay. I belong here, basking and darting like a lizard in the sun, and napping in the shade. Why should I leave my magical life, my love of Canyon and river and him? Oh no, I forgot. He has vowed to quit his management job with the rafting company and return to full-time guiding. The steep reduction in his salary will necessitate selling the house and he plans to move us back into his teepee. Not a joke – we lived in that teepee in the woods the summer we met after a Grand Canyon raft trip. He has the delusional idea that I am going to have and raise babies in that teepee, and he can lie around and smoke dope when he is not in the Canyon. Soon there will be no house, and staying with Alan will mean living in the teepee, in the mountains with a woodstove and an outhouse, where temperatures can reach 20 below zero. But can I survive on my own? I have no real job skills, and this life change means returning to college to find my way in the world. College demands will reduce me to a visitor here. Dang! I have turned my ankle and suddenly don’t know where I am. I recall the faint green spots in the pale maroon of the Hermit Shale, but the sandy trail I have fallen onto is beige. A canyon wren trills its descending cascade of song and I hear a motor droning. A motor – it’s the pump house below Indian Gardens! Somehow I have gotten through the Redwall layer. I swipe dust from my knees and elbows, slide an ankle brace from my fanny pack over my foot, and rise to trudge through Indian Gardens, stopping only to fill my canteen and pour water over my head until I am drenched again. Wild raspberries grow in this area but today I hardly care. I keep a steady pace, one foot following the other, lumbering uphill alongside wedge-shaped cross-beds of Coconino Sandstone. Scattered drops from the edge of a rainstorm are cool on my hot skin but it hardly matters as I scan for the shaded three-mile rest house to fill my canteen. Three miles from the rim and I’m not even close to it. Right. Left. Just keep going. I trot to the rhythm of the light but steady rain. I don’t notice passing the Toroweap layer or the one-and-a-half-mile rest house, where I fail to fill my canteen, as I quicken my pace through now heavy rain. Hail mingles with the rain, and echoes off the rock walls. Having pulled my Gore-Tex parka from my tiny pack, I have scant protection. My wet, reddened legs are exposed and the pelting hail really hurts. Hail accumulates like snow as I scamper uphill. I know this trail like I know my face, and the closest shelter is that archway blasted through the Kaibab Limestone near the rim. It seems so far away and the raw cold of my skin is excruciating. By the time I reach the archway, all precipitation has ceased, and even though I am shivering and cramped, I slog up the last bit of trail and return to my thoughts. The answer to my quandary seems clear now. I alone must create the life I choose, regardless of the storms I may face.

Yeah, I am still slogging along here. A lot of things are good, but my dad is still dead. No matter what I am doing, his loss comes back to remind me of the void in my life. However, it's not so much like a slap alongside the head, but more like a tap on the shoulder. He is never far from my thoughts. Still, things are good. I found out at the end of May that I will still have the same work I had last year, and will also have more work. This is good; I really didn't have enough work las year and it was stressful to not have enough income. When I found out I don't have to spend the summer job hunting, I pronounced to whoever I was with, "This is going to be the best summer ever!" That is not exactly true, but it is definitely the best summer since my dad died. I haven't cleaned out my mess from the last school year's accumulation in the house in the house and garage, but I still have almost two months, so why not continue to procrastinate. Same thing with my taxes... This summer I have been doing a little ceramics and a little water color painting and a lot of gardening. I have been working hard on my health and fitness and this summer I have lost ten more of the pounds I gained after my dad's death. (Last summer I lost fifteen pounds). That has been really difficult. I also have been taking a creative writing class.It has been a little frustrating. The teacher is sloppy and lazy, she writes terribly, and she she has little to say about student's writing. The course is online and we are teaching each other, and in the month we nave had, the teacher has and zero comments about my writing. Apparently, this is totally inconsistent with the college's expectation for writing and English teachers, but that doesn't help me anyway. At this point, I have so little respect for this teacher, perhaps it is just as well that she has nothing to say about my writing. In spite of all that, I have been writing a lot and that is good. Perhaps I should post my poems here! That would be fun. OK, here goes the first. Grieving You sit in a camp chair, alone on a wood floor, watching Me play cello in a band with my friends, most on ukes. This same old wooden floor in less than two years will host Your celebration of life, potluck and contradance. But there you’re alone and slumped in that chair Watching us play the songs of your youth. And no one Could tell what you’re thinking or feeling. Just sitting. I’d forgotten your boniness in years near the end. In my mind’s eye you are with us, on stage with your uke, Sentimental Journey, and Heart of My Heart. Rehearsing together with this band from Jerome, we play In an old empty hall, still singing together, we sing the songs of your youth. You taught me ukulele when I was a child To sing and to play was our family delight And now it’s all over, your uke’s all alone I play cello in orchestra and teach uke to new players. I don’t see you now – you’re gone from the living But your voice I hear in my ear, so glad you’ve not left me Don’t forget to buy gas, Watch out for that big truck I never will leave you…How I love you, my father!

I think there is much that we don't know. I had ten years with my dad after my mother died, and it helped me to deal with things that had happened earlier. I also think he and I have a bond that goes beyond this life but I don't know what that is or what that means. I just feel it. If that is true and we have more together after this life when we were father and daughter, he will be waiting for me and so it makes sense that he would be hanging around keeping me company and offering advice and solace when I need it. Sometimes when someone passes, there is a message that we receive and that is all. I don't know what that means, but I have had it happen. Many years ago I knew a woman named Cynthia and she was really really helpful to me in a job that was almost unbearable. She made it bearable. She was a volunteer and was living in Tucson, as was I. She was helping her adult son get established in Tucson when she became ill after some dental work. She went to CA to spend some time with her husband and see her own doctor. I had an intense dream one night that she came to see me where I worked and I was very excited to see her. In the dream she told me that I shouldn't be that excited because things had not gone as well as she had hoped. I woke up in the morning, all shook up, and managed to find and call her husband. He told me that she had died from an aggressive leukemia a couple of days before. Ever vigilant and attentive to detail, she couldn't help me anymore but she did want me to know what had happened to her and why she wasn't coming back. I really appreciated her letting me know because I would have had no idea, since we had no common friends or acquaintances. I would have never known. She wouldn't have wanted that. I suppose when we have also died things will be more clear to us...

It seems to me that these experiences are individualistic, and it depends on who the parties are. My mother was a lot more communicative than my father when they were alive, but he is the one I have heard from since their deaths. I hear him talking to me in straightforward English, and he is more chatty than when he was alive. It's like he just figured it out and had a high desire to "be there for me". My mother, with whom I had a relationship with many many unresolved problems...well, it's been very different. I have never heard her speak since her death, but I had quite a number of odd experiences with rabbits. I think she was waiting for my dad to join her. In life she was obsessed with bunnies since she was a small child, when she had pet rabbits. She always got excited about them, and it was actually a clue to her early dementia - when she could not follow or participate in a conversation, she would wind the topic into either her childhood or something about bunnies. So, after she died I think she was hanging around my dad - and me, since I was close to him. I would be hiking on a trail or walking in the neighborhood where my dad and I lived and a rabbit would appear, running towards me or across my path, stopping within 6 feet of me and staring at me. I had the feeling that it had something to do with my mother and I was annoyed and worried about it. At first I thought she was coming to get him, and I wasn't ready to lose him. I would talk to these rabbits aloud saying things like, "No, no, no, don't take him away from me! I need him!" Eventually I got the feeling that she was trying to tell me to take care of him. Eventually everyone realized that I took better care of him than she had. The bunny interactions stopped. Did she understand what everyone else did? I don't know. And then near his death the bunnies reappeared and I was again afraid that she had shown up to take him away from me. There were no words from the bunnies - or her, but I got the very calming message somehow that she really had loved me. I don't understand if she couldn't figure out how to communicate, or if she was prohibited somehow. She was a horribly destructive parent. I don't know. Mostly, I am still relieved that she is no longer here, but still she was able to communicate with me and I was able to get the message. But then I never heard from Freya, the wild little Tortie I loved so much so long ago, the first pet I had on my own as an adult. That is wonderful that you have had these experiences where you can feel her spirit with you and you know that it is her. I can't say that I have had that experience. It's quite possible that there have been spirits around me and I never believed whatever I felt was real. It seems like my dad knew I needed something more concrete and so he flat out talks to me and I recognize his voice. But Freya...I don't know. I think because of the dream about Lena bringing back Freya from the Underworld/spirit world that Freya has been hanging around all these years, and it may be that it's her when I get the sense that a cat is there and none is there, but I don't know. It seems magical that you sense Fancy and know for sure that it's her. It's so hard to know what is going on with people who have died, or their spirits. I think sometimes spirits are really ready to move on, to another life or somewhere, no matter how bonded there were to loved ones when they were here. I feel like my mother moved on after my father died, but he is still hanging around here and is keeping me company. I'm so glad he is - I need him. I hope he keeps waiting for me; it could be a long time.

I really don't know if they are signs from Freya or not. She had such a distinctive personality - I think I would recognize her anywhere and in any form. I think it's quite possible for a pet to return in the form of another pet. It has crossed my mind that there could be a connection between Freya and Lena, but written that off because they are SO different. Freya was a wild thing and I was the only person in the world for her. Lena is a "people" cat, and incredibly social. Part of that is the socialization I helped her with, but part of it is just her. She is a friendly pushy food-loving pussycat. She loves all kinds of people, but I am special to her and she trusts me to make the world - and other people - safe. Freya trusted me not to hurt her, but she didn't think I or anyone could make the world safe. She was always looking over her shoulder for possible threats. Lena and Freya are very different souls. Nevertheless, I do know that Freya is still around me because Lena sees her. I got that from the dream where Lena went into the underworld and brought back Freya to show me. Lena hates living cats, but apparently spirit cats are ok. So, anyway, I think Freya has been hanging around me for a long time after she passed. I have thought about this kind of thing quite a bit since my dad died because he talks to me. I hear him talking to me and I recognize him because I recognize his voice. I don't know how I would recognize Freya's spirit if she was right here next to me. There are times when I think Lena is in the bed with me, or more like on the bed when I am sleeping. Occasionally she is, but usually not. I don't know what that means. Sometimes I think I see Lena out of the corner of my eye but when I turn around she is not there. Perhaps it is Freya. I don't know. I had a fifteen year period during which I could not have a pet due to allergies and I was grief stricken and angry. I had a burning envy of others who were able to have cats and I thought I would never ever have a cat again. But I had dreams - for 20 years - that I was much older and I was puttering around my tiny garden with a tabby cat winding around my legs in the sunshine. This always gave me hope that I would indeed someday have a cat in my life. And now I have Lena. And I have a garden in my tiny yard. She seems so much like the cat in the garden dreams, but I thought that couldn't be Lena because Lena is black. But Lena seems like the garden dream cat. Then I learned that underneath all cats are tabbies, just like all jaguars are spotted - it's just hard to see the spots on the black ones unless they are in the sun. My dad never believed that there was anything at all after death other than the classic picture of heaven. No reincarnation, no spirit world, none of that. I bet he was really surprised when he realized that he could contact me after he died. He showed up right away, and got Lena's attention. Lena responded by licking me over and over on the face until I woke up in the dark and looked at my phone to see a missed call. Later that day I heard him talking to me, making suggestions and comments. The only time I have gotten a message from him in a dream was when I was trying really hard to get him to tell me the combination to get into the Mercury he left me. Maybe I was trying too hard, and maybe he didn't know how to tell me numbers...or maybe he told me and I missed it and kept asking him for the number. In the dream he was showing me a little book with great intention and I knew it was about the code. When I woke up I realized he was showing me the owner's manual and I trotted over to his house and fetched it. Sure enough, there was the code! I don't know why I hear my dad like I do. I have also heard his dad and my mother's dad, but not as much as my dad. I have the feeling that he's always kind of around, and when I start to stress about something or am really focused on him, he suddenly says something. I have been afraid he would only stick around for a while and would move on, but he keeps telling me that he'll never leave me. I think I'm starting to believe him. I have a friend, Wayne, who died late last fall. I heard from him several times after he died and asked him directly why he was talking to me because there were quite a number of people who miss him and that he was a lot closer to when he was alive. He said, "yeah I know but you're the only one who will listen to me." I'm not sure how it is that I can hear Wayne, and my dad and the others. I think it's possible to try too hard to hear them, because then you doubt that you are really hearing them. And it's hard to believe something that everyone around you is telling you is all in your head. I try to keep it to myself...

I feel so badly for you in losing your beloved kitty - it was heart-wrenching to read your story. It is terrible to lose your best friend. People say these things about how so-and-so had a good and long life and I don't think they realize that it's no kindness to say that. Losing a loved one is always too soon, and grief is not about them - it's your loss and you are the one who got "ripped off" in not getting enough time, not the one who died. The Guinness book of world records on cat longevity is 38 and I can tell you that if my Lena lived to be 39 it would not be ok. I have had her for six years and she is eight now. Based on statistics, chances are we are closer to the beginning of our relationship than the end. But statistics say nothing about an individual. Many indoor cats who are well cared for live to be 20, but there is no guarantee. There is nothing I haven't and wouldn't do for Lena, but there is no guarantee of anything. Be easy on yourself, and know that it is a long road. I lost a cat named Freya and while the devastated-can't-stop-crying part didn't last all that long, I had dreams of finding her for twenty years. These dreams were like the end of a Hallmark movie...we would run towards each other in a field of flowers, she would leap into my arms, and we'd spin around in each others' arms in the sunshine. I had a dream not long ago that Lena went into the underworld through some hole at the end of the street and reappeared with Freya and my best friend's old cat. It has now been more than 30 years since I lost Freya and in some way she is still part of my life and my heart. Relationships don't end when someone dies; they change and we have to live with that as best as we can. Fancy was beautiful and she will always be a part of you...

Hi Kay - sorry it's been ages. After a school year of not making enough money for a good part of it, I got really slammed for the last few months and you know how it is - ya gotta make money while the hay shines. I have been working really hard on getting these evaluations done and doing them well. I really hope I will have the same next jobs next year and not have to spend the summer pounding the pavement and then have to find my way in a new situation in the fall... I think I am going to switch tracks a bit. I really enjoy taking classes at the community college and I like ceramics, but that environment in the ceramics classes is SO icky! There was another event in the class with the bully clique; the teacher, Ben, went to a conference and left Carolyn, one of the key members of the clique, in charge. He let her do it because she also teaches at the college (jewelry classes). She really went after me and was flat out yelling at me in class. She was saying that I never clean and everyone notices this and that I have been getting away with MURDER in class. At the start she and another student also told me that Ben had told them to pick on me and tease me by trying to get me to believe that I was supposed to do my presentation a week earlier than I had been told. They thought this was really funny. When Ben came back they all told him that I had been a big problem while he was gone. He called me outside the class to talk about this and before knowing what he had in mind I started telling him about what Carolyn had done, because I was still upset. I told him about them telling me that he had told them to tease me, which I didn't believe, and that she had been yelling at me in front of the class. I asked him if he felt I had been a problem or had been slack about cleaning up after myself or had been getting away with anything. He said no, no, none of that was true and he was particularly upset about her lying about him. I called the dean again as well, and she was disturbed at all this. Even though Carolyn is an instructor, in that class she is a peer and a member of a clique; she should have not been put in charge. She was only told to make sure everyone signed in, but took advantage of the situation to get in a few whacks. I suspect it was not good for her image in the eyes of the administration. The next week, Flo, another primary clique member, was nagging me about how to clean and I ignored her but it was upsetting. By chance the next day a woman called me from the main campus - the person who is in charge of student conduct. She had heard a good part of all this, but I filled her in on the rest. She said she would take this up with Carolyn. And Ben. And Flo. None of that should be going on. Since then no one has said anything they shouldn't have, and that is good. Back to the switching tracks. I am going to spend the summer focusing on my painting and take creative writing at the college. I am midway through my mission with clay and don't want to give that up and so I am going to continue working with clay at the place where the serious potters throw clay. They call it "the Ranch". There was a prominent potter here who had a big studio at a ranch just out of town, and when he died his friends wanted to carry on his legacy. So now the Ranch is a place where you can take classes and/or have a membership where you go to open lab 24/7, work with clay, fire your stuff, and have access to wheels, slab rollers, kilns, etc. I have known quite a few people who work out there. Some go to the Ranch and the college. Others can't stand what's going on at the college and they just go to the Ranch. I suppose I am one of them...

I love your photos - and she is adorable!!!

A pet IS a loved one. Relationships are not all the same, especially with animals. To some a cat or a dog is just a cat or a dog, but some people have profound relationships with animals that may be more important than relationships with people. And even for a given person, not all of their relationships with animals are not the same as with others. Some pets place a larger footprint on our heart and are a larger part of our life than others, and so the loss is bigger. Lena is the eighth cat who has shared my life. I thought about them and counted, starting with Sapphire, the family cat I grew up with. Some of them I had to think to remember their names, but others are so close to my heart, even now. I was obsessed with Mitten, but I had a bond with Freya that I still do not really comprehend. And Lena...she is is without a doubt one of the most important relationships of my life. I hope she will live as long as I do, even though I know this is unlikely. Pets hold a part of our hearts in a way like no other, and their loss can be enormous. I know full well that many do not understand this, and the only way I can figure out to deal with them is to shield your grief from them, once you know who they are, like a package of something that is fragile and valuable under your cloak, and process the grief elsewhere. People who don't understand pet loss can fill parts of our lives in other ways, but sharing with them something they are unlikely to honor can be hurtful to us as grievers. And we don't need any more suffering...

The mind definitely does strange things in grief. When I lost my cat Mitten, I saw her everywhere...I'd whip my head around thinking I saw her lying there, but it would be a black sweater and not my beloved cat Mitten. When I lost my tortoiseshell cat Freya years before Mitten, I was devastated and didn't think I'd ever recover, and had dreams where we would find each other again like the end of a Hallmark movie running towards each other in a field of flowers and her flying into my arms. I had these dreams for 20 years, even after Mitten became a part of my life, because no new person or animal can ever replace another. After Mitten, I had no pet for fifteen years and fully believed I would never have a pet again due to severe allergies. I felt all kinds of feelings I did not want because of my desperation and yearning (envy, irritation at pet stores, and so on). My allergies improved due to life changes, and now I live with the lovely Lena. The grief and pain of losing a beloved scars and changes a person. We don't just get over it, even when we have new relationships. I had a dream a few months ago in which Lena went into "the spirit world" through some secret portal at the end of my street and returned with the spirit of Freya and another cat, the long deceased pet of a close friend. It was comforting to feel that Freya and I are still connected, even after more than 30 years. True love is forever, even after death...

Thanks, Kay. The dean is a very pleasant woman and I was actually in the class that she took...it was on a Saturday. At the time, I wasn't aware of anyone bullying her, but I am generally pretty focused on doing my own thing and rather used to the fact that the teacher who has been there forever focuses on the beginners because he has to, but the other students he seems to ignore and his answers to direct questions are minimal or less. He does spend time in class engaged in chitchat with the bully pack. I have accepted that this burnt out teacher is not going to help me much and I'm on my own (although paying tuition). When I talked to the dean, she commented that these students have been been there for a long time and behave as if they are entitled to special rights and privileges...loading their things into the kiln first, bossing others around, making nasty remarks, etc. And the teacher lets them get away with it. She suggested that since the new teacher is in a tenuous position as adjunct faculty, he may not want to upset the apple cart. These dynamics have been in place for a long time. Another problem is that they pay tuition and if they were not there, there might not be enough students for the classes to make. This happened with the painting program. The painting teacher (Patti) had a following, just like the ceramics teacher and there was a group a them/us that would fill a block of each class so that there would be enough for the classes to make if a group of new students signed up. Patti suddenly had a metastasis from a cancer 20 years previous and died. They tried (sort of) to get some other teacher going, but without Patti's fans and friends, the program died too. Had they been able to keep it going, I would be in painting classes and not ceramics. Sometimes I feel like everyone is dying. Since my dad died three years ago, there have been so many more... my aunt Nancy, my neighbor/friend Darlene, my friend Wayne, another friend Judie, Patti the painting teacher, and some others that aren't coming to mind. And now my closest friend Adrienne whose family has been like an adopted family to me, especially in the many years I was alone in AZ, her father Herb has a dementia that is compounding at an alarming rate and now Herb has bladder cancer as well. I have been so close to their family for so long and Herb was such an amazing and brilliant person - it's hard to imagine a world without him. In most ways he is gone already; the person we knew and loved is not really there anymore, although he still lives. It's like the air is being sucked out of the room

My sister teaches art at a community college and she was flabbergasted to hear about this going on in front of a teacher at a college. It's also rather bizarre that the dean of the college was a victim of this and didn't do anything. Anyway, I hope the they can get over themselves a bit because I like ceramics and don't want to be forced out of there because of behavior that would be problematic in a bunch of ten-year-olds...meanwhile, it makes me feel bad and kind of icky. I think that just goes with the territory when people treat you badly that you feel bad and kind of icky. I had a similar thing going on with a guy in the contra dance band I play with. He was really out of line in the way of picking on me. I was angry and embarrassed by what he was doing to me, and it went on for several dances over almost a year. Two weeks ago I really gave it back to him, which didn't seem to fix anything and I still felt bad and icky about it. But then I played at a dance last night and he was cordial and made an obvious effort to get along with me. Most of the band lives in a different town than I, and they carpooled to the dance last night. I suspect that some of the other band members explained to him that this wasn't ok. I don't think people usually like being around someone who acts like that (being mean to someone for arbitrary reasons). I'm not sure why this kind of thing happens to me in different places. Maybe I seem like a good target because in many of these environments I am in an isolated position - not part of a clique or sub-group. I always fight pack when picked on, and I stick up for other people who are picked on. Often things work out eventually because the bullies are in the wrong, but it's no fun in the meanwhile, and it sure makes me miss my dad. He always was on my side and I could count on him to listen and be supportive...

Grief sure seems to make a lot of people worse...more narcissistic, more crazy, more of whatever they are. I had a friend named Wayne, who was a gifted ceramicist and painter. He was also a fighter pilot in Vietnam and the agent orange and jet fuel exposure he got from decades flying and training pilots caught up with him via cancer, and the second bout killed him in early Dec 2018. He was a sweetheart of a man and had many friends. After his military retirement he devoted himself to art and was very prolific. He had a ceramic studio in a trailer he owned, took classes at the community college, and was very involved in many aspects of the art community. He was also very active at the community rec center, where he exercised regularly. He was friendly, kind, generous, and many people loved him. It was heartbreaking to us all to see him decline suddenly and die. I met Wayne at the community college in ceramics classes, and also saw him at the rec center, and we talked about all kinds of things when we saw each other and texted when we didn't. I loved him, as did a lot of people. At the college, there is a clique of middle aged and older women who have been working in clay for a long time. They socialize together to the exclusion of "new" women artists, but draw in new men, and seem to fawn on them. This sort of thing exists all over the place. You know what I mean... So this group is like a little bully clique at the college. The classes have beginning, intermediate, and advanced students all together, and so there are students who have been there for many years, who work on their own thing, socialize, and sometimes help the less experienced. The man who has taught ceramics at the college for many years - let's call him Tim - has tolerated the bullying in his class for the six years I have been involved there - and no doubt before that. I try to keep my head down, work on my projects, and stay out of their way, which is difficult, because they make demeaning comments and literally push people out of their way. They seem to see themselves as a "top tier" of privileged students who can boss and demean the rest. I usually do hand-building, but decided to give the wheel another try this semester because there is a new teacher, who is an amiable young man who is quite skilled. While Tim has been impatient with my repeated attempts to try to learn on the wheel, the new teacher has tried hard to derive ways to teach me what has alluded me. This is great, but it has been frustrating. Since I am rather relentless, I keep at it on the wheel. Meanwhile, the bullying has intensified in the presence of the new young teacher and since Wayne's death. Wayne had tons of stuff related to clay...finished wares, partially finished wares, clay, tools, glazes, chemicals, kilns, wheels, and so on. Apparently the same is true with his painting things. His son said at his memorial that he really wanted to give as much os Wayne's tools, wares, and so on to Wayne's friends. He as asked repeatedly didn't he want to be paid or have the money to to something, and the son kept insisting that he believed his dad would have loved his pieces and tools go to his friends and people who loved him and his work. But the bully clique descended and things got ugly. The son was in town early this week and the word went around the clique in whispers. I heard this and contacted his son, who encouraged me to come out to the trailer and he would give me a few or Wayne's pieces, which I did. When I got there the whole bully clique was there and they were nasty. One greeted me with, "did you come to pick or help?" I tried to avoid them and talk to his son and look at the trailer and it's contents, which was overwhelming, even after two days of it being picked over and hauled off. These women decided that that they should get all of the stuff together and sell it, and set up a scholarship in Wayne's name at the college. I had heard about this at the college and that they had tried to badger anyone who had anything of Wayne's to pay them for it. So, out at the trailer I talked to his son privately, about his dad, his work, and so on. He offered me some pieces and several times came over to me with a bowl or mugs I hadn't seen, asking me if I would like them. I ended up with four bowls, three mugs and a couple of other odd pieces. When I was walking to the car one of these women was following me, yelling my name. I ignored her, but she pursued me to my car where I couldn't avoid her anymore. She told me, "if you took anything you need to pay for it" and explained what they were doing. I told her that Wayne's son had been very clear about his wishes and how he felt about his father. She went on some thing about how the scholarship was taking things "full circle" and didn't I want things to go full circle. I ignored her and went back to the son, asking him if he wanted me to pay him or these women. He said, "No, no, I want you to have them and it is not my intention for you to pay for them". I told him what this woman had said and he said, "WHO said that?" I told him and he told me to take and enjoy the pieces. So I did. Later in the day I called the college and talked to the dean about the bully pack and their horrible behavior in class. The physical intimidation, pushing, demeaning comments that go on right in front of the teacher...it has been hard to go into class knowing I will face that, and I don't think the college wants that to go on. I told her six or so of the more flagrant things, including one woman who has shoved, dragged me along with her as she walked rather than walking around me. She has also pressed up against me in a group because she wanted the spot where I was and I couldn't move other because other people were standing in a tight group listening to the teacher. So she would stand there, pressed up against me, so I could feel her breast and whatnot against me. Ewww... I have not been silent in class, but protest, with no impact. She also goes up to the sink when I am using it and puts a bucket between the spigot and my hands to fill it, and if I say anything says, "I am just taking your runoff", which of course would be below my hands and not above. Another woman was particularly nasty to me one day (the same one who chased me to my car) and I said to her, "do you have kids?" "Yes, she said". I then asked her, "do you know I'm not one of them?" "Yes", she said. "That's good!" I said cheerfully and with enthusiasm. So, none of this had had any impact, which is why I went to the dean. She was sympathetic and understanding, saying that the new teacher was an adjunct faculty and probably felt uncertain about how to handle the situation, which he had really inherited from Tim. She also said that she had taken a class with Tim a year or so ago, and had been bullied in Tim's class in front of Tim, even though she was the dean. She said she would talk to him and possibly pay a visit to the class. I was late to class yesterday because I work two hours away and sometimes it's hard to get out early. When I got to class, the teacher seemed to be a little tense but didn't say anything - just body language, like a tensed jaw. The class seemed subdued, everyone was very polite, no one was pushing anyone else around, and the three of them didn't say a word to me. That was good. I know this was kind of long, but it seems so typical in a way, of how grief intensifies dysfunction and how people can get into the most awful behaviors struggling over the stuff that a deceased person owned. It is insensitive to the bereaved and disrespectful to the deceased person, whom they supposedly loved so much.

That is wonderful - I am so happy for you! Send us a pic, if you want to, so we can see her. How old is she? What color? It is exciting news...and good for you. I had a long period once when I could not have a pet (extreme allergies, which improved). It was 15 years with no pet, and once I got Lena I was ecstatic and just wanted to share her with the world. A pet makes such a difference, being happy to see you when you come home, interested in every little thing you do, and being a loving companion. And sharing love with them is a gift...food, treats, toys, playing games, and so on. I love spending time with my cat, buying her things, feeding her, taking pictures of her...

It is so hard to lose a pet, and I totally understand what you mean when it is just you and her really. For me it has been like that with my cat Lena. We used to me a little family of me, my dad, and Lena. Now it is just me and Lena. I hope she lives as long as I do, but that is unlikely. Getting another pet is a very personal decision and no one can tell you what to do. I believe you can never replace a person or a pet and every relationship is a new one. No one could ever replace Joy, but a new pet could help ease your suffering. Joy helped you to cope with whatever you were dealing with before, and a new pet would help you with your life now and you wouldn't be alone. Lena has helped me to cope with the loss of my father. She can't replace him, but her presence in my life has given me love, comfort and solace. Chances are good that I will live longer than my beloved Lena, and there will probably be another cat who will help me cope with that heartbreak, even though no cat could ever replace her. And there is no shortage of cats who are desperately in need of love and a good home. I wish you the best.

Happy Birthday, Marty!