A Cat Named Byrd

Byrd loves my *NSYNC t-shirt.
Originally uploaded by Flies Like Pegasus

When I turned 6, my parents let me have a kitten.

His name was Rusher, and he was a male tabby cat from my friend's farm. I paid her brother $1 for him, because it was originally his kitten, but his mom made him let me take Rush home. (Years later, that boy who took the dollar from me got married, had a baby, and now owns a dog - but never again a cat.)

When Rusher was young and I was young, I broke his leg when I dropped him, by accident, onto the bedframe in my parent's room. I screamed with grief, but my Dad and Grandpa took him to the vet and got his leg casted. He zipped around the house (and still hopped into my bed to sleep at night) on 3 legs for several weeks.

Rush was a secret mother. My sister Jessie adopted a kitten from a farm when she was 5. The kitten was a female, probably weaned from her mother a bit early, black with a white nose, and white, 6-toed, paws. Boots was her name - and boots immediately took a liking to Rush. Rush began to groom her long hair every day, hacking up black hairballs on a regular basis. After Rusher died, Boots lived on with awful, scraggly hair she never learned to keep up. He was a bit of an enabler.

Rusher taught dogs to behave. We brought home an adult dog, Bocifus, who terrorized all the cats. I was determined that Bo behave - so I sat Rush in a corner, and put Bo on a leash, and sat in the room for hours with the two of them. Rusher gave him some sort of Jedi-look, refused to react to his barking and whining and lunging. Bo still terrorized all the other cats - except my boy.

My parents put Rusher to sleep when I was 22. I was finishing up my senior year of college, and my mother called me to explain that he really wasn't seeing well anymore, that his bladder control was gone, and that he had been vomiting regularly for weeks. He was losing weight, and making awful howling noises. I didn't get to say goodbye, but I trusted their judgement.

When I moved to Uptown this year, my roommate had a cat - Hugo. Hugo is all kinds of energy and trouble - tipping over glasses of water for the fun of it, escaping out the front door, learning to open cabinets and turn door handles with his paws, submersing himself in the toilet water, diving into the shower to lap up the rest of the suds. He hunts, he jumps, he "talks." He loves her - sleeps with her at night, curls up with her in the evenings. I was clearly a stranger in his home - though it was nice to have a furry friend around again.

After weeks of a chasing, stressful, work-filled existence, I had enough. I didn't want to see my boyfriend, I cringed at the idea of driving to the office, I fell off a therapy horse one day, I cried to friends, my mother. I was a mess. I declared a "hibernation" - saw only my roommate and family after work everyday, rarely answered my phone. We celebrated Jessie's 23rd birthday on Tuesday, and our last remaining family cat (Erika's - who is 20 and away at school), Tuffy, hopped her hulking bulk into my lap while I sat at the table.

"I miss having a cat."

That admission, out loud, began the roaring train of thought that wouldn't quite let me go. The weekend came, and I went to the humane society in Golden Valley with my friend Meghan.

We walked into a room in the cat section that had a clear warning "Careful - Escape Artists." Aiming for a cat that would be similar or complimentary to Hugo, I was thinking more about a kitten, female, playful, energetic. A seal-point male, 9 months, looked up at me from the floor. I picked him up and sat down. I cradled him in my arms like we used to do with our kittens as children (before we knew that was a freaky thing for cats to do - laying on their backs). He narrowed sleepy eyes, and began to purr.

It was over. I tried to like other cats - I tried to look at kittens, females, playful ones, stoic ones, young ones, older ones. I had his adoption card in my purse, though - and went back for him at the end. When I took him to the checkout to bring him home, people stopped me and asked, jokingly, if I was sure I wanted that cat - "I'd take him off your hands for you!"

He just fits right in, right where the last one left off, somewhere in the crook of an arm, in a ray of sunlight, in the soft laundry basket, calmly facing the day - not so different from his predecessor. I am happy.

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In Defense of Misko

I was reminded yesterday of my complete and utter love of riding. Though I don't always have ample time to leave my desk in the office and catch a horse, the crisp weather and my sudden energy yesterday told me it was the day to leave it all behind and wander down to the barn.

Morning Hippotherapy classes on Wednesdays are very quiet at first - the volunteers are older, there are few of them, they wait patiently in the arena as children and adults make their way down the aisle. It makes for an eerie, silent time in the barn, only the soft murmuring of people talking to horses or each other in lowered tones break the still air. It seems sacred, especially on crisp fall days - that peaceful anticipation of a ride, whether it be for a client, a volunteer, or for me.

Misko has been my partner since 2007, when his name was Gentleman Red. As is my tendency, I gravitated toward him - a higher-energy, relatively unused therapy horse who was generally either untrusted or unliked by many of the instructors. Even now, after many classes, many volunteers and clients, and many trips up and down Minnetonka's famous hill up to the pasture, he'll probably never walk quietly in hand, completely relaxed - but he will be less likely to spook at falling raindrops into the arena, or blowing leaves in the trees.

He's not Buddy. He's not Kermit. He's not Haji or Zip. (Pictures are here, and this is a little bit of an inside reference for WCR people) He's not an easy horse to lead, nor is he easy to ride for some clients - with big, lifting strides and the occasional complete, un-negotiable halt. In defense of Misko, though, he really wants to succeed and to please. More than most horses I've been with or ridden, he just wants so badly to do it right.

We rode on the grass on this chilly morning - my riding gloves doing their fair share of insulation as well as grip on the reins. Off he went at a trot, bending and flexing around my legs and hands. Then a walk to cool down - then a canter to warm up again. Around we went on this grassy opening without gates or fences or rails - and I was amazed at his responsiveness in an unenclosed space. This, from my nervous horse-friend who used to prance, spook, and dart at the passing breeze. This, from my nervous horse-friend who used to dive back toward the herd, or perk his ears constantly toward the pasture. In defense of Misko, he's come very far.

In defense of Misko - he's beat many odds - even if he's not perfect at the role he's currently playing. In defense of Misko - I remind all of you (and myself) that none of us are, either.

Well, Happy Birthday

The most curious and wonderful thing happened this weekend.

Moving from one side of town to the other was really much more taxing than I thought it would be. I've moved so many times before - back and forth to college, to Colorado one summer, to Robbinsdale after school was over. Always the piles of clothes, lamps, desk items, art supplies, and books. Oh God, the books. Always my most plentiful, heavy, and precious belongings, books really weigh far more than I am ever prepared to lift safely.

I was in a frenzied state of here-and-there. I had spent a night at my parents' house after the Dan Wilson concert at Bryant Lake Bowl (amazing, seriously), spent a few last nights in Robbinsdale, Saturday in Uptown finally, had been back and forth to the DMV to change my address, to the bank to deposit birthday checks, to the doctor's office for checkups, to class in Delano, then Minnetonka. I woke up in the mornings in "Go-Go-Go" mode, packed at least 2 boxes worth of belongings everyday before work, and was entirely preoccupied with how much I could get into the back of my Fusion, and will the box spring fit into the Explorer, and look at the state of these floors - I'll never get my deposit back at this rate. Then, Sunday evening, my birthday happened.

If it would have been up to me, I would have opted out entirely. The cleaning, the piles, the dirt, the dust - the sliver of OCD in my skin was poking at me hard, and I pried myself away to take a trip home. Well, to my parents' house.

Birthdays always seem like another day until my mother gets involved. She makes an event out of every tiny victory, whether that be an instructor certification weekend or the anniversary of your birth. She had prepared snacks, bought nice beer and wine, made a cake, invited surprise friends over. When we finally sat down to dinner (BLT's and corn on the cob, by request), I was looking at 6 people that I would not have known were it not for We Can Ride. I think we all realized this somewhere during that time - looking around at each other, talking about what we have in common - horses, classes, people with disabilities.

Never before have I radiated with happiness like I did sitting at that beat up old kitchen table (with remnants of high school nailpolish on the edges) on a fall evening, leaving behind all thoughts of the transient frenzy the week had been, listening to everyone say something about a client they loved, or the story of a horse's past, or, how, despite the odds, this crazy chaotic thing just seemed to work. It felt so fated, sitting there - almost helpless against the flow of conversation, against the outpouring of love for this organization. This was a table of servicemen and women, in the non-military sense, of course - each speaking from the warm place in their hearts that all We Can Ride volunteers know.

That place is where the amazing, breath-caught-in-your-throat things happen. It's where people who have never walked get on a horse and ride. It's where those who have never talked look down at you from 15.2 hh and smile. It's where we watch as a retired show horse stands patiently as a nervous client cries out in fear. It's where you meet retirees, teenagers, housewives, and high powered professionals dressed in boots and t-shirts, tromping around for hours of pure service, of pure joy.

I'm reminded that, for every night I come home shaking my head with disgust at government, at corporate giving, at the state of finances, at the problems that being understaffed pile on my desk (not unlike the belongings in my bedroom), the changes in my personal life - this place makes amazing things happen, and I believe. May I never forget that I believe.

"Como girafa!"

I met a little girl today - her name was Kelsey - while hanging out at my friend's house in the Stuart neigborhood of Minneapolis. The little girl was a beautiful latina - long black hair, caramel skin, big grin. She was playing with Hershey the dog, who Katie and I were walking back from our trip down the Midtown Greenway.

Kelsey wasn't alone - she had young friends and cousins romping around in the yard with her. Nobody was older than 7 or 8, youngest was probably 3. Summer was fresh on their faces, in the grasstains on their knees, in the breathless way they ran from yard to yard. I loved that they all crowded around the dog laying there in the lawn.

I crouched down to be with them and the dog, and a curious and familiar conversation began to happen.

Kelsey and another little boy pointed to my shoulders which are covered with freckles. They furrowed their brows together, and Kelsey pointed to a patch of them, asking, "What are these on your skin?"

This is not the first time my speckled skin has drawn attention from children. When I visited Thailand in 2004, we lived in a villiage with many young ones. As I walked through the playgrounds to the cabin we were living in - all of us tall, white basketball-playing women - I was always met with pointing and staring. None of them spoke English, however. I only realized what they were laughing at when they got close enough (and brave enough) to touch me. Suddenly they were prodding my arms with their hands - giggling and giving me questioning looks.

These children spoke English, though - even though much of it was laced with Spanish words I understood - so I was finally in a place to explain my particular spotted appearance.

"These are my freckles," I said, and Katie offered the Spanish word "peca" to back up my soon to be wordy explanation.

"But why?" Kelsey asked me.

"You see your skin?" I said, pointing to her arm, "You see how you get brown in the summertime? Well, I do too, but instead of it being an even brown like your pretty skin, I can only have it in spots."

"You can't be in the sun?!" one boy asked, alarmed.

"No, no, I can be in the sun. It just makes me look a little different than you," which I knew wasn't giving them the answer they wanted, so I laughed and offered, "The sun makes me look a little bit like a giraffe."

Katie laughed one of her hearty, lean back laughs, and said, "Girafa!" which of course made Kelsey and her friends laugh, too.

They then moved on to looking at Katie's cell phone, wrapping themselves in blankets and playing tag, and tearing grass out of the lawn.

I'm always oddly happy to be a curiosity - suddenly so foreign. I sometimes forget that even the briefest intersections can leave me feeling like a giraffe, like a funny joke, like someone to stare at. Maybe there doesn't have to be much interesting about me beyond my "markings," and my ability to sit down in the grass with a dog and some children and play.

I like the simplicity of being a giraffe for an afternoon.

Letters from a stranger

I learned many things this week during my various intersections with humans in my life.

From a pair of relative strangers, I knew what it was to grieve and love through someone else's memory.

From a group of clients, I learned the power of chemistry - one girl requested that her class be reunited for next session. "You can take care of that, right? Because I don't think I want to do this without them." I watched a woman 6 times their age hand over her card, encouraging these young girls to call anytime - just to talk. She drove 50 miles back to Minneapolis, racing the setting sun.

From a past love, I learned the power of peace - because begrudgery only lead me to obsession and sadness. The days are fleeting and begging for the lightness that regret never allows.

From a rascal, I learned that I was maybe less dramatic than I once believed. I think what happens to a soul on it's way down a new path is something best described as a scattering - thrown in several directions at one time, and trying to pull everything together to make a whole. I learned that "Well, it happened, and there's no taking it back now."

I learned that meeting the parents is not always that big of a deal - and that school teachers can run with the bulls in Pamplona, or scream and carry on in a cab in Japan. Lawyers sometimes bike to work, looking like aliens all lit up on their trek downtown.

From a writer and a thinker, I learned that "get in the pool" life theories are good, and ones I need to follow more often. Throw your whole body at your target, I've learned.

Bon Appetit

This morning, I sat down with a colossal pancake that I made for a very late breakfast and flipped on the gigantic television my roommate owns. We don't have cable, and I have little patience for anything on non-cable television besides the news (on occasion), and Public Television.

I have always loved PBS. Every kid starts loving PBS nowadays, it seems - what with Sesame Street and the late and beloved Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. I guess I never lost my zest for public television (and radio, actually), ever since I discovered Globe Trekker and the occasional movie special. I've been to Egypt, watched Humbert Humbert seduce Lolita in black-and-white, started a reality television addiction with "Pioneer House," and even caught a documentary made by a Carleton student about giving up technology once. I think a general life goal I have is probably to have my own show on PBS, but until then, I'll tell you about what I saw today.

With all of the hype about Julia Child lately, it's no wonder that even PBS needed to capitalize on the movie buzz by plugging "The French Chef" seasons on DVD as a gift for contibuting to their cause. I remember vaguely watching Julia Child with my grandparents when they came over to babysit us once. We also had to watch "Yan Can Cook" - but that's a whole 'nother story. My memory reminded me that she had a very distinctive voice - but that's about the extent of it.

In the episode they were airing, they featured Julia making a spit-roasted chicken stuffed with parsely, challot, salt, pepper, and, you guessed it, butter. She even gave the chicken a "butter massage" (her own words) to prep the skin for roasting. Later, she tied pieces of bacon to it in an effort to "self baste" the bird.

What I learned from this episode and perhaps my readings on Julia in general as of late is the following:

1) Julia Child was tall and awkward. This endears me to her, of course, as there aren't many of us 6-footers out there. We have to band together.

2) In the days of South Beach diets and the like, it was strangely refreshing to see someone slather on butter like it was her job. It's not like Julia sat down to eat that entire chicken, or that she made it every day - but if you make something special, you have to think about how it tastes. If you're presenting your best work to others, wouldn't you want it to be so perfect that they could think of nothing but the heaven that is hitting their tastebuds? We worry so much about how we talk, how we look, how we present ourselves - but cooking always reminds me that sometimes the best reflection of oneself that can be offered is something made, and something given.

3) The greatest gift a teacher can give is the accessibility to the subject matter. The more I read and learn about Julia, the more I learn that she did precisely that: demystify. As a teacher myself, I struggle always to analyze tasks, to break it into tiny pieces and feed it to my students in such a way that they learn.

4) All the best people have playful hearts. They make fun - they create great events and great enthusiasm around their own personal passions. They aren't afraid to be the most ridiculous person in the room, or to pick someone off the floor, or to trip and fall themselves. What great fearlessness she had, indeed.

There is plenty of hype, and rightfully so, stirring around Julia Child as of late - I believe that she and so many of the teachers, friends, parents, and heroes we all have are made of similar stuff. And as for me - I'm learning to savor the tastes of today, and remember them as they slip into tomorrow. I'm going to try to be the best awkward 6-footer since Ms. Child herself.