Sneakaround Jones is sick

We're not exactly sure what is wrong, but the vet (The Shabazz-Man) thinks it may be bladder cancer. Sneakaround has always been plagued by bladder infections, but lately it has gotten worse. We have tried antibiotics and steroids and anti-spasmodic medicine...nothing seems to help. But he seems in good spirits and he's not in pain that we can tell--his quality of life is still good. But soon we may have to make a difficult decision.

I've never loved any cat this much--Sneakaround is special. Dog-like in his affections, a real people-lover. He sits next to me as I type, purring away. Hi ssoft snoring on the couch is the most comforting sound in the world. He is about 13 years old as far as we can tell-he and his brother Bertie Wooster were brought to us by Jean the Cat Lady when I was still in graduate school at Bryn Mawr. He's already been through at least nine lives--operations for ear tumors, a needle in the throat, the infections that have landed him in the pet hospital more than once...and has yet he has always kept his good humor.

I asked Cassandra, the vet's assistant, if the Shabazz-man ever made house calls to give the last necessary medicine--I don't want Sneakaround's last minutes to be in the vet's office, but at home with us. She said that he would for his favorite clients. I hope we will know when the right time will be. Until then I try to give him extra love and special food. He has his own place to sleep when he wants to get some time away from the other cats.

I don't even like thinking about it, but the visit by the Shabazz-man is the last bit of loving care we can give him.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day...and my birthday!

Remember, remember the Fifth of November...

I do love birthdays, mine especially. And since I celebrate Birthday Tide, there's still time to buy presents! It lasts for a week month!

Thank you, MP, for the lovely music! Yer the best!

What type of Liberal am I?

My Liberal Identity:

You are a Reality-Based Intellectualist, also known as the liberal elite. You are a proud member of what’s known as the reality-based community, where science, reason, and non-Jesus-based thought reign supreme.

Take the quiz at www.FightConservatives.com

I guess I never thought of myself as either intellectualist or elite...

St. Laika

On a cold November morning fifty years ago today
Russia sent a dog named Laika to the cosmos far away.

How ironic that your capsule bore the name of Sputnik Two!
For there would be no companion on this odyssey for you.

Good-natured mutt, a street survivor, how life must have seemed so good
When they saved you, brought you home and bathed you, trained you, gave you food.

Little Barker, Little Muttchik, unsuspecting pioneer
How could scientists have named you and yet be so cavalier?

Trustingly, you let them strap you in the cockpit, shut the door–
“It’s the same game we had played, about a thousand times before”

Surely soon, they would come back, release you, give you treats and praise
As you waited, patiently, yet puzzled by the long delays.

Then the take-off, oh, how frightening, as your heart beat twice as fast,
Three times, as you felt the power of the g-force from the blast

Did you whimper? Did you shudder? Did you fear that cosmic night?
Did you wonder why your friends had sent you on this fatal flight?

Or did love and deep devotion to them calm your deep alarm
Trusting, hoping, still expecting them to keep you from all harm?

And then, finally, was nothing, only silent, empty space
Only Little Laika, sleeping, still with hope upon her face

On a chilly April evening, finally your journey’s end
Shooting star lights up the night sky, welcome home, my valiant friend.

Blessed Laika, we are sorry, for the horrors we put you through
Blessed Laika, please forgive us, for we know not what we do.

Irish triad

Three things that soothe the weary spirit: a cup of strong sweet tea, the smoky smell of a peat fire, the soft snoring of an old cat.

Friday Evening Office Hour Blogging

My office hour after my last class is always fairly quiet, allowing me to get a bit of work done. Or (getting one's priorities straight) some blogging!

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this one speaks volumes:

(Guess what I'll be doing this weekend!)

But not tonight. Not on Friday Night!

It's time for Chinese food, a glass of wine, the latest Netflix, and some Blogsurfing. I have a feeling Red Mr. Peanut is going to be brilliant tonight!!

St. Crispin's Day

This day is called the Feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a-tiptoe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

Henry V, IV iii.

The best ever battle speech from Shakespeare, performed by the best Shaespearean actor. It gives me goosebumps every time.

Harry Potter would be proud.

A true hero speaks out over at Caliban's Dream. Please read this compelling story and spread the word.

Bad Cold

I am sick with a cold, nothing really serious, just feeling sub par. I should be grading papers but that is far more than my poor brain can take at this juncture. So I am reading other people's blogs. Padre Mickey is his usual eloquent self, with posts about all the saints in the past week. Grandmère Mimi has a potpourri of insightful observations in lovely posts with great art, including a leaf from one of my all-time favorites, Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. (I resisted the temptation to insert a "the" in front of Les--Liam always brings up that the "The La Brea Tar Pits" actually means "The The Tar Tar" Pits...)

Mad Priest is his usual brilliant self, although catching some flack from the Colonials for his use of a certain taboo noun. If I say I can see both sides of the argument, and agree with both positions, does that land me a spot in Dante's Ante-Inferno?

And Grendel has launched his own blog.


I wish I knew what this New York party was all about...but on the other hand, I wasn't invited (self-pitying sob).

Wireless is Wonderful

We now have wireless at the house! It's amazing how much more work I've been able to do in the last few days: I can answer my e-mail I can surf the 'net, and (best of all) I can read OCICBW nestled in my own comfy little bed, while Grendel growls contentedly nearby.

Yesterday I was on campus for 13 hours....and except for a brief lunch worked the whole time. (Good Grief! you'd think I'd be caught up by by now but no, I seem to be even more behind than before!)

As I write this, my Medieval History students are working on their midterms. I can almost hear those busy little minds churning out essays on the Crusades and the development of the Church in the early medieval period.....

Blessing of the Animals at Holy Family

What a great turnout! The parishioners of Holy Family and their companion animals came out in full force on Saturday. (The unofficial count is 17 dogs, 11 cats, and one rubber chicken.)

Father Keith did a wonderful job, first blessing all Animals of the World, those to the North, to the East, to the South, and to the West.

The he bestowed a personal blessing on each individual animal (including the Rubber Chicken):

Kristin, our Parish Administrative Assistant, gets a blessing for her dog.

Lee and her kitties...

Grendel behaved so well! I was very proud of him.

There was a wonderful service with music, and they played Grendel's favorite hymn, "All Creatures of Our Lord and King"! There were doggie and cat treats for the quadrupeds, and other treats for the bipeds. ("Don't get them mixed up," Father Keith urged us.)

This is Kathleen's beagle. Isn't she lovely?

Oh, and here's the Rubber Chicken.
























Yes, it is!

Non-Canonical Cat Blogging

Sneakaround Jones likes this spot in the bookcase.

Who let the cat out of the bag? (Actually, it's The Pig.)

Phoebe the Moon-Kitty chomps on Elephant's Child.

Grendel offers a Poem for St. Francis

Grendel the Misanthropic Dog wanted me to post a poem he wrote in honor of St. Francis. Well, it's actually a song, to be sung to the last bit of "All Creatures of Our God and King", the words of which were written by St. Francis. Grendel didn't know that when he composed the song; it must be serendipity:

What does it Mean to be a Dog?
Not the same as being a Frog.
Dog and Frog,
Dog and Frog,
They are Not the Same.

(He begs me point out that the capitalization is Very Important Indeed.)

If Grendel behaves himself, he will join the other animals at the Parish Blessing of the Animals this Saturday. Hmmm. I can't believe I just typed the words "Grendel behaves himself."

Madeleine L'Engle, 1918-2007

My very first post here at TMBN was a quote from one of the best children's books ever written, A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

It is hard to describe the impact that her books made on me. I read Meet the Austins as a very young girl. It wasn't hard to imagine that this household, with its joy, love of learning and music, faith and stable family life was where I really belonged. My own home life was marked by dingy and ignoble poverty, anti-intellectualism, alcoholism, and a seemingly endless stream of stepfathers, one of whom nearly soured me on religion for life with his Pentecostal-flavored beatings with a thick, black Belt.

Small wonder that the life of the imagination was my refuge, and L'Engle's books in particular offered the glimpse of a life illuminated by learning. Here I first encountered names unheard of in my house: Dante, Donne, Bach, Mozart, Frost...

Whenever we moved (which was often) I quickly found the nearest public library. My first question after "How can I get a library card?" was always "Is there a limit on how many books I can check out?" The only reading material at our house I can remember was a set of the Bible Story Books (I can still see their sky-blue covers) and I had long since devoured all of them, winning undeserved praise at Sunday School for my knowledge of the Bible. The punishment for crimes not serious enough to merit The Belt was simple and devastatingly effective: loss of reading privileges.

A few months ago I fled to the children's section of our campus library and "sought to borrow, from my books surcease of sorrow." Camped out in a carrel for a couple of hours, I re-read Meet The Austins. It's a simple book, really, but has held up well. All those memories came back, some bitter, but many sweet, of the place I had made for myself as a child.

In the weeds

Hard to believe that it's been a month since I have taken even two free moments to blog. Enough of this. Work be blowed. Bid it goodbye. The work will never be done, completed. I hereby grant myself a small space in which to write everyday.

Why not? It's now the end of my office hours, Friday, the last student has left, the weekend looms, full of the promise of at least two hours' leisure, and I am listening to Sinead O'Connor sing that great old ballad of Irish courage, The Foggy Dew:


It never fails to send shivers down my spine:

But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.

So, anyway, I have to go do some shopping because tomorrow is Holy Family's Greek Dinner and I am doing the stuffed grape leaves and the hummos. Maybe I'll have a chance to write more tomorrow--lots to tell: a new computer, a new bookbinding press (which alas, has sat on the table unused since I got it for lack of otium) the sad news of the passing of Madeleine L'Engle, and the continuing saga of our dear disfunctional diocese (DDD? Hmmm.) And perhaps while the grape leaves cook I can catch up on the many Friday Night Red Mr. Peanut Bank episodes I have missed!

But I promise to be more diligent in future, although I'm sure that most have given up on Aghaveagh long since...nonetheless, perhaps a traveler or two will pass by and offer greetings.

So I leave you with a lovely image from an old country saying:

"THE closing of an Autumn evening is like the running of a hound across the moor.
Night is a good herd: she brings all creatures home."