Pet sitting started at 8am when I fed Sasha and let her out in the backyard. Between bouts of taking care of business, she barked at neighbor chickens and dogs, wandered around sniffing grass, and spent an impressive amount of time standing still, staring off in the distance. When I was ready for Sasha to come back in, I discovered she has an uncanny ability to tune out her name being called in several different endearing, enthusiastic, super cutesy ways, as well as the sound of thigh slapping and finger snapping. Not being in such a hurry that I needed to scoop Sasha up and thwart her outdoor recreation, I sat back on my friend’s big red couch, gazed at the back of my eyelids for a while, and listened to the hum of appliances in an otherwise silent house.
I finally had to go out onto Sasha’s green, careful to avoid squishy landmines, and coax her as one might do with a distracted/otherly focused toddler (as if there’s another kind), squatting, making eye contact, and reaching my arms out as if inviting a running jump hug. I love to pet my dear little buddy, who loves to be scrithced and hugged, the kind of dog that hugs back, but I only had a few minutes to snuggle as I was due at another engagement with three cats across the street.
Grandpa Bob, aka owner of the above mentioned cats, is on a fishing trip up north. Lucky him! He’s been dreaming of getting back in a boat, sending out bait on a strong line, feeling that hoped-for tug, all bathed in sun and shadows in a near perfect leafy hideaway. If he could live in a cabin and fish all day, I believe my dad would seem like a different person. Indeed, he might be that different, the natural environment feeding his soul, waking him up each morning, promising delight and serenity rather than a blast of repeated reports of tragic reality ala CNN.
Grandpa Bob is the doting adoptive parent of cats who once lived at our house. Gibber, a small female, is 18 years old this month. She has always been on the skittish side and now needs fluids every day or two and soft food. As she’s the only cat who gets special dinner, she needs a guard, or for her roomies to be put behind closed doors temporarily so her dinner doesn’t get gobbled up by a stealthy peer. She and her feline companions were fed quickly as I was hurrying to get back home while my sweet sister-in-law was caulking our bathtub. We’ll be going back to cat-sit later, at which time I hope to get covered in fur as I attempt to compensate for their poppa being far away. He’s a Grade-A cat petter, a truly hard act to follow, but I’ll do my best.
After tending these four lovelies, I came back home, mentally prepared to do the last bits of getting the house show-ready for an 11am appointment with a prospective buyer. Last bits always seem not so itty bitty once the going gets moving. Every time I cleaned one place, I noticed another. There are an infinite number of tiny spaces that collect dust, particles of paint, and teeny weeny unidentified objects. Merry Maids may have my business soon, as they are specially trained in finding each and every possible crack and surface to clean, then doing so spectacularly, at least I’d hope such cleanliness would be the result of their paid-for efforts.
The woman interested in buying our house has come and gone. We had a nice conversation. She seems interested, will talk to her husband. I’m detached but hopeful. I’ve learned to not rush these larger-than-I-can-grasp transitions. When I hand over the process to God through prayer, and do what I reasonably can toward a specific outcome, things seem to work out better than I would have engineered for my wants. For one, I/we often learn some important skill/information needed for the next phase and if we had rushed, we would be lacking integral knowledge/know-how and phase-next would likely be harder than necessary to adjust to; at least that’s what past character building experiences have led my husband and I to believe.
Ah well! I hear the dumping of small, sharp plastic pieces. Fortunately the boys are in their room. They’ve been so compliant, keeping everything as neat as they know how and “off the floor please!” as I’ve been wandering from room to room with a vacuum attached to my arm.
The kiddos have eaten lunch (while I’ve been writing), finding their own grub now that I’m willing to let them make anything resembling a mess in the kitchen. For my lunch, I want to eat at a wooden table outside the Co-op. Hummus, tortilla chips, banana, organic grape tomatoes, string cheese, small carton of blueberries, couple of honey mints, and fruit juice sweetened soda. Me thinks it’s time to call grandma and offer her the opportunity to play Scrabble with her ten year old grandson to the sound of her seven year old grandson watching thirteen year old VHS recordings of Barney, which have, as of last night, become popular again.
I’m partial to Barney despite popular adult opinion, but that’s another post.
man fishing found here
Barney & friends found here
