Mail Call

For those of you who have yet to visit that dark and terrifying void, here is an example of the way that my mind works.

Last Monday, I was on my way to yet another of my workshop groups. On my way to our front door, I paused by our mailbox to see if there was anything lurking within that required my immediate attention.

When I opened the door, I found a flyer for a local pizza-by-the-slice store, a handbill from a realtor who wants to purchase our housing co-op unit for resale to overseas investors (who don't know any better either), and a large, grey business envelope marked with the return address of Vancouver Coastal Health.

Some of you will recall that I finished their Peer Support Workers' training program in February, and I have just completed my thirty hours of practicum at one of our just-outside-of-the-East-End health teams.

I was offered a single ten-hour per month contract by that same team, and I'm presently working with only one client. I've been applying to that and some of the other teams nearby for more clients and more hours. Things look very promising.

On September 7th, the Tall Lady and I attended my graduation ceremony in the Round Room in the cafeteria of the Jimmy Pattison Pavilion at Vancouver General Hospital, where my fellow graduates and I spent the afternoon competing to sit at one of the corner tables (badda-boom!).

Since my acceptance into the PSW training class last year, the only news I've received from Vancouver Coastal Health has been encouraging and gratifying, so it probably comes as no surprise to my habitual readers that my very first thought, as I held the envelope in my hands was: they want me to send my certificate back, and they have sent me a self-addressed, stamped envelope because they don't trust me to destroy it myself...

Apparently, we are never cured, although we do get better.

The envelope in question actually contained a lovely graduation card from our friend and teacher, Renea Mohammed, as well as a few photos she thought I'd like. As we walked to the middle of the room to accept our certificates, Renea had asked us to write a word or a phrase on a sheet of flip-chart paper at the front of the room. Later, she arranged our contributions into a Word Cloud, which is the picture in the top left corner of this post. I have also included the group photo of the grads with Renea, because I think we make such a fine-looking group.

To my classmates and to Renea, it has been a joy and a privilege to work with you, and I wish us every success.

To my patient readers, thanks for coming back again.

All of you, be extremely well.

Saying Goodbye to Georgy Girl

Photo by Linda Sewell

A very good friend of ours died yesterday evening at about five o'clock. Although the event was planned, and the action was unavoidable, it was still a sad, sad day.

Our neighbour, Linda, who lives three blocks away from us, is also a foster parent for VOKRA. Because we live in such close proximity, and because Linda has no car, someone in our organization suggested that she call us one evening about two years ago when her foster cat was running low on litter.

When Sheral and I arrived with the goods about fifteen minutes later, we found Linda's apartment door standing open, and a beautiful, mature black cat, strutting down their hallway to greet us. If I remember correctly, the greeting was a great, ear-splitting "MAAAAAH-ROW-WOW". Georgy Girl, Linda explained to us, was twelve years old, and among her other endearing qualities, was as deaf as a post. Since she could no longer hear her indoor voice, she had elected to forsake its use entirely.

We three humans visited and talked for awhile, but the Tall Lady and I used much of that first visit trying to make our best impression on that pretty, black cat. She was petted, caressed and complimented by all in the room, including her proud foster mom. This is quite justifiable, I think. They're supposed to be spoiled; that's why we call them pets.

Over the course of the next two years, we got phone calls from Linda on a regular basis. "It's the pest again," she would begin before going on to tell us what she needed. Whether it was another bag of stove pellets, a few cans of food or a ride to the latest adoption event, we never minded. It gave us a chance to visit her and our friend Georgy.

Georgy was not always a spoiled pet. She was around eleven when she strayed from her home, and she lived on the street for about a year, cold, hungry and frightened. What should be the worst part of her story is that she was found only seven blocks from that home. What is the worst part is this: when she was rescued, the microchip in her ear was traced back to her owners, and they refused to take her back! The best part of all this is that she found Linda.

She's been on our adoption gallery for two years, and has even attended an adoption event or two, although she never seemed to care for them much. When Linda was able to foster other cats, Georgy would tend to bully them - just to remind them that they were just passing through. It was Georgy's home, after all, and Linda was Georgy's person! Because she was a black cat of a certain age, and because she had special needs, Georgy had few visitors, other than her VOKRA friends.

In addition to being deaf, she had an ongoing thyroid problem, which had been treated with both medication and radiation therapy. Recently, the ongoing thyroid problem turned into a cancer.

I think I've explained that she was a fighter, but over the past few days the fight has become overwhelming. She's had very bad days, interspersed with a few good moments. Yesterday it seemed that she was just too tired to try anymore.

Sheral and I were in New Westminster picking up five three-day-old kittens who were on their way to Maria Soroski's house. Maria couldn't pick them up herself because she'd already made arrangements to go to Linda's to assist her and the vet. Half an hour later, she came to our place to pick up the babies. I carried the kittens out to her van, and we talked for awhile about Georgy, Linda and the events of their last afternoon together.

While Maria got their bottles ready, I placed their carrier on the soft, clean, white towel that she had arranged carefully on her passenger seat. She took the little ones into her hands one by one, fed them their little bit of formula, wiped their chins and examined their credentials. It was only after she placed them all into the new clean carrier that she showed me what the soft, clean, white towel on her passenger seat contained.

So, I guess, in my own clumsy way, I did get to say goodbye to Georgy Girl after all. I'd like to think that she'd understand my distraction, and would excuse the indignity. I suspect though, that I may need to think of some appropriate penance. Cats can hold grudges forever, you know.

Georgy Girl was fourteen years old. She was loved, and she is missed.

To donate to the

Vancouver Orphan Kitten Rescue Association,

please click here.

Connie's First Post

kt vckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff 2222222

Limited Vision has a guest contributor tonight. 0+ Tppppppppppppppppppppppppwelve week-old Dona Conchetta is posting her very first article. Be patient. She will get better. All of us do.

Thanks again.

Zebra Crossing

When educated people explain the application of Occam's Razor to the rest of us poor simpletons, the example that they might use is this: if he were to perceive a noise like approaching thunder across an open meadow under a clear blue sky, the sensible Saxon churl would expect to see horses and not zebras.

While it is meant to reduce complication, Occam's Razor does not exclude other possibilities than the obvious ones. It merely allows that, in most cases, the simplest explanation is the most probable. It does not imply that the invading Normans might not, in fact, have been mounted on bloodthirsty, carnivorous zebras.

To illustrate further, when we hear the same sort of rumble in our house, we find that, rather than expecting either horses or zebras, it is more reasonable for the Tall Lady and me to infer the proximity of a clowder of clog-dancing kittens. So it has ever been, and with any sort of luck, shall always be.

Fabio

Our housing co-op has an eight-paw policy, and currently, including Sheral's and mine, we have thirty-nine paws in our two-bedroom unit. The others belong to our two Flying Fellini Sisters, la Bella Bianca, the Mighty Leonard, and our four eleven week-old foster cats, who are called "the Carport Kittens", or to be more familiar "the Littles".

The handsome, spotty lad in the photo at the left is named "Don Fabrizio", but because it is too much of a mouthful, it is usually shortened to "Fabio". We are so very proud of him, that on occasion, we call him "Fabulo". Because of his passing resemblance to our Big, Perfect Cat, this has been extended to "Fabulo, Son of Xena" - although never within shot of her sensitive ears.

Cheech

The long, lean, black smile on the right belongs to "Don Ciccio". Cheech has become our Leonard's best little buddy, and the two of them will tear around the house in blatant disregard of innocent bystanders or their personal space. All four of the Littles are lap-cats, but Cheech has the least time to spare for that. He has too many things to do,

Connie

"Dona Conchetta" is still the biggest of the four. Connie's short, soft, wooly coat is Russian-blue in colour, but has faint tabby stripes. Her body type and her face have a British short-hair look about them, and she has a little, kinky manx-like tail which she twirls like a pinwheel. All of these things lead me to believe that their mom is a liberal democrat. Connie enjoys long, animated conversations, the National Geographic Channel and French kisses.

Cara

Finally, there is "Dona Carolina", the little cutie who settled, purring, onto Sheral's lap that Saturday at Karen Duncan's house, and sealed our doom. Her markings are a mix of tabby stripes and tabby rosettes. We were not aware until our friend Lilian spotted it in one of my photos that the pattern of her coat forms a little monogrammed "C" on her right side, but we always knew that she was cool. Cara is the smallest kitten at the moment, but she is fearless. Where the other seven cats will flee in terror from Our Friend the Vacuum Cleaner, little, fragile Cara can usually be found standing defiantly on the middle platform of our big cat tree, hurling insults on the poor Kenmore's ancestry and making rude gestures at it.

The Littles should be up on the VOKRA gallery pages soon. Today, I'm supposed to be writing biographies to include with their photos. I just hope that I can think of something interesting to say about them.

To donate to the

Vancouver Orphan Kitten Rescue Association

please click here

Carport Kittens

When Bianca's adoption was rescinded on Saturday morning, I have to admit that the news wasn't entirely disappointing. For one thing, it meant that we get to keep our big, black beauty for awhile longer. For another, we could go out and do something fun that day.

VOKRA foster manager, Mickey Carrington, emailed us that morning to tell us that fifteen new kittens would be arriving at Karen Duncan's house in the afternoon. Karen is sick, and Mickey wanted to know if we would be willing to help with their intake. We have never helped with "intake" before, but we thought we had a hazy notion of what was involved, so we agreed.

I have several new distinctive scars on my hands today, the prettiest of which form a perfect little diamond shape, composed of four punctures from sharp, tiny teeth. They were impressed into my left index finger by an outraged little tuxedo kitten with a kinky manx tail, who had become quite upset with me when I proposed to examine his credentials. My win record with the black and white cats seems to be running around fifty/fifty. The first three of our "intake" clients had already left with their new foster parents by the time we'd finished with the last twelve and cleaned my forensic contributions from the walls of Karen's downstairs bathroom.

Before we left that afternoon, Karen told us about the little tenants in her main-floor bathroom. She had four seven week-old kittens who had been born in a nicely arranged East End carport, and who have been living with her since they were weaned. We were taken upstairs to meet them, and found four little balls of fluffy popcorn, bouncing across the linoleum, skittering in and out of the plumbing fixtures. When the pale, ghostly grey one settled, purring, into Sheral's lap, I knew we were doomed.

Leonard's isolation cell has been reassembled, and our four new guests have been invested therein. They still had no names on Sunday morning, but there was an idea rolling around inside of my head like a little marble racing about the rim of a great, big bowl. One of our new charges has beautiful spots like a leopard. A long time ago, I saw a film by Luchino Visconti about a Sicilian prince whose family emblem is just such a creature. Based on a 1958 novel by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, it was called Il Gattopardo, or The Leopard.

Ergo, I have proposed that our handsome, spotty, new friend shall be Don Fabrizio, after the princely main character in the story. His big, russian-blue sister with the splendid, stubby tail will be called Dona Concetta, and the spectral, grey tabby girl is going to be named Dona Carolina, after two of Fabrizio's daughters. The last little boy was the hardest, and I have named him after the organist who plays in the family church. The little, black male will be Don Ciccio, not least of all because he appears to be the pianist.

They are four beautiful, active, well-behaved little cats, and I suspect that they will be with us about as long as their cousin Schroeder was.

Of course, most of our other cats are outraged that the little ones have invaded their home.  Bianca is appalled, but it probably won't be of long duration. She warms to other cats pretty quickly. Xena gives them a wide berth and Brie visits often to teach them new dirty words. Leonard has built himself an unassailable fortress of the cushions at the top of the big bed, and will not be moved therefrom. Rena, being Rena, will make the best of what comes, and accepts this too with her usual good cheer.

It is KITTEN SEASON again, and again VOKRA is being swamped. If you have a space in your home or in your heart, please contact us about adopting one - or more - of these nice little cats, their cousins, or their aunts or uncles. If you have a bigger space, or a softer heart, you might consider fostering for us. If you don't think you're ready for either commitment, please follow the link below and contribute as generously as you can.

You've done so before, and I thank you again.

To donate to the Vancouver Orphan Kitten

Rescue Association

please click here.

Naming Names

There is one lesser dividend of the Second World War that we frequently ignore, and we should not. We don't often recall that since 1945, few little boys have grown up encumbered by the name "Adolf".

Your name is one of the very first gifts that you received, and some of you, like me, might wish that your parents had kept the receipt.


My eldest brother is named Donald George, after my father's brother and my mother's. Our sister is called Xandra Fredress, in honour of both of our parents. Next on the list was James Edwin, after Mom's brother-in-law, and two of her uncles. I believe that John Alan was named for Dad's own father, but some of the family records are a bit spotty in places, and I've only ever seen our grandfather listed as "John".

I was the result of my parents' last erotic hiccup. Since it was middle of the nineteen-fifties, I suspect that one (or both) of them was drunk. Perhaps more than occasionally, destiny is that random. By the time that I arrived, our family had already fulfilled its obligations to all of our solvent male relatives, so our parents decided to name me after someone that they actually liked. My first name is Lee, and as an afterthought, they appended my father's given name of Alexander to it.

I've never found Shel Silverstein's song, A Boy Named Sue, particularly funny. Its premise hit too close to where I live. There was always some smart-mouth in school who was delighted to inform me that Lee was the name of his sister. Neither my uncle's bride, Rosalie, nor my sister-in-law, Leona liked their names, so they chose to abbreviate them...and guess what they were shortened to...

In a time when they might have pointed to examples like Lee Marvin or Lee J. Cobb as co-owners of my name, my classmates would generally remind me of Lee Harvey Oswald instead. Because it's difficult to shorten one-syllable names, mine has frequently been lengthened. It has been extended to Leo, Leon, Leonardo, Leroy and even Lee-man. I still wake up screaming...

A number of friends have tried to make me like my name better by telling me what it means; it is a protected shelter, the side turned away from the wind or the quarter to which the said wind blows. It is also the alternative spelling of lea, or meadow.

Somehow, I felt that that it would not be particularly useful to tell them that my brother Don's friend Lee (who my parents had actually liked) had been born in China, and his name means plum. Just keep that under your hats, okay?

Often, people will change names they don't like. I suppose it's a easy enough process. My Tall Lady, Sheral, was once a simple Susan, but apparently, the numbers didn't add up. I haven't considered it because I haven't ever found a name that I prefer. Also it's one of the more polite things that my siblings have called me. Finally, it's the name that my parents, in their folly, chose for me.

Besides, after all this time, maybe I'm getting used to it.

Good night, Marion Morrison, wherever you are.