My cat sitting adventure

Why and how I got myself into this situation is still unclear to me. A lady friend, a quite good looking lady friend, (okay, okay, so I do know why and how I got myself into this situation) asked me to check her two cats while she was out of town for several days. I said, "Sure." I thought to myself, "How difficult could it be to check on her cats?" Before she left she told me that one of her cats was on medication for dry skin. Yes, dry skin. I thought to myself, "Give me a break!" However I kept my mouth shut because she is a good friend and as I said before, quite a good looking friend. Her one cat was required to take two pills a day and also needed to have Neosporin put on a sore on his skin. "No problem", I foolishly replied.

First of all, I do not, never did, and probably never will understand women and their fascination with cats. Cats like their independence, they never listen to you and they won't come to you if you call them. They are lazy, enjoy sleeping all day and staying out all night. If they drank beer and watched sports on television then they would be just like most of the men that these women have dated in their lives. Yet they love their cats. Many single women I know have cats. They never seem to have just one cat, they usually have at least two cats. Why? So the cats will have company when the woman is away. I never did understand why a cat, an animal that is very independent, would need or even want company when its owner is away. I would think that most cats are probably happy when their owner is away. They finally have got the entire place to themselves. However many women I know insist on having a second cat to keep the first cat company. All of these women are single. I also know of one woman who owns seven cats. She is also single. I believe it is because she owns seven cats.

I arrived at my lady friend's house at 11 a.m. and found a note instructing me what to do. "Check food". The food is A-OK. "Check Water". Well, the water dish was a little low so I'll add some water. However the note instructed me to "Only give them bottled water which is in the refrigerator"! I thought to myself, "Bottled water? The cats only drink bottled water?" When I visit my lady friend and ask for water, she gives me tap water. I may have to re-evaluate my friendship with this lady friend. I filled the cats' water dish with the aforementioned bottled water. I read the rest of the instructions she had left for me. The note went on saying, "Poopy bags are in the flowered green fabric holder hanging off the metal rack beside the litter box." Yes, you read me right, she wrote, "poopy bags." I really have to re-evaluate my friendship with this woman.

Now it is time to give Lucas, the male cat, his medicine. I was instructed to hide the pill inside some veggie cheese. Yes, the cat likes veggie cheese, made from soy. Apparently Lucas is a bottled water drinking, vegetarian cat. I did as instructed and put the pill inside the veggie cheese. The cat not only ate all of the veggie cheese, he also somehow managed to eat around the pill. All of the veggie cheese was gone yet the pill remained. I now must think of a "Plan B."

I decided to hide the pill in a piece of turkey. What the heck? I could not have any worse luck, could I? Lucas ate the turkey and once again managed to eat around the pill. One thing was certain. Lucas is not a vegetarian. I next attempted to hide the pill in some tuna. Albacore, actually. Again, Lucas ate all of the tuna and left the pill. Another thing was certain. Lucas likes to eat.

I then remembered my lady friend saying that I could hide the pill inside a cat snack treat. Aha! The old hiding the pill in a cat snack treat routine. I proceeded to find the cat treats. There were "Grilled Yellowfin Tuna Flavored Treats" and "Shrimp and Crab Medley Flavored Treats" and "Oven Roasted Breast of Chicken Flavored Treats" and "Hearty Beef Flavored Treats" and "Salmon Flavored Treats." These cats eat better than most people. I decided to first try the "Whiskas Temptations Salmon Flavored Treats." Why? Because on the package it read, "What Cats Want". That was good enough for me. Unfortunately it was not what this cat wanted. I put the pill in each of the treats and Lucas would not go near any of the them. One more thing was certain. Lucas was full. I now must wait until he gets hungry again. I had not thought that this would be an all day event.

While waiting for Lucas to get hungry again I thought I would make an attempt to put the Neosporin on his sore. This went better than expected. I accomplished this task in a mere 45 minutes and I successfully managed not to bleed on any of my friend's furniture as I ran to the bathroom to cleanse my multiple scratch wounds. Although Lucas may not hold a high regard for Neosporin, I have a new found appreciation for it.

Afterwards I noticed Lucas licking the Neosporin off of his sore. My first thought was, "Well, that was a complete waste of time and blood!" Then I got an idea. I'll put some Neosporin on his pill. He seems to like the taste of Neosporin. And you know what? It did not work either! So much for shouting with glee and becoming rich of my idea for a "Neosporin Flavored Cat Treat".

I looked at my watch. It was almost 2 o'clock. This unsuccessful ordeal had taken almost 3 hours! And I am supposed to do this twice a day for the next four days. Yet one more thing was certain. I must come up with a "Plan C". 

Knowing that I had made a valid attempt made it easier to implement "Plan C". Because of "Plan C", day two, three, and four of my cat-sitting adventure went smoothly. My lady friend arrived home late on day four, none the wiser, thanking me again and again for looking after her beloved cats. What was "Plan C"? Well, "Plan C" was a simple plan. I figured that since Lucas was required to take 2 pills a day for 4 days then that would equate to 8 pills. (Thank God for calculators!) I took 8 pills out of the bottle and threw them in the garbage. I used the Neosporin on my own wounds thus making it look like I used it on Lucas. I did not bother going over to her house to check on the cats at all on day 2 or 3. I went over just on day 4 to change the water and litter box in order to make it appear like I did everything she wanted me to do. You may be asking yourselves, "Doesn't he feel any sense of guilt for his deceitful ways?" The answer is, "No!". Well, maybe someday I will, after my wounds heal and the scars fade away. I did not want to implement "Plan C" but I had no other choice. I could not afford to waste several hours of my valuable time along with losing a pint of blood each day. Not when there are "Friends" returns to watch on television. Besides, that will teach her to give me tap water!

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Let a miracle happen

"There's a new student waiting in your room," my principal announced, hurrying past me on the stairs. "Name's Mary. I need to talk to you about her. Stop in the office later."

I nodded and glanced down at the packs of pink, red and white paper, and the jars of paste and boxes of scissors I held in my arms. "Fine," I said. "I've just come from the supply room. We're making valentine envelopes this morning. It'll be a good way for her to get acquainted."

This was my third year of teaching fourth-graders, but I was already aware how much they loved Valentine's Day (now just a week away), and making these bright containers to tape to the fronts of their desks was a favorite activity. Mary would surely be caught up in the excitement and be chatting cheerfully with new friends before the project was finished. Humming to myself, I continued up the stairs.

I didn't see her at first. She was sitting in the back of the room with her hands folded in her lap. Her head was down and long, light-brown hair fell forward, caressing the softly shadowed cheeks.

"Welcome, Mary," I said. "I'm so glad you'll be in our room. And this morning you can make an envelope to hold your valentines for our party on Valentine's Day."

No response. Had she heard me?

"Mary," I said again, slowly and distinctly.

She raised her head and looked into my eyes. The smile on my face froze. A chill went through me and I stood motionless. The eyes in that sweet, little-girl face were strangely empty - as if the owner of a house had drawn the blinds and gone away. Once before I had seen such eyes: They had belonged to an inmate of a mental institution, one I'd visited as a college student. "She's found life unendurable," the resident psychiatrist had explained, "so she's retreated from the world." She had, he went on, killed her husband in a fit of insane jealousy.

But this child - she could have been my own small, lovable niece except for those blank, desolate eyes. Dear God, I thought, what horror has entered the life of this innocent little girl?

I longed to take her in my arms and hug the hurt away. Instead, I pulled books from the shelf behind her and placed them in her lap. "Here are texts you'll be using, Mary. Would you like to look at them?" Mechanically, she opened each book, closed it and resumed her former position.

The bell rang then, and the children burst in on a wave of cold, snowy air. When they saw the valentine materials on my desk, they bubbled with excitement.

There was little time to worry about Mary that first hour. I took attendance, settled Mary into her new desk and introduced her. The children seemed subdued and confused when she failed to acknowledge the introduction or even raise her head.

Quickly, in order to divert them, I distributed materials for the envelopes and suggested ways to construct and decorate them. I placed materials on Mary's desk, too, and asked Kristie, her nearest neighbor, to offer help.

With the children happily engrossed, I escaped to the office. "Sit down," my principal said, "and I'll fill you in." The child, she said, had been very close to her mother, living alone with her in a Detroit suburb. One night, several weeks ago, someone had broken into their home and shot and killed the mother in Mary's presence. Mary escaped, screaming, to a neighbor's. Then the child went into shock. She hadn't cried or mentioned her mother since.

The principal sighed and then went on. "Authorities sent her here to live with her only relative - a married sister. The sister enrolled Mary this morning. I'm afraid we'll get little help from her. She's divorced, with three small children to support. Mary is just one more responsibility."

"But what can I do?" I stammered. "I've never known a child like this before." I felt so inadequate.

"Give her love," she suggested, "lots and lots of love. She's lost so much. There's prayer, too - and faith, faith that will make her a normal little girl again if you just don't lose hope."

I returned to my room to discover that the children were already shunning this "different" child. Not that Mary noticed. Even kindly little Kristie looked affronted. "She won't even try," she told me.

I sent a note to the principal to remove Mary from the room for a short time. I needed to enlist the children's help before recess, before they could taunt her about being "different."

"Mary's been hurt badly," I explained gently, "and she's so quiet because she's afraid she'll be hurt again. You see, her mother just died, and there's no one else who loves her. You must be very patient and understanding. It may be a long time before she's ready to laugh and join in your games, but you can do a lot to help her."

Bless all children. How loving they can be once they understand. On Valentine's Day, Mary's envelope overflowed. She looked at each card without comment and replaced it in her container. She didn't take them home, but at least she looked at them.

She arrived at school insufficiently dressed for the bitterly cold weather. Her raw, chapped hands - without mittens - cracked and bled. Although she seemed oblivious to sore hands and the cold, I sewed buttons on her thin coat, and the children brought caps, scarves, sweaters and mittens. Kristie, like a little mother, helped Mary bundle up before she went outdoors, and she insisted on walking to and from school with her.

In spite of our efforts, we seemed to be getting no closer to Mary as the cold, dreary March days dragged by. Even my faith was wearing thin. My heart ached so desperately, wanting this child to come alive, to be aware of the beauty the wonder, the fun - and, yes - even the pain of living.

Dear God, I prayed, please let one small miracle happen. She needs it so desperately.

Then on a late March day, one of the boys excitedly reported a robin in the schoolyard. We flocked to the window to see it. "Spring's here!" the children cried. "Let's make a flower border for the room!"

Why not? I thought. Anything to lift our spirits. This time the papers we selected were beautiful pastel colors - with brown strips to weave into baskets. I showed the children how to weave the baskets and how to fashion all the flowers we welcome in early spring. Remembering the valentine incident, I expected nothing from Mary; nevertheless, I placed the beautifully colored papers on her desk and encouraged her to try. Then I left the children to do their own creating, and I spent the next half-hour sorting scraps of paper at the back of the room.

Suddenly, Kristie came hurrying to me, her face aglow. "Come see Mary's basket," she exclaimed. "It's so pretty! You'll never believe it!"

I caught my breath at its beauty. The gently curled petals of hyacinths, the daffodils' fluted cups, skillfully fashioned crocuses and violets - work one would expect from a child much older.

"Mary," I said. "This is beautiful. How did you ever manage?"

She looked at me with the shining eyes of any normal little girl. "My mother loved flowers," she said simply. "She had all of these growing in our garden."

Thank you, God, I said silently. You've given us the miracle. I knelt and put my arms around the child. Then the tears came, slowly at first, but soon she was sobbing her heart out against my shoulder. The other children had tears in their eyes, too, but theirs - like mine - were tears of joy.

We fastened her basket in the very center of the border at the front of the room. It remained there until school ended in June. On the last day, Mary held it carefully as she carried it out the door. Then she came running back, pulled a crocus from her basket and handed it to me. "This is for you," she said, and she gave me a hug and a Mary moved away that summer. I lost track of her, but I'll never forget her. And I know God is caring for her.

I've kept the crocus in my desk ever since - just to remind me of Mary and of the enduring power of love and faith.

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Girls of summer

We lived on the banks of the Tennessee River, and we owned the summers when we were girls. We ran wild through humid summer days that never ended but only melted one into the other. We floated down rivers of weekdays with no school, no rules , no parents, and no constructs other than our fantasies. We were good girls, my sister and I. We had nothing to rebel against. This was just life as we knew it, and we knew the summers to be long and to be ours.

The road that ran past our house was a one-lane rural route. Every morning, after our parents had gone to work, I'd wait for the mail lady to pull up to our box. Some days I would put enough change for a few stamps into a mason jar lid and leave it in the mailbox. I hated bothering mail lady with this transaction, which made her job take longer. But I liked that she knew that someone in our house sent letters into the outside world.

I liked walking to the mailbox in my bare feet and leaving footprints on the dewy grass. I imagined that feeling the wetness on the bottom of my feet made me a poet. I had never read poetry, outside of some Emily Dickinson. But I imagined that people who knew of such things would walk to their mailboxes through the morning dew in their bare feet.

We planned our weddings with the help of Barbie dolls and the tiny purple wild flowers growing in our side yard. We became scientists and tested concoctions of milk, orange juice, and mouthwash. We ate handfuls of bittersweet chocolate chips and licked peanut butter off spoons. When we ran out of sweets to eat, we snitched sugary Flintstones vitamins out of the medicine cabinet. We became masters of the Kraft macaroni and cheese lunch, and we dutifully called our mother at work three times a day to give her updates on our adventures. But don't call too often or speak too loudly or whine too much, we told ourselves, or else they'll get annoyed and she'll get fired and the summers will end.

We shaped our days the way we chose, far from the prying eyes of adults. We found our dad's Playboys and charged the neighborhood boys money to look at them. We made crank calls around the county, telling people they had won a new car. "What kind?" they'd ask. "Red," we'd always say. We put on our mom's old prom dresses, complete with gloves and hats, and sang backup to the C.W. McCall song convoy, " which we'd found on our dad's turntable.

We went on hikes into the woods behind our house, crawling under barbed wire fences and through tangled undergrowth. Heat and humidity found their way throught he leaves to our flushed faces. We waded in streams that we were always surprised to come across. We walked past cars and auto parts that had been abandoned in the woods, far from any road. We'd reach the tree line and come out unexpectedly into a cow pasture. We''d perch on the gate or stretch out on the large flat limes tone outcrop that marked the end of the Woods Behind Our House.

One day a thunderstorm blew up along the Tennessee River. It was one of those storms that make the day go dark and the humidity disappear. First it was still and quiet. There was electricity in the air and then the sharp crispness of a summer day being blown wide open as the winds rushed in. We threw open all the doors and windows. We found the classical radio station from two towns away and turned up the bass and cranked up the speakers. We let the wind blow in and churn our summer day around. We let the music we were only vaguely familiar with roar through the house. And we twirled. We twirled in the living room in the wind and in the music. We twirled and we imagined that we were poets and dancers and scientists and spring brides.

We twirled and imagined that if we could let everything --- the thunder, the storm, the wind , the world --- into that house in the banks of the Tennessee River, we could live in our summer dreams forever. When we were girls.

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Shining light in dark corners

"Dr.Papaderos, what is the meaning of life?"

The usual laughter followed, and people stirred to go.

Papaderos held up his hand and stilled the room and looked at me for a long time, asking with his eyes if I was serious and seeing from my eyes that I was.

"I will answer your question."

Taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into a leather billfold and brought out a very small round mirror, about the size of a quarter.

And what he said went like this:

"When I was a small child, during the war, we were very poor and we lived in a remote village. One day, on the road, I found the broken pieces of a mirror. A German motorcycle had been wrecked in that place.

"I tried to find all the pieces and put them together, but it was not possible, so I kept only the largest piece. This one, and, by scratching it on a stone, I made it round. I began to play with it as a toy and became fascinated by the fact that I could reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine---in deep holes and crevices and dark closets. It became a game for me to get light into the most inaccessible places I could find.

"I kept the little mirror, and, as I went about my growing up, I would take it out in idle moments and continue the challenge of the game. As I became a man, I grew to understand that this was not just a child's game but a metaphor for what I might do with my life. I came to understand that I am not the light or the source of light. But light---truth, understanding, knowledge---is there, and it will shine in many dark places only if I reflect it.

"I am a fragment of a mirror whose whole design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have I can reflect light into the dark places of this world---into the black places in the hearts of men---and change some things in some people. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. This is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life."

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On her own, but not alone

Marjorie Baer used to joke about her retirement plans. She wasn't married and had no kids, but she didn't intend to be alone―she and all her single friends would move into a fictional home she called Casa de Biddies. Instead, Baer developed terminal brain cancer when she was 52. But just as she'd hoped, her friends and family provided her with love and care to the end.

Baer's friends Lee Ballance and Mary Selkirk were walking their dog one afternoon in July 2006 when they saw an ambulance in front of her house. Baer had had a seizure and collapsed. Ballance, a physician, hopped in his car and followed the ambulance to the hospital to be at Baer's side while doctors tried to figure out what was going on. When they did, the news wasn't good: She had glioblastoma multiforme, a particularly aggressive form of brain cancer.

Ballance was only the first of Baer's friends who became her unofficial caregivers. Until her brother Phil Baer put his marriage and work in Los Angeles on hold to care for his sister during her final weeks, they cobbled together a system to watch over their friend and allow her to keep some of the privacy and independence she cherished.

Baer's good friend Ruth Henrich took the lead. That seemed natural: Henrich, then 58, and Baer both worked in publishing and lived in the same duplex. Though busy in her job as an associate managing editor at salon.com, Henrich took Baer to doctors' appointments and helped her deal with all the aspects of life that were becoming increasingly mysterious to her―answering machines, TV controls, and even phone numbers. After Henrich sent out an e-mail request, a group of volunteers signed up to ferry Baer back and forth to radiation therapy. Others in Baer's circle offered up particular talents: A nurse friend helped Baer figure out how to get what she was due from Social Security and her disability insurance; an attorney pal helped Baer with her will; a buddy who was an accountant took over her bills when she could no longer manage them. "There was this odd sense that the right person always showed up," says Ballance.

Not that it was easy. "I had to know at all times who was going to be there and anticipate what Marjorie would need next, so it was always on my mind," says Henrich. "It was something I wanted to do, but it also never went away." Still, their jury-rigged arrangement worked remarkably well. Even as Baer lost the ability to read and write and engage in conversation over the course of the year, she was able to continue to live on her own, walk to the market, take the subway to painting classes, and even fly to Iowa by herself to visit her brother Tom and his family.

"She was a generous person," says another friend, Elizabeth Whipple, "and it came back to her in truckloads."

Unmarried women are one of the fastest-growing demographic groups in America, and increasing numbers of men are remaining single, too; experts are concerned about how caregiving will be managed for both groups as they age. If the experience of Baer's friends is a guide, the Internet will play a role. It's already making it possible to create communities of caregivers who may have only one thing in common: the person who needs their help. On personal "care pages" set up through services such as Lotsa Helping Hands, friends and family members can post a list of tasks that need to be done, volunteer to do them, and keep updated on the person's condition. As Baer's cancer progressed, for example, her friends set up a page on Yahoo! where people could sign up to deliver meals or do errands.

Eventually, their help wasn't enough. One morning, a year after Baer's diagnosis, Henrich checked in before work and found Baer on the floor. Though she wore a panic button on a chain around her neck, she hadn't used it. "I don't know how long she had been there," Henrich says.

That was when Baer's brother Phil stepped in. He and Tom had taken turns earlier making trips to Berkeley to care for their sister; now Phil, who lived in Los Angeles, took leave from his job as head of air-conditioning and heating at CBS Studio Center―and from his understanding wife, Joyce―to care for Baer full-time. "There was just no question in my mind that I would do anything I could, including switch places with Marjorie," he says. "It made me realize how much I loved her."

For the next few weeks, Phil looked after her during the day. He oversaw the nighttime caregivers and consulted with the hospice workers who assisted with medical issues and helped him prepare for Baer's death. But even then, his sister's loyal friends were irreplaceable, he says, providing both practical and emotional sustenance.

Several of Baer's friends were there when she died. "We were all trying to help ease her passing," says Whipple. "Phil put his hands on her chest, and she let go."

Catherine Fox, one of the friends who was present when Baer died, was deeply affected. "It was so comforting to know that if you're willing to ask for help, the generosity of family and friends can be phenomenal. It makes me feel secure and hopeful to know that help is there when you need it."

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Hope that floats like a butterfly

Love doesn't stop when a parent, spouse, or friend gets sick. Here, remarkable stories of stepping up, sticking around, and finding joy.

By Camille Peri

Lonnie Ali was six years old and had just gotten home from school in Louisville, Kentucky, when she saw a crowd of boys gathered around a handsome young man in a white shirt, a bow tie, and black dress pants. "Look," said her mother, standing in the doorway, "that's Cassius Clay."

Clay, who would soon claim the first of three heavyweight boxing titles and adopt the Muslim name Muhammad Ali, made a point of calling the shy little girl over. And from then on, she recalls, whenever he visited his mother across the street, he stopped by her house as well. "He was like a big brother," she says. "He'd sit and talk, and I'd believe what he said before I'd believe my father. I figured my father would tell me stuff just because he wanted to protect me, but Muhammad would tell it to me the way it was."

They remained friends, even as he became a world champion and she went off to college, where she got a psychology degree and then an MBA. When she was 17, Lonnie says, she realized that she would marry him someday―"I knew it was fate," she says. Twelve years later, she did, becoming the boxer's fourth wife. Muhammad had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, but the diagnosis didn't faze Lonnie. "I knew the man, not the celebrity," she says. "That's who I loved. And he knew I would always be in his corner."

For a long time, Muhammad's disease barely slowed him down. Lonnie was more of a care partner than caregiver, nudging her husband to take his medicine and accompanying him to doctors' appointments. But gradually, his symptoms became more intrusive. One turning point occurred about 15 years ago, when the couple were out to dinner in Boston. "Muhammad went to put food in his mouth and he froze," she recalls―temporary immobility is characteristic of the disease. Another was when the famously animated boxer became stone-faced, also a classic sign of the disease. "Then I knew I had some challenges that I really needed to deal with and learn about," Lonnie says.

The challenges have been practical, emotional, and psychological as much as medical. Lonnie has had to recognize her own limitations: At one point five years ago, as she cared for her husband, mothered their teenage son, Asaad, and ran a business, among other things, she felt so unfocused, she thought she had attention deficit disorder. "I went to the doctor and fell asleep in the waiting room," she says. "The doctor said, 'You don't have ADD. You're sleep-deprived.'"

She's also had to learn to accept what she can't control. Muhammad is still a big man, with piercing eyes and muscular arms, the result of working out every day. But his disease means that this man of unparalleled physical gifts now walks haltingly; once famous for his banter, he often sits in silence. "I've been with him for so long, I can basically look at him and tell what he wants and needs," Lonnie says.

Yet the illness can steal only so much, and Muhammad still has plenty he wants to do. A quarter of a century into his struggle with Parkinson's disease, he's taking piano lessons. Most important, this lifelong supporter of humanitarian causes still feels he has a mission to help other people. Early in his disease, Muhammad shied away from the spotlight. "He used to play to the camera, but the camera was no longer his friend," Lonnie says. But then he made an appearance with Michael J. Fox, also a Parkinson's sufferer, who has been open about his own movement problems. "I think he thought, If Michael can do it, I can do it."

Now Muhammad Ali doesn't care what people think when they see him. Early this year, in an essay for National Public Radio's "This I Believe," the boxing legend wrote about carrying the Olympic torch to light the cauldron at the 1996 Summer Games in Atlanta and realizing that his tremors had taken over. "I heard a rumble in the stadium that became a pounding roar and then turned into a deafening applause," he wrote. He understood then that Parkinson's had not defeated him.

"There's still a lot for me to learn from him, and I never forget that," Lonnie Ali says. "Muhammad was the epitome of strength and beauty, but could someone with physical challenges really relate to him? Probably not. But now they can identify with him. We used to get letters all the time about people with Parkinson's who wouldn't go out of the house, but because they saw Muhammad out, now they go out.

"He still has that power to inspire people―without even opening his mouth."

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