My Way of Living:
Cats

Bright lime colored garden clogs clip along the path wondering where the snow went so suddenly. No more slipping, cold feet, spring is a delight. Cat drifts between my legs, playful, warming black, skittish in the sun. Sniffs deep of something mysterious, dirt scattered high, rolling in the dry gardens under the pine.

Birds swoop by, waving hair, seed scattered on the ground feverishly pecked. Unwelcome Crows caw in the trees, territorial, new, jangling the neighborhood. The mind planning, sunning, thinking, reminding. No twisting, no weights lifted, stretch in the warm sun. Not the time for gardener's boot camp. Patience that those weeks of moving tender shoots, and scattering of seeds will wait until later. Try my patience, turn my resolve. This gardener yearns to plant. To think.
To dream of fashioning something beautiful out of nothing, with dry soil, and tiny seeds.

Trees burst overnight with buds. Swelling not just in bodies. Weeds appear to laugh at efforts to shake them free with feet, determined to stay, and thrive. Cat crouches, furry bottom wiggles, streaks across the lawn, birds scatter. Children's laughter drifts behind him across the grass. Weeds still remain.

For now. Plot, dream, wander. Through garden beds. Weeks will run, time will out, the garden will still be there. Sun warm, fingernails dirty, trowel in hand, it will wait. Time will heal,the garden is impatient. And so am I.
Jane@Muddy Boot Dreams On a Wednesday: Slivers of moments captured in a weekly post, evolving, descriptive, a memoir of life.

PS: A big thank you for your supportive, and understanding comments, it's been a journey, but I am hopeful that things will get back to normal as my back heals. And yes, my fingers are itching to get back into the garden, but that has to wait a little while.

February sun gently caresses the back of my legs. But it's warmth isn't enough to help my frozen hands hold the hot pink pruners. I end up dropping them into the middle of the thorniest part of the raspberry thicket.

Prickles grab at my jacket, refusing to let go, and there is a disconcerting ripping noise as I try to bend. Score one for the red berries, another jacket down.
Suckers try their best to poke through the heavy layers of vinyl dipped gloves I'm wearing in protection against the canes, but the point goes to me.
Over our heads, past the dark feathery tips of the fir trees, ravens soar in soft circles. Wide spread black wings attempt to catch the clouds drifting by. The sky a blue so deep it should be summer, but the icy snow patches convince me it's Winter still.

The dark birds chuckle follows the keening of the Eagles, taunting, calling, chasing them across the endless skies. The Eagles more determined to gain a meal then territory, perch in the Firs outside our house, waiting to make a dinner of the covey of quail when they drop by the feeder.
"Hold the post up straight" he pleads, bracing being both my job, and the temperature despite this sun streamed day.
In my over zealous attempt to straighten it before it goes over to far, I've sent it careening over the other direction, and it knocks the yellow metal level he is using deep into the bushes.
One more victory for the thorns.

Frozen ground, and snowy patches no match for the annoyance of gazing out all winter at crooked bird houses perched on a poles. It's been on our to do list to straighten them when spring comes.
Frost heaves skewed the poles, the weight of snow dampened the enthusiasm of the raspberries canes, but it's time to prune before the buds swell.
It's almost too late, bare grass, naked in it's"spring is coming" delight swelters in the sun, and freezes under a foot of hard snow in the shade.
I stomp my chilled feet in time to the melodic trilling of the Cedar Waxwings beautifully chiming in the trees across the street. There is a sudden stop to their beautiful music, but it's not my fault. Eagles appear in the sky, white heads shedding sunlight as they glide overhead. Sudden, is the sound of silence.

Soft cooing of Quail breaks out from the bushes over the fence, our supervisors have shown up. The sun lowering in the sky means time for them to advance upon the feeder in squirming droves. One brave bird perching on the fence as a lookout.
We gather up the prickly branches, carefully tossing them into the compost, but they refuse to let go, stubbornly reaching and grasping in desperation to avoid their doom. It's cold even in the sunlight now, February will fight for Winter. But March will bring on spring.

Start a blog blog today and you will be reading posts that explain how to figure out who you should be blogging for. How to tailor your blog for your ideal reader.

To conjure up a profile of who your reader is, right down to where she shops for her clothing, and what kind of coffee she drinks. Mocha, anyone? I find it fascinating that anyone can be so specific. Fascinating, and rather difficult. To me it's like planning your wedding before you have found a special person. Carrying around this huge binder full of ideas, samples, colors and possible venues hoping that you will meet that perfect someone to fit your specifications. I think that binder's kind of heavy, but it works for some people. I wasn't sure I was capable of being able of figuring out who my perfect reader would be. Beside if it was my wedding I'd change my mind so many times…you, pointing at a potential one, Oh no you…no maybe… Although it would certainly make it easier to come up with ideas, to write content that is pertinent to a reader's needs, and wants. Sometimes I feel like I am stumbling, lost, and other times I think I have a very clear idea of what I am supposed to be doing. Wonder if we all get that feeling.

So I thought I would try to figure out who my reader was, I gave it a really good try…even got as far as the first few sentences about who I imagined I was writing for. I kept drifting off on a tangent, following dreams, planning other stuff, thinking of what I had to make for dinner. Being interrupted by the Boo,"dinner, you're thinking of dinner?" See what I mean, there I go…off down another trail of the black hole of blogging. That's me…following trails, exploring, wandering, gathering. Learning, and being inspired by it. But I figured out who it is I blog for.

Whom I love to share my photography with? You.

Simple isn't it… You've been here all along…visiting my blog, leaving those wonderful comments, saying such nice things. So I guess when it all comes together, I've already found my perfect reader. And I just wanted to say thank you so much! I'm so glad that you are here.

Add caption Now that I buttered you up, can I ask for a favor? I'd like you to help me out a bit. Give me a idea about what it is that keeps you coming back to my blog. Is it my charming wit? My sincere devotion to filling in the details, to staying on track? Stop laughing. Can you tell me what it is that you love. And, [oh gulp,I'm being brave here], what you you don't like as much. Please let me know what it is that you are looking for in my posts, what you enjoy. And if there is anything that I can add to make them more enjoyable for you. Would you leave me some suggestions in the comments.
I would really appreciate it. Now I've got something to share with you. Drum roll please.. After much thought, research, and dreaming, I've decided to move my blog to Word Press. Wipes sweat off of her blogging brow. It won't happen until sometime in the beginning of March. Most of you won't notice anything if it all goes to plan. I'll give you lots of heads up, it's going to be exciting. But if something were to happen I have a back up plan… I'll bring out the Boo…he can entertain you for awhile. Meow! I'll give you more details when it's all firmed up closer to the move date. If you enjoyed reading this post, you might like this one also.

Cold hands, warm heart. Rush last steps to home. Winter chill settles on skin.

Rough branched pussy willows, blossoms so soft. Gathered from the ditch…precious winter gift. I'm the first. This time. Oh dear… Birds of a feather flutter startled. Once again, the look… Mental note, make noise first. Breath exhale, deep, winter yoga, no rush. Relax. Steel key rasps, knob squeaks. Door glides, bringing. Fresh air clinging, as it rides to warmth.

Sun glows through windows once again. Missed, beloved, stay longer, come more often. Bring meringues if you would, please. Snow cover, winter rolls over again in it's bed. Toes cold, tongue tasting. Lips sweet. Mocha, how I love thee…

Let me count the ways. Deep, dark chocolate secrets wafting from a cup. Coffee rich, vibrant, depths inside, withholding tales. Birds gathered, seed flying, big trees hiding. Cat watching, tail twitching, inside's the place to be. Mocha overtaking fresh air, hands heavy with cup. Creamy, dreamy, scented love of sugar.

Sun lowering, mountains glowering. Fog returns from it's shopping trip. Cloaked Eagles cluck in annoyance. Perched like Christmas tree toppers up high. Day, giving back to dark soon. Pink meringue, gooey treasure, crispy crunch. Cat batting at sprinkles on floor. Caffeine rush, sugar high.

Virtuous reward for cold walk. Winter waves from the fields… Pink meringue disappears, bits and pieces, sun behind a cloud. Coffee drunk to the dregs. Meringue a memory. Cat hungry, birds fed. Sun down, fog in. My world, Wednesday… He of the fur, and I of the coffee, sit and dream of dinner.

Someone’s gone and eaten all of the Oreo cookies.
It couldn’t have been me.
My beloved doesn’t eat cookies, or so he says, well then who did it?
It couldn’t have been me. I’ve only had a few, one here, one… there?
Boo has been putting on a bit of weight lately.so maybe it is him.
In fact I am pretty sure it’s the cat that did it.

Dogs don’t eat Oreo cookies, and cats are always giving that sly sideways look as they parades past our “I’m dressed in my going out clothes” that just happen to be a opposite color of their fur. And we don’t have a dog.
It had to be him.
It couldn’t be me.

After all, I’m the one that sleeps in till 6 am, not the Boo. He gets up way too early, probably to eat the cookies, and then he comes in to scratch at my night table drawer. Most likely looking for Oreo cookies, where all he will find is crumbs.
Not that I ate all of the cookies, because I’m sure that he did it.

He’s the one that hides behind the curtains and dives out at my feet when I have a cup of tea, and a cookie in my hand. So it had to be him, he wants me to drop that cookie, so he can eat it.
That’s it, it’s the Boo.
He ate the cookies.
I’m sure that it was him.

He is the one that sits under the table and begs for food the entire time we are eating dinner, and then ramps it up even more when it’s time for dessert… Oreo cookies.
I’m sure that it wasn’t me that ate the cookies, it had to be the Boo.
Look at his face.

I’ve seen him jump down from the counter where the cookies are kept, he didn’t think we noticed that he was up there… but I caught him looking for Oreo cookies, I just didn’t know it at the time.
It was him.
He is the one that hides in the patch of sunlight on the stairs, waiting to trip me up when I am taking a snack, to read with a book. Oreo cookies, and a cup of tea, see it couldn’t be me, I only eat one every now and then.
It was the Boo, he did it.
Someone has eaten all of the cookies, and it couldn’t have been me.

My world on a Wednesday a gathering of scattered fragments, and moments bundled together into a small fraction of the day when life doesn't intrude. It's the microwaves turn to hum. Keeping time. With the drips from the roof. Handle spinning around like a carousal, the frothy milk threatens to bubble over the glass container. Homemade yogurt for breakfast tomorrow.

Hot pan, butter scented sizzle crowds the kitchen. Cat pushes past my leg, hinting, hopeful, long ago fed, big eyed stare, he wins. And accepts his treat with a smirk of feline triumph. Declines a cuddle, heads for the heat. Fickle creature. The sound of the Eagle's keening comes through the open door. Kitty plays the role of indoor cat for now, fly by dinners should be feathered, not fur. Through every window a scene of Winter's latest gift of snow lays. Like a discarded white jacket, one size too small. Bulging out over the landscape where it is torn. Leaving us longing for a fresh coat to cover up the disarray. January is a messy month. Camera clicks. I love that sound. It makes my heart sing. Dishes clink, light shines, fades, moves throughout the rooms. Candy hearts scattered on a painted board tempt. Tea brewed, poured, photographed, and drank in antique cups.

Days stretch, drips fall, light lengthens. For now it's enough to wait for the light. Dash outside to catch the sun. Walk the country roads, and catch my breath as the sun sinks far away. Coating the f olds of the mountains and their fog shrouded valleys in a shimmering light. A stunning patchwork quilt that tucks them in for the night.

Fields white with snow, shiver against the dark silhouettes as the light drops. Stoic and bare, the trees stand guard feet frozen into the soil, tips golden with delight from the long limbs of the sun. My heart sings Feet crunch the gravel. Headed for home.

Contains: 100% Canadian content. All images and text original to Jane Vandervoort

Bootsie went out on a Sunday morning, and came back… just not himself. It was quick, and subtle. Normally a not too active cat with a definite routine it was hardly noticeable that at first he wasn’t feeling well. He moved less, slept more, he still ate and drank. It was just before Christmas and with both of us working all hours of the day [or so it felt], it went unnoticed for a day that he wasn’t eating as much as usual. It was when he refused to get up and eat that we got really, really worried. This is a cat that loves his food. The night before the vet visit I woke up every few hours to try and encouraging him to lick water from my finger. When he stopped doing even that, I knew that morning couldn’t come soon enough. Many times I reached over to see if he was still breathing. He didn’t like the car ride at all, going from a languid and limp kitty that looked like he had spent the last few days on a bender and sleeping it off in his wrinkled pyjama's to a howling banshee. Deep muttering moans, cry’s that tore out my heart. The car stalling in the middle of the intersection in the pouring rain, only added to the misery.

At the vet’s he howled, complained, and cried… until the vet entered the exam room. Then in a miraculous change of heart, he stalked the counter tops and purred. Delighted to rub again the vet’s sleeve. “Are you sure he is sick?” “This is how a normal cat acts” I was told, not a sick cat. A temperature of 41 c. [105.8, and high for a cat] confirmed that he was a very sick kitty. Close to convulsions, and dehydrated. They kept him for the day, gave fluids, a antibiotics shot, shaved his neck, and leg for the IV. We were told that most likely he had crossed paths with another virus infected kitty. Loosing the fight was the least of his worries. He perked up the next day, looking for food, drinking water, and purring. But by the end of the week he started to get languid, tired, and just not himself again. Another trip to the vet, disbelief on their faces, “he can’t be sick” he is acting normal.” “I know my cat, he’s sick again, yes he’s eating and drinking, but he is sick again.” Bootsies temperature was a shock to the vet, he didn’t act sick at the office and they couldn’t believe it was that high again. Antibiotics were prescribed, two a day. Don’t believe the videos, or the vet when they show you how easy it is to pill a cat. They don’t have the Boo to deal with. As soon as the antibiotics started to work wonders, he refused to take them. With many foaming mouths, and trips around the living room, lots of pills discarded, we both started to dread 10 am, and 10 pm. But somehow we persevered, and he finished that course of pills, and has fully recovered. The only reminders left are the bald spots on his throat, and leg where they shaved his fur, it refuses to grow back.

We love him dearly, and…now I can understand why some people will pay thousands of dollars at the vet’s just to have their beloved pet well. There was a point in that office, when I would have given anything to have him well, and that is something I never thought I would say. I had always wondered why people choose to go that route. Now I have my answer. If you are a pet person, you will fully understand. If you are not, then there is no need to explain.

The dryer hums a happy song while spinning tea towels round. Kettle rises to it's boil, steam spews, water in the cup, spicy coconut Chai scented kitchen. All is well, quiet, there is joy in a peaceful moment.

Cat tummy full, quiet now, lazily entertaining himself in his red nylon tunnel, lurking in wait for unsuspecting servants to wander by. Birds outside the kitchen window flutter as the cold floors seeps through my socks. Idle gaze watches them feast. Tea bag squeezed, brown sugar added, quick stir with the silver spoon. Mail piled on the counter, unopened, nothing important, ignored for now. Dainty plate, chocolate eclair, whipping cream finger tips licked, taste of decadence, chocolate smears mingle in the coconut and cardamon scented air. White tea cup. Quiet spot in the house. Cat deserts his tunnel, work done for the moment. Settling in to nap away the afternoon at my feet. The dryer stops with one last spin. Towels can be folded later. Quiet moments while the house sits with breath held deep do not wait long. Not for anyone.

School bus rumbles in a long yellow flash outside hurrying to it's destination.
The reminder of a country road that needs to be walked still. But I linger. This moment is for me. Drips fall from a snow laden rooftop, twisting down icicles. Snow fog creeps through the white garden, sun hides behind mountains, glimmering through tall trees. The quiet spills out of the doorways, slides down the floors, coats the walls. Softly transparent, easily filling the house. And still I sit, the soft snores of a fur laden foot warmer at my feet. I've made my peace with January…there is joy once again. This moment is mine, I sip my tea. Daydreams wander through my head, a chorus of happiness… And that's fine with me.

100 % Canadian content,
All words and images written, and taken by Jane Vandervoort.

The day after Christmas is kind of like a fairground with the rides all packed up and trailered away. There seems to be ornaments strewn across every surface, the fridge is bulging with turkey leftovers. And I think that Bootsie is hung over. Just joking about Bootsie, at least I think that I am.

He has been on a extended"staycation" at our house, with very infrequent day trips. Gar is playing the concierge, and I am the masseuse.
He isn't impressed with the level of service that either of us are offering. I have a feeling that he won't be a big tipper.
What does he expect for a cheap free vacation?
He is lucky we aren't fully booked, and could upgrade him to the presidential suite. Read that as, he takes up most of the bed.
We have returned him to his rightful home many times. One night last week I was even tromping across the street with a squirming cat scratching my best weatherproof jacket, and snow filling my garden clogs. I could barely see with the driving snow covering my glasses, it was dark, and very cold. What I don't do for that cat. And no, I didn't get photos. He is determined to have his Christmas holiday at our place. Black and white cats have a mind of their own, and he is determined.
My garden is sullen, and pouting, at least those plants that survived the chilly -7 C temperatures. Another apology post to the perennials is in the works. As for any of the more tender plants, well…that certainly is a big compost pile isn't it?
Whoops, again. Bring on the new year.

The last blog post was written at the kitchen table, late at night. This one is written in the early morning light of a quiet house, with the sun rising over the mountains. It is reflecting a particular peace, that’s the only way I can explain it. I wish I could share the view with you, and I will. It’s just that for the last few hectic days, I have been relying on my camera phone. And that’s in the bedroom, where my husband is sleeping.
Trying to keep a restless cat quiet in the early mornings isn’t easy, he loves to jump down onto the hardwood floors like a lead balloon. Thunk, bang, meow. It’s four am and he’s up, only problem is no one else is. We plan on keeping him in the bedroom with us at night until he is acclimatized The house is much larger then the little condo we shared with him, and he can be found meowing away on another floor. It takes a little while, and he is doing fine.
Boo feels best when everyone is up, and in the kitchen. He reminds me of a sheep dog, herding his sheep, and that would be us. Until each of us is up, he is restless, and demanding. Hard to ignore. '
So for now, with the cat quietly exploring the living room, I sit, watching the brightening light, through the dark trees, with misty clouds intertwined among them like a garland of fluff. There are mountains in the distance, and a particular peace in my heart.
The house is stirring… it’s morning in my new life.

I’m so tired my head keeps hitting the keyboard.
sljraklstjo’eutpajfksafka jskjrlj see what I mean?
I can’t keep my eyes open.
Some furry black and white creature has decided that 5 am is a really good time to wake up and smell the coffee.
It’s wasn’t me.
I like 6:30 am.
And I don’t like coffee.

He’s sound asleep now, snoring gently in his new domed cat bed that traps the body heat of a furry four legged alarm clock in fluffy, sleepy time warmth.
And early this morning my husband patiently drove me along a narrow windy road headed to almost no where, stopping when ever I wanted.

If that’s not love, I have no idea what is.