Life and death and animals

Do not read this if you are squeamish about cat pee or sensitive about the topic of “putting pets to sleep.”

I am a farm girl and less sentimental than most about the life and death power we hold over our animal friends. I favor limiting suffering, both theirs and ours.

They say that the number one reason for cat euthanasia is litter box problems. Our beloved Lalo is 17 years old and in pretty good health, but six weeks ago he stopped using the litter box. We took him to the vet, discovered a urinary tract infection, and treated it by shooting pills down his throat, to his great distress.

Still, he did not go back to the litter box. Instead, he continued to use any loose matter on the basement floor. He favored the coil of cords next to Vic’s basement desk. When we removed all bags, books, and papers and lifted the cords off the floor, he used the bare floor.

We tried different litter—including the Senior Cat litter that he used to favor. It is supposed to be irresistible. He resisted.

We tried leaving him outside most of the day. He peed on the basement floor at night.

We tried keeping him out of the basement and mostly out of the house. We penned him in the front porch with food, water, and litter boxes. I kept him company when I could. We left him there overnight.

In the morning he would be gone, no pee in the box or on the floor. He escaped to the outdoors by pawing open the inward-opening screen door, as he has done before. He has never learned that getting back inside is even easier. Instead, he waits patiently at the backdoor to be let in for food and water.

Why not let him be an outdoor cat? Because any food placed outside for Lalo would also be food for raccoons.

Even food placed on the porch for Lalo, it turns out, is also food for raccoons. Screen doors do not deter hungry raccoons. They invaded the porch one night, overturned the water bottle, ate up the (pristine) wheat-based litter, and dragged the entire feeder into the woods.

We let Lalo back into the house, mopped the basement regularly, and debated our options. Euthanasia came into consideration.

We tried another litterbox shuffle, different litters, different areas of the basement.

A glimmer of hope. We covered one of his pee spots on the floor with a bit of litter and he used the same spot again. Perhaps if we made a litter box that was almost like the floor . . . .

Yesterday we cut down a new litter box so that it had only a 2-inch rim, scattered a thin layer of litter in it, and put it exactly over the spot he’d last used. He peed on the floor right next to it.

Heavy-hearted, we decided to call the vet in the morning to make the appointment.

But lo and behold, as my mother would have said, this morning there were two wet spots in the box. The first in-the-box pee in six weeks!

Of course, there was poop on the floor in the corner but hey. The old cat has turned a corner. He has won an 11^th-hour reprieve.

A string bean and a glass of water

Dear readers I have neglected you because it is summer and I am trying to spend a little more time out of my head. Writing is headwork even though it involves the heart and a tiny bit of finger exercise.

In the spirit of summer I have helped with two moves and spent, in the process, a few precious hours with the granddaughter. Speaking of headwork: it is amazing to see a baby’s brain in gear. At 12 months she has an intense interest in the world. It may be the bathtub drain plug with its lovely, dangling chain. It may be the sandwich I am trying to eat. Or it may be a string bean and a glass of water.

I sat on the couch at the just-moved-into house to snap a bag of fresh, organic beans from the Amish farm. I’d brought the abundance of our weekly CSA haul to share with the Ann Arbor family. I brought the vegetables scrubbed and ready and, while I was at it, I thought I might as well cook some. What is a visit from Mom worth unless you end up with some food in the fridge all ready to eat?

Hazel sidled over to investigate the bean activity, walking with the assistance of boxes, walls, furniture. She stuck her nose into the bag and took a bean. She twirled it in her fist, tapped it on the couch. It did not make much noise. She stuck it in her mouth, not in the anything-goes-in-the-mouth fashion of the infant but in the spirit of "let’s check this out for edibility." She found it not disagreeable but not exactly edible—she has only two teeth. She tried putting the bean in her mouth in different ways—stem end, tail end, and crosswise with both ends sticking out like a mustache. The latter seemed to work well. She could gum it and not gag and it made Grandpa and Grandma laugh. We were too tired to hunt down the camera or the Mustachioed Bean Bandit would be on record.

Next, bean in hand, Hazel expressed interest in Vic’s glass of water. He lowered it for her. She stuck the bean in the water. It made satisfying splashes, plunk, plunk. She stuck her bean-free hand in the water. Also satisfying. She especially enjoyed the way the water came out on her hand and dripped on the couch. She did this for a bit, watering the couch, one handful at a time, clasping and pointing her fingers downward to get the best drip effect.

Then the bean went back in the water. This reminded her of something. A straw, perhaps? Somehow this might help her drink the water. It didn’t. But she left the bean in the water and grabbed the glass with both hands (it was still moderately under Vic’s control) and raised it to take a drink. This worked better than she expected and much of the water ended up on her dress. She insisted on trying again and again, finding the right tilt, learning to regulate the flow. The bean stayed in the water. It was in the way but it belonged there.

Who could have guessed the entertainment value of a string bean and a glass of water? For the grandparents as much as the baby.

Politics in the beloved community

A day of rest, which started with a 25-mile bike ride. It is rest in the sense that it’s not what we normally do on Sunday. We are resting from church. We are resting from being with the beloved community.

We had a little church and quite a lot of the beloved community last week in Pittsburgh, at the Mennonite Church USA convention--6,000 fellow Mennonites and we knew a surprising number of them. One could not walk down a hall or a street without being hailed. This is a good thing, to be with one’s tribe.

It is surprising, too, to rediscover how much we are still members of the tribe. We often think of ourselves as atypical Mennonites but we aren’t really. There are a lot more like us—urban at heart (though we are now rural), well-traveled, decidedly liberal politically, and inclined to spiritual expression and experience that is not exactly churchy. We love the church but are not drawn to traditional churchiness.

Our last church was just about churchy enough for us—great singing, sermons that pushed the intellectual and spiritual edges of Biblical interpretation, regular potlucks, and a caring community in which problems were faced openly.

The church we attend now is bigger and blander but incredibly hospitable and we are being drawn into a beloved community there, too. We also sense more variety in outlook, taste, and political opinion. That is not a bad thing but we do not express our views entirely freely yet. We conceal more; perhaps everyone does. Maybe that is inevitable in large churches. The fear of exposure and offense comes to the fore. It is something we will have to work through, given how important we have found openness and honesty to be in our church experience. Openness and honesty are not particularly churchy, unfortunately. But I have told some members of our new church about this blog so here we go.

For example, in this larger, varied community, when and to whom could I speak of dreams? Of the fact that my scientist husband has discovered his gifts as an energy healer? (He zapped my right knee halfway through this morning’s ride, to great effect.) Most important, how would this church receive our gay and lesbian friends? We have hints that some but not all members of this beloved community would welcome them as they are.

I try not to concern myself with church politics but politics are part of the dynamics of large and even small groups of people. They intrude on even a joyous project like the Congo Cloth Connection.

There are three Mennonite groups in Congo. Marie-Jeanne and Gaston were not the only Congolese guests at the Pittsburgh convention. Two ministers were also present who happened to be members of the other two groups. Congolese Mennonites, like North American ones, have had their differences. There was a little encounter in the Congo Cloth Connection booth in which the two ministers asked why they had not been informed of this project. I believe a satisfactory answer was given them by the appropriate persons. But I did not see them greet Marie-Jeanne, who was sitting right there at her sewing machine. Maybe I just missed it.

Our Pittsburgh Congo Cloth Market, by the way, was a roaring success despite my initial fears. We had fun. We made connections. We raised awareness and enough money to fund two job-training workshops for Congolese women. And we still have cloth left for future markets. 

 SEWING ANGEL

Congo Cloth Connecting

When our Congo Cloth Connection booth opened the first night of the big Mennonite USA convention, we were mobbed. Fabric literally flew off the tables. There was even some Filene’s-style competition. Well, not really. These were well-behaved Mennonite ladies. But it is true, isn’t it, that a piece selected by someone else becomes extra attractive?

In an hour we had taken in $680. So far, so good. But it was July 4 and the Pittsburgh fireworks display started up just outside the convention center. All the Mennonites went out to watch. End of sales.

The next morning I woke with the numbers going through my head. We would have to sell a lot of cloth at $10 a yard to break even on our expenses, let alone make enough to substantially support Marie-Jeanne’s workshop. Selling cloth is not an efficient way to raise money. If raising money was really what this was about, we should just ask for donations, right? Give to a worthy cause! Hard-working Congolese Mennonites have set up this sewing training workshop to help young women and single moms learn a viable profession. We should do what we can to help them out.

Instead of conserving our resources, however, the Michiana Friends of Congo had gone to considerable expense to bring Marie-Jeanne Mujinga to the States. We had hosted her and her husband in our homes and churches and then brought them to the convention, to help cement ties between Mennonites in Congo and the United States. But does this sort of thing really work?

That first evening at the convention it was all about shopping. By the next morning it had become, for me, all about money. All about helping. Uh-oh. Something was wrong with this picture.

Nina had the bright idea of bringing her sewing machine to the convention and setting Marie-Jeanne up to do some sewing on the spot. Marie-Jeanne is on the shy side and speaks no English. This would give her something to do and ease the burden on the few of us who speak French.

I saw this as a potential logistical complication—all that fabric in a small space, plus a quilt that people would help stitch, plus activities for kids, plus an on-the spot seamstress? . . . but I did not object. Fortunately.

Booth traffic was slow the first morning. I worried about money. Marie-Jeanne tried her hand at quilting but that was not her thing.

A young woman came by and admired a dress Marie-Jeanne had brought as a sample of her creations—short puffed skirt, ruffled neckline. Could Marie-Jeanne make one like that for her? Well yes except . . . we had no zippers, no place to buy them. (See? I knew this wouldn’t work.)

And then it began to happen. The connections were made, the stories unfolded.

The director of a children’s peace center came looking for material for international costumes for children. She ended up ordering five ruffled wrap skirts for little girls, with matching head ties. She came back to photograph the sewing process. It means so much, she said, to know that these costumes were made by Marie-Jeanne from Kinshasa.

Marie-Jeanne made each skirt a little different, just to exercise her creativity.

A young mother wanted two aprons for her two little girls. Could she bring them in to be fitted? Marie-Jeanne suggested. Put that order aside till noon the next day.

A woman wanted an apron of fabric she had chosen.

A woman ordered a whole two-piece outfit. She would have preferred it with lace but since we had none, Marie-Jeanne would improvise the adornment.

A man eyed the fabric longingly, saying his wife, who was “from the islands,” would love it. How much would be needed for a skirt? But he had come to the convention with no money to spend, no money at all. Satisfying my impulse-shopping need, I decided that his wife should have this skirt and I would give her this gift. (I had already given myself several impulse gifts of fabric. ) He was wide-eyed but did not protest. He wanted me to choose the fabric because the array was too dazzling for him, but in the end, he was the one who put his hand on the cloth with the coppery background and spinning, feathery design like fireworks. What did he owe me? he wondered. A photo, I told him, of his wife in her lovely skirt.

Today I will go back and take photos of Marie-Jeanne happily at work because I was too busy translating orders and selling cloth after things got lively. Here are two, however, of teenage girls making bracelets for each other from scraps of Congo Cloth.

Are we having fun yet? Yes we are.