Tag: cats

Columns

The most delicious gift is one-on-one time with sons

Cindy Hval

I fed them.

All of them.

From breast to bottle to mashed peas and sweet potatoes to countless homemade casseroles and cookies.

I spent hours shopping, prepping, baking and cooking. Keeping my four sons fed often felt like a full-time job.

With the work came the joy and satisfaction of watching them grow into healthy, strong and smart young men.

They all started working as teens. To my delight, each son began using their hard-earned cash to treat me to lunch or dinner – usually around my birthday. Watching your kid tell the server, “I’ll take the check,” is one of the sweetest things I’ve experienced as a parent.

More than that, it’s the precious one-on-one time that delights me.

Recently, Ethan our firstborn treated me to a meal at one of my favorite restaurants. It was fun introducing him to their stunning Happy Hour, but the happiest part was sitting across the table from him.

My time with our Ohio son Alex revolves around the grandkids. But before he became a dad, I flew out alone to visit him. We spent the day together sipping coffee and exploring a beautiful park and its lush gardens. He even slid down a wild slide built into a hillside – so much fun to see my little boy shining through my grown-up son’s eyes.

When our third-born began dating Naselle last year, Zach explained his tradition of taking his mom to lunch. She told him how special she thought that was, and he replied, “Well, she’s a special lady.”

“She must be to have a son like you,” she said.

Is it any wonder we adore her?

This year, they’re newlyweds, but she happily shared Zach so he could treat me to lunch on a Saturday afternoon.

Since our youngest son, Sam, moved to Texas, he takes me out when he comes home for the holidays in December. We go to dinner and a movie. I pick the restaurant, and he chooses a movie he thinks I’d enjoy – this visit we saw “Wicked.”

Of course, I still feed my crew.

The kids in town come to dinner twice a month. Sam spends the holidays and a stretch of summer with us, and I cook for Alex and his kids when we visit Ohio.

So, the blessing of having one of them treat me to a meal is something I don’t take for granted.

The food may be fabulous, but it’s the one-on-one time with my sons that truly feeds me.

Freya update

In a recent column, I lamented that Freya, the Fierce Sheep Poacher, had absconded with the cotton ball lamb from our Play-Doh nativity. But just like the Biblical parable of the lost sheep, there was great rejoicing last week when the wayward lamb was found. Freya had tucked it behind assorted cleaning products in a closet.

Also, my husband’s wish is sometimes my command. Derek said our athletic kitten needed a cape, and I found a pink-striped satin Freya-size cape at PetSmart. Boy, were they both surprised!

More memorable birthday feedback

Reader Eddy Birrer celebrated his 80th birthday at the Dome in Edinburgh, Scotland.

“I highly recommend it for its exceptionally great ambiance and quite modest cost,” he wrote.

Scotland is on my bucket list, but since I have a February birthday, I hope to visit in the fall or spring.

Susie Leonard Weller added a bit of joy to the world on her 70th birthday.

“Inspired by a friend’s example, I tithed my first Social Security check,” she said.

She asked friends to help celebrate her 70th birthday by giving to individuals in need or to charit able organizations. She sent $70 in cash to 34 friends, along with an explanation of the money’s purpose and a postcard. She asked them to return the postcard and to share, in writing as well as during a Birthday Zoom meeting, what they did with their donation.

“I loved hearing how the cash benefited their neighbors, as well as local, national, and international nonprofit organizations,” Weller said. “In a joyous Zoom meeting, friends who knew me from elementary school virtually met my other friends. Many people donated extra money as matching funds to increase the impact of their donation. I’m grateful my 70th birthday celebration provided an opportunity to bring more joy into the world.”

Columns

Double Trouble: A State of the Cats Address

Cindy Hval

2024 proved tumultuous for Sir Walter Scott.

In June, our fluffy tabby lost his best friend when our senior cat, Thor, died. Their friendship wasn’t reciprocal. Thor tolerated Walter at best, but Walter seemed convinced they were best friends. When we didn’t bring Thor home from his final vet visit in June, Walter paced the house searching for him.

A few weeks later, we went to see our grandkids in Ohio. Though family members take good care of our cats when we travel, I worried about Walter. He’d never been alone.

He seemed happy to see us when we returned, but then a contractor began working on my home office. As soon as Tim walked in the door, Walter went under our bed where he stayed, coming out only to eat and for cuddles and treats in the evening after Tim left.

His next stressor came with the arrival of a 2-pound black and white kitten we named Freya Charlotte. After a few days, Walter adjusted the Tuxedo tornado’s company, even allowing her to curl up next to him. He continued to hide under our bed for hours, so Freya gamely joined him for naps.

Then we noticed bumps on his chin. When they continued to spread, I took him to the vet.

Diagnosis: feline acne. This benign condition can have several possible causes, but the only one that seemed to apply to Walter was stress. As for the antibacterial wipes I used to treat it, Walter could hear me unscrewing the lid from across the house and would dive under the bed before I got close enough to swipe his chin.

Thankfully, all is well with Walter now. His acne cleared, and he’s back to sleeping on top of our (his) bed instead of underneath it. Freya is almost always beside him. Actually, we should have named her after the Biblical Ruth, who famously told her mother-in-law, “Where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge.”

Wherever Walter goes, Freya follows, though at 7 months, she’s getting good at coming up with solo adventures.

She’s next level when it comes to parkour. For those unfamiliar, parkour involves several movements, including running, jumping, climbing, vaulting and rolling, all aimed at traversing obstacles and moving from one point to another in the most efficient way.

I doubt that efficiency is her goal. She simply loves leaping and bouncing from one height to the next. She takes a running leap from the floor, bounces off the kitchen counter, skims the dining room table, and lands on the loveseat. She does this multiple times a day.

“She needs a cape,” Derek said. “I bet they sell them at PetSmart.”

Over the holidays, we discovered Freya is an accomplished sheep poacher.

A Play-Doh manger scene always has a place of honor on top of the piano at Christmas. Our son Alex made it when he was in kindergarten. This year, every morning, I’d find the tiny cotton ball sheep on the floor, in the bedroom, or in a closet.

Derek caught Freya tiptoeing (tippawing?) atop the piano, weaving amid fragile objects, her eye on the lone sheep.

One morning, we woke up, and it was gone for good. And no, I did not sift through the litter box looking for it.

We’ve raised four sons, but I no longer need to wonder what kind of dad Derek would have been to a daughter.

Last week, I heard him yelling, “Freya! You get off that refrigerator right now!”

A few seconds later, “No! Freya! Do NOT chew that cord!”

All was quiet for a bit, but I could hear him murmuring. I walked into the kitchen to see Freya in her cat tree basket and Derek stroking her head and rubbing her cheeks.

“You’re still a baby, aren’t you? You’re just a little baby girl, yes you are!”

He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

“Well she is,” he said.

Then he turned his attention back to the kitten.

“Aren’t you Freya? Aren’t you just a little baby girl?

I can’t swear to it, but I’m almost certain that cat was smiling as she closed her eyes.

All Write, Columns

A room of my own

Cindy Hval

For many years, I posted the same cartoon on social media every December. It features a woman sitting on Santa’s lap, reading her Christmas wish list. “… And I also need a gripping opening sentence, help with my 14th and 28th chapters, an agent with excellent connections in the publishing world, and a home office with a door.”

I didn’t share it this year because, after 17 years as a freelance writer and author, I finally have a home office with a door.

I’ve spent my career working in our unfinished downstairs rec room. The boys called it the playroom because that’s what they did there. They built gigantic Lego creations, set up Hot Wheels tracks and played video games. It’s where they hosted sleepovers and movie parties.

Meanwhile, I sat at a battered hand-me-down desk that once belonged to my father-in-law, next to an old filing cabinet snagged from my husband’s business.

My desk faced wobbly 1970s-era faux pine paneling. Lighting consisted of a series of cheap gooseneck desk lamps that teetered precariously atop the previously mentioned filing cabinet.

Without a door and no drawers in my desk, I’d leave the room and return to find my carefully arranged notes scattered across the room and my pens AWOL.

Cats enjoy few things more than knocking things off flat surfaces.

I churned out thousands of articles and columns from that room, but thankfully, when it came to pen books or bigger projects, I had kind friends who offered me private, quiet spaces for work.

As our family grew, other projects superseded my longing for an actual home office. My husband had a deck to build and a shed to create, the boys’ rooms needed finishing, the living room needed new flooring, and a second bathroom was vital.

Derek completed each job with great attention to detail, and every project turned out fantastic.

Our youngest son accepted a teaching job in Texas nearly three years ago, and Derek hoped to finally build an office for me because he truly loves home -improvement projects – and me. Unfortunately, his osteoarthritis limited his mobility and energy, and hip replacement surgery loomed.

So, reader, I took matters into my own hands. A friend referred me to a contractor, and I made an appointment for him to meet us at the house. Then I told Derek.

Though disappointed he wouldn’t be able to do the project himself, he agreed to talk to the contractor with me. They hit it off like I knew they would.

Almost a year later, work began. I chose Zachary’s former bedroom for my office. The ceiling hadn’t been finished since an earlier remodel, and the blue indoor/outdoor carpet had been there since our oldest two sons shared the space.

It also had a window facing our backyard. Finally, I’d have natural light and an office with a lovely view!

Work began in August, and when I dithered over choices that came up, wanting to defer to my husband, the contractor gently reminded me, “This is your office. You get to decide.”

And I did. I chose soft gray paint, white trim and a laminate floor that mirrored the warmth of the pine tongue-and-groove ceiling. Honestly, I would have been happy with any ceiling, but Derek lobbied for the upgrade, and I’m glad I listened.

In late September, he put together the desk I’d purchased years ago in anticipation of my new digs. Its L-shape offers plenty of room for notes on the smooth black surface. When I tire of sitting, I can use its stand-up option.

I had a matching bookshelf delivered, chose a cozy chair and a lamp for the corner, and hung art I’d saved just for this space.

Every morning, when I take my mug of coffee to my desk, I smile. My notes are right where I left them the night before – my pens and paperclips, present and accounted for.

The view from the window feeds my soul no matter the weather. When the sun beats down, I lower the blinds, but usually, I leave them up. I’ve watched the leaves swirl down into the garden. I’ve seen the rain drizzle or pour and watched snow slowly shroud the deck.

I love everything about this room, but my favorite thing might be the newly painted white door with its shiny gold knob. When Derek’s home and I have phone interviews or looming deadlines, I shut it with a satisfying click. Unlike our cats, Freya and Walter, he doesn’t stand outside and scratch and whine until I open it.

My 60th birthday may be approaching, but I finally have a room of my own, and oh, it was worth the wait.

Columns

The new girl

Cindy Hval

She sashays through our house like she owns the joint, the bell on her pink collar jingling.

A month ago, Freya Charlotte joined our clan. Derek and I were immediately smitten with the kitten, but it took our resident tabby a tad longer to warm up.

Though Sir Walter Scott keenly missed his buddy Thor, we hadn’t anticipated adding a kitten to our family quite so soon.

Like cat foster mom Gina said, “The Cat Distribution System struck again!”

She’s referring to the concept that cats or kittens just randomly appear in your life. The idea is that sometimes you don’t adopt a cat; rather, a cat adopts you.

All I know is from the moment we saw the tiny tuxedo’s photo on Gina’s Facebook, we knew she was ours.

The orphan kitten found alone near Progress Road in Spokane Valley got the best of care at Gina’s house. After she gained some weight and was spayed, chipped and had her first round of shots, we went to SCRAPS and officially adopted her.

We gave considerable thought to her name. A friend asked if we were naming our cats after South Hill streets, but Thor and Freya are prominent in Norse mythology.

Thor, the hammer-wielding god of thunder, is better known thanks to the Marvel comics and movies. But Freya is legendary in her own right. The fierce Norse goddess drove a chariot pulled by cats.

After some research, I found a middle name meant to curry favor with Walter. His namesake, Scottish author, historian and poet Sir Walter Scott, had four children. Charlotte Sophia was the eldest and his favorite.

Freya Charlotte Sophia is a bit of a mouthful, but it does get her off the top of the refrigerator in a hurry.

When we brought her home, Sir Walter sauntered up to peer into the carrier. Freya poked her nose out, and a horrified Walter bolted to our bedroom to hide under our bed.

He didn’t stay there long because Freya found him and assumed that he adored her like everyone else she’d met.

After a bit of hissing on both their parts, they moved on to chasing, pouncing and snuggling.

It’s been heartwarming to see their relationship blossom. Walter is a cuddly cat who longed to cozy up to Thor, but our senior tabby wouldn’t allow it.

Thankfully, Freya loves to snuggle next to him for a catnap. She submits to his grooming attention until she’s had enough and then gives a surprisingly deep, throaty growl. That’s enough for Walter to lay off the licking.

Another wonderful surprise is how much she likes people. Most cats are standoffish with strangers – not Freya.

On her third day in our home, Naselle, my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, came over to meet with the wedding florist. Freya let both ladies hold her, then promptly curled up on Naselle’s lap and fell asleep.

The kitten is equally friendly with our sons, but her reaction to a contractor who came to work on our home shocked me. The contractor is a big guy, and Freya marched up to him and let him pick her up.

Sadly, Walter is not so brave. Every day the contractor was here, Walter hid under our bed and refused to come out. Not so his baby sister. She’d check on the progress of the room remodeling and then join Walter under the bed, curling up with him in solidarity.

She likes Walter, but she’s an absolute mama’s girl. Wherever I am is where she wants to be. I put a soft blanket on the chair near my desk. As I type this, she’s dozed off, but she much prefers to bury her nose in my neck when she’s sleepy. Her purrs sound more lionish than kittenish.

The one similarity she has with the late Thor is her food obsession. She’s slowly learning that she’s not allowed on the dining room table and that our plates are off-limits. So are the refrigerator, stove and sink.

Recently, Derek found her licking an omelet pan he’d left on the stove. Thankfully, the pan and the stove had cooled, but that behavior is not cool.

He sternly scolded Freya Charlotte Sophia. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen to load the dishwasher and found her in the sink, dabbing her paws into the pan he’d filled with water.

“Freya!” he hollered.

She looked him in the eye and slowly licked her dainty paw.

I think the new girl will keep all of us, including Walter, on our toes.

Columns

Fostering for furever homes

Cindy Hval

Their tiny faces peered at me from the pages of the newspaper.

Tabbies, gingers, fluffy mixed breeds and sleek black kittens, all in need of a home. It’s kitten season, and area shelters are bursting at the seams with adoptable bundles of love.

Then my friend Gina Campbell posted a picture of her newest foster – a tuxedo kitten with a Harry Potter-like mark on her forehead. The feline’s wild whiskers and goofy expression made me smile.

I showed the photo to Derek.

“Oh! A tuxedo like our first cat, Milo!” he said. “You’ve always wanted a girl. Maybe we should meet her.”

I had already planned to write about the Spokane County Regional Animal Protective Service foster program. If research called for meeting a foster kitten, so be it.

I called Gina.

“I fell into fostering five years ago,” she said. “My tuxedo cat Mercy died, and when he passed away, I grieved terribly.”

Like many who have lost a beloved pet, Gina said never again – the loss just hurts too much, but two weeks later, a friend called. A feral cat had kittens in a bush beneath his mailbox, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

Gina knew the four kittens needed to stay with their mom, so she called SCRAPS. They found a foster home for the mom and her litter.

“That’s how I found out about fostering,” Gina said. “I stayed in touch with their foster mom, and she sent me pictures of the kittens.”

By the time the kittens were spayed, she’d fallen in love with two of them, and Licorice and Luna joined the Campbell clan.

Gina’s involvement led to her attending an orientation for foster families at SCRAPS. In addition to fostering cats, she now teaches some of those orientations.

“I’m a kitten coach,” she said.

Daniella Martin, SCRAPS foster coordinator, said the shelter relies on faithful foster families.

“Fostering is for animals that would do better with one-on-one attention or who need a break from the shelter,” Martin said. “Generally, that’s puppies and kittens under two months.”

In 2023, 2,191 kittens and 255 puppies were impounded at SCRAPS.

The shelter is overwhelmed by an influx of animals – especially kittens. On a recent weekend, they even waived adoption fees for all animals in hopes of easing its maxed-out shelter capacity.

Martin said they’re thankful for their roster of foster families and are always looking for more.

“We provide supplies, training and ongoing support,” she said. “Fostering gives the animals less exposure to sickness and offers less stress on our system.”

Foster families check out a Facebook page that Martin updates with photos and information about animals needing care. They respond as they have time and space.

Recently, Gina brought home her 55th foster kitten. She cares for them until they’re big enough to be spayed and are ready for adoption through SCRAPS.

“I’ve learned a lot and cared for lots of sick kittens,” she said.

The feisty tuxedo that caught our attention is a tiny but healthy orphan.

“She was found in Spokane Valley, near Progress and Best,” Gina said. “Sometimes people ‘rescue’ them too soon. It’s best to wait and watch and see if the mama cat is nearby.”

For research purposes, I had to meet this baby. Derek and our son Sam went with me, and Sam predicted the outcome.

“When in the history of ‘going to see a cat’ have you not come home with a cat?” he asked.

He has a point. But we all fell in love with the bundle of black-and-white kitten energy.

Our 5-year-old cat Walter still has plenty of zip, but he seems lost without Thor to chase through the house. A baby sister might add some spice to his days.

We’ll find out soon because, in early August, we’ll be adopting that tiny tuxedo. Finally, I won’t be the only girl in the house!

For Gina, knowing that the cats she cares for are going to loving homes is all the reward she needs.

“Fostering is the best medicine for anxiety or depression,” she said. “I feel like I’m making a difference in an animal’s life, and I’m making a difference in the life of a family. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

To learn more about fostering go to spokanecounty.org/4228/Foster or visit during shelter hours. Find hours and information at spokanecounty.org/5519/SCRAPS.

SCRAPS is located at 6815 E. Trent Ave. in Spokane Valley.

Columns

Thor’s final days a lesson in listening

Cindy Hval

n May 30, we found out our beloved cat Thor had a nonoperable tumor, and his nine lives were about to run out.

When I shared the news in a previous column and on social media, people responded with great compassion. Many wrote that they had enjoyed my accounts of his adventures over the years and felt like they knew him. Others shared their heartbreaking stories of pet loss. Each missive provided connection and comfort.

What I’ve learned over the past month is this – despite their solitary, independent nature, cats absolutely do communicate with their humans. In his last two weeks, Thor let us know exactly what he wanted.

Moist deli-roasted chicken breast?

Yes, please.

Canned cat food?

No, thank you.

Tender smoked turkey breast?

More, please.

A once-favored kibble?

Nope.

Special cat treats from Trader Joe’s?

Yum!

Loving words and soft pats from me and Derek?

Aaaaah.

A comfy spot on a soft blanket on the foot or our bed?

Purrrr …

He was equally clear about activities.

The slick Houdini, who often bolted through every open door, enjoyed one last warm evening in the backyard. Cat harness and leash attached, he basked in the sun, rolling over and over in the comforting grass. He nibbled on a blade or two, but he mainly just soaked up the rays that bathed his suddenly fragile bones.

But when next we tried to take him outdoors, he sat by the back door and refused to budge. Derek carried him out to the yard, but Thor declined to wander.

Derek carried him back to the deck and removed the leash. Thor went straight to the door and asked to go inside.

I suspect he felt his frailty and knew the wild outdoors was no longer safe for his ailing body.

What do you say when there are no words?

Taking a note from Thor’s book, we showed him how we felt. We held him. We stroked his once lush, now straggly fur. We looked into his eyes and slowly blinked.

And when he hid under our bed, we listened. We understood he was saying, no more, please.

Even rambunctious Walter heard the message. Our junior tabby usually delights in pouncing on an unsuspecting Thor, but he seemed to understand that pouncing was out. Instead, he scooted under the bed and crouched next to Thor in silent solidarity.

A short time later, Thor took refuge beneath the dining room table. Derek didn’t try to coax him out. Instead, he stretched his 6-foot-2 frame beside him on the floor.

Thor mewed.

“I know, buddy,” Derek replied, tears coursing down his cheeks. “It’s time.”

I called the vet to schedule Thor’s last visit for later that afternoon. As I ended the call, thunder cracked, and a heavy rain fell. A fitting finale for a cat named for the god of thunder.

When I pulled into the driveway after work, he was perched on Sam’s windowsill, watching – waiting for me to come home. As sick as he was, he still managed to climb up to his favorite lookout on the window ledge.

Out of habit, I quickly shut the door behind me lest he make a run for it. But his sprinting days were done. Instead, Thor waited for me to pick him up at the entryway.

There would be no dreaded cat carrier for this trip. I wrapped his frail frame in an old beach towel and carried him to the car.

His ears perked, and his nose wiggled as he sniffed the rain-scented air. As we drove, he tucked his head under my chin, his eyes wide while he watched the passing scenery.

We kept our promise. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes for the final time was the faces of the people who loved him.

When we left the vet’s office, Derek silently pointed to a rainbow shimmering across the horizon. It seemed the heavens offered Rainbow Bridge just for Thor.

Oh, yes, cats communicate with their people.

And it’s important to listen – even when they say things we don’t want to hear.

Things like goodbye.

RIP Thor Heyerdahl Hval, Feb. 5, 2011, to June 18, 2024.

Columns

Thor’s Last Adventure

Cindy Hval

When it came right down to it, the choice between another kid or another cat proved easy for my husband.

It was 2011, and we’d just watched the movie “Thor.” Though I’m not a big Marvel Universe fan, I was enamored with the film and the title character.

“We have four sons, and not one of them named Thor,” I said after viewing the film. “We either need a second cat or a fifth son.”

A week later, we were at PetSmart looking at a batch of adoptable kitties. Three brothers frolicking in their cage caught my attention. Well, two of them frolicked – the third watched his brothers from afar. The litter had been abandoned by the side of a road, and the Spokane Humane Society christened the kitten who’d caught my eye “Alex.”

Our second son, Alex, then 18, had recently flown the family nest. Though the hole in this mama’s heart and home was far larger than kitten size, the tabby with the grumpy face captivated me.

Thor’s Gotcha Day, 2011

The newly christened Thor Heyerdahl Hval joined our family. He immediately gravitated to our 3-year-old tuxedo cat, Milo James. The attraction was not mutual. After sulking beneath our bed for a few days, Milo adjusted to the newbie. They forged an uneasy alliance until Milo’s death six years ago.

A year passed before we felt ready to welcome another kitten to our home. We thought another cat would enliven Thor’s senior years. Well, Sir Walter Scott certainly enlivened everything around our house. Thor, however, has never been a fan of the junior kitty. Wary tolerance is about all he can muster.

For 13 years, Thor has exerted his unique influence on our family dynamic. The food-motivated tabby mastered the trick of rolling over at the cajoling (and treats) offered by our son, Alex.

Chopsticks proved too difficult to master, but he sure tried!

Thor also sits up for treats. In fact, he’d do anything for food except stay inside.

Though his default facial expression is one of perpetual grumpiness, he’s been the most agreeable, docile cat – unless the door is open. Then, all bets are off.

The lure of the wild calls to this indoor-only cat, and our family has spent many aggravating and anxious hours attempting to lure the adventuring Thor back home.

Last week, we got the heartbreaking news that his wild walkabouts and longsuffering endurance of Walter are coming to an end.

Several weeks ago, Thor began shunning wet food – a puzzling problem for our always-hungry boy. When he barely nibbled his dry kibble, I took him to our trusted veterinarian.

I dreaded the visit because I knew something was wrong – very wrong.

It turns out Thor has a large tumor on his abdomen.

“I’m so sorry,” said the vet. “There’s nothing we can do.”

My heart shattered as I gathered my sweet boy in my arms. His once hefty frame has dwindled from 13 pounds to a scant 10.

While science cannot mend him, love and medicine can make his last days easier.

I tempt his waning appetite with kibble and treats. I lure him to sustenance with bits of tuna, salmon and canned chicken. With Derek’s help, I administer steroids and opioids to ease his pain.

And we put his harness and leash on him and take him to the backyard to let him nibble grass and bask in the sun. At night, he curls up at our feet in our bed.

We are keenly aware that it will soon be time to help him on his way to his final rest.

Until then, Thor welcomes my kisses and tilts his head for chin scratches. I think he understands when I tell him how much I love him, and he trusts my promise that we will be with him for every moment of his last grand adventure.

Columns

Finding thankfulness in empty nest adjustments

Cindy Hval

Baffled, we stared at our dining room table.

With the leaves, it seats 12. Without the leaves, it seats six. Now, there are just two of us.

“Where are we going to sit?” I asked my husband.

He shrugged.

Our places at the table changed over time as our family grew and then shrank. For several years, it’s just been Derek, me and our youngest son. In September, Sam accepted a teaching position at Odessa College in Texas. We hadn’t thought about the practical adjustments empty-nesters must make – like where to sit at mealtimes.

“We can’t sit next to each other. That’s just weird,” I said.

With a full plate in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, Derek nodded toward the door.

“Let’s eat on the deck,”

Crisis averted, we enjoyed our meal in the September sun and discussed where our new spots at the table should be.

“I don’t care where we sit as long as we’re not eating off TV trays,” he said.

I shuddered.

“Do they even still make those?”

In the weeks that followed we slowly found our new normal. While we miss our Baby Boy, we’re finding lots to love about our empty nest – like nuts. Sam has a severe peanut/nut allergy. We haven’t had a dish of cashews or peanuts in our home in 22 years. Now, we enjoy small dishes of mixed nuts as an appetizer or late-night snack. Also, our grocery bill has diminished considerably!

e aren’t the only ones adjusting to Sam’s absence. Our cats Thor and Walter have had to adapt as well – especially Walter. He’s a creature of habit, and his habit is to tag along after me all day long. Most mornings my tabby entourage escorts me to my basement office. Then he plunks himself on our old BarcaLounger near my desk in front of Sam’s TV.

Sam took the TV and the recliner with him when he moved. With no place to plunk, Walter took to napping at my feet. This proved to be a workplace hazard for both of us. I’d forget he was there and step on his tail, or he’d dart in front of me causing me to trip.

I explained the situation during a phone call with Sam.

“Maybe I should buy him a cat bed and put it next to my desk,” I said.

My son had a better idea.

“Why spend money on a cat bed he won’t use? Just buy a clothes basket. He loves them.”

There’s a reason we call him Smarty Pants Sam.

I bought a $4 basket; put an old afghan in it and now Walter has a safe place to nap when he comes to work with me.

Though I’ve found lots to enjoy about our first few months as empty-nesters, I have to confess to feeling a bit blue as I did my Thanksgiving shopping. It’s our first holiday without our youngest son. We’ll have seven family members at the table – I doubt I’ll need to extend it with a leaf.But when reaching for the serving platters behind my Christmas china, I rediscovered my thankful spirit.Sam will come home for Christmas and his place at the table will be ready.

Columns

The cat’s out of the bag

Cindy Hval

The text from my son flashed on my phone while I was at the gym pedaling my way to fitness on an exercise bike.

“Is this a bad time to talk?” Sam texted.

I picked up my phone and typed, “I’m almost done with my workout. Can it wait?”

A few seconds passed before he texted, “We have a situation with Walter.”

Sir Walter Scott is our 2-year-old rescue tabby. We often have “situations” with him. As the kids say, “He’s a bit spicy!”

Walter epitomizes the cartoon of a cat wearing a T-shirt that reads, “What doesn’t kill me makes me curiouser.”

Usually, his situations involve food – specifically anything involving bread or chips. Recently, I enjoyed a slice of cold pizza for breakfast. Well, I tried to enjoy it while fending off Walter’s grabby paws.

After I ate, I wadded up the foil and finished reading the Sunday paper. When I got up to take the detritus to the garbage, I couldn’t find the foil. Then I looked down the hall and followed a trail of shiny scraps to my bedroom where Walter was doggedly shredding the tightly wrapped ball in hopes of scoring a bit of crust or fragment of pepperoni.

Aluminum foil is not a healthy snack and we anxiously watched him for signs of intestinal distress, but he was fine.

A couple of days later, we had homemade sub sandwiches for dinner. Like all the young men I’ve raised, our youngest gets a bit peckish before bed. He came upstairs and made another sandwich after Derek and I had turned in. What he didn’t do was hide the last hoagie roll in the microwave or stash it in a cupboard.

I know this because in the morning when I groggily got the cats’ breakfast ready, I stepped on something wet and squishy. Stepping on wet, squishy things is just one of the joys that occur when you’re owned by cats. This time I’d stepped on the well-chewed roll, still encased in its plastic bag. It seems Walter had the midnight munchies.

The situation that prompted Sam’s urgent text, however, didn’t involve food. He’d been getting ready to clean the litter box and dropped a plastic bag nearby while he went to do something else. A few minutes later, he heard banging and crashing and ran downstairs. The plastic bag was gone, and so was Walter.

I called Sam on my way home, and he said he’d found Walter cowering under the TV cabinet with the bag wrapped tightly around his back leg. Evidently, he’d tried to rummage through it got stuck.

“He won’t come out,” Sam said. “He’s so freaked out he peed himself, and he actually hissed at me!”

We didn’t even know Walter could do that.

By the time I arrived, he was missing again.

He took off when I tugged at the bag on his leg,” Sam reported.

I discovered the terrified tabby hiding under the stairs. He didn’t run when I reached for him, but he did hiss. He’d managed to get most of the bag off his leg, and Sam and I finished freeing him and checked for damage. Walter walked a bit stiffly at first, but quickly began winding himself around our legs.

After some cleaning and cuddling, he appeared to recover – until Sam took a new bag out to finish the job he’d started. At the sound of rustling plastic, Walter bolted and ran to his safe place – under my bed.

Walter hiding from the SCARY plastic bag monster.

“I think he’s got permanent plastic bag PTSD,” Sam said.

When I relayed the sorry tale on Facebook, my friends found the bright side.

“Perhaps food in plastic bags will be safe, now,” one said.

Another replied, “You could experiment with plastic-bagging those carbs just to see what happens.”

I have brilliant friends.

Will Walter’s bag phobia be stronger than his love of carbs?

Stay tuned.

Columns

Pet Tales: Readers Share Pet Stories

Cindy Hval

Recently, I wrote about Sir Walter Scott’s terrible 2s. No, not the Scottish novelist and poet, but rather our rescue tabby, with the lofty literary name.

Our Walter is anything but lofty and having reached his second year, shows no signs of settling down to a sedate feline life. Why should he when there are plastic bags filled with noodles, chips, or marshmallows to plunder? And obviously, Walter feels that I’m the one in need of constant supervision. (He’s precariously perched on the back of my desk chair as I type.)

I invited readers to share stories about their quirky pets. Below you’ll meet canine pals who need their blankets adjusted properly and take their recycling responsibilities seriously. And there are cats who lounge in cupboards, stand up to big dogs, and switch on lights and radios if breakfast isn’t served promptly.

Readers’ pets

Theodora Sallee adopted Jack. an 18-pound ginger cat at Spokane County Regional Animal Protection Service about five years ago. She said he was the calmest cat she’d ever seen, so she felt comfortable taking him out on her deck. She spotted a new neighbor and walked over to introduce herself.

The neighbor’s large dog barked and ran toward Sallee.

“Suddenly there was this shrieking and growling yellow streak that ran past me directly towards the dog,” said Sallee. “It was Jack! My neighbor and I were both surprised and the dog so scared he retreated about 10 feet.”

They were both thankful for the fence that separated them, and Sallee has since learned that Jack tolerates well-behaved dogs, but if they bark or act aggressively he will put them in their place.

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Speaking of dogs, Beverly Gibb’s whippet is also named Jack.

“He requires a ‘Jack-nap’ every day around 1 p.m.,” she wrote. “After an hour or so, he lifts a bit to indicate he’s ready to rotate. At that point I am expected to hold up his blanket, so he can rotate around to his other side. If I don’t hold up the blanket, he’ll get all tangled up and drag the blanket around.”

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Debbie Walker’s 10-month-old gray tabby likes to have an early breakfast. Really early.

“About 4:30 every morning he starts walking around on top of me to wake me up,” Walker wrote. “If I don’t get up within a few minutes, he turns on the light and if that doesn’t work he turns on the radio. Both the radio and the lamp have buttons on top that he pushes with his paw to turn them on. The first time was probably just an accident but as soon as he figured out it got me up he began deliberately waking me that way. Always the light first, then the radio. By then I’m fully awake, and breakfast is served.”

She’s then allowed to go back to sleep.

“I love him anyway,” Walker said.

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My Walter is in good company when it comes to his plastic bag obsession. Denise Hanson’s rescue kitty JerryBoy also adores plastic bags.

“JerryBoy loves playing with big paper grocery bags, too,” Hanson said. “He will crawl in and want me to take him for a walk around the house while he’s in the bag (which, of course, I do).”

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Sarah Sledge’s cat Chippie likes to curl up in the cupboard atop her clean dishes. He’s also partial to reclining on her washing machine and the alcove above the television.

“I’ve got to watch him every minute, just like a toddler,” she said.

•

Virginia Utley’s dog cattle dog Gem may be retired from obedience competition, but he still likes to help out around the house.

“Gem recycles my Amazon boxes,” wrote Utley. “I hold up the box and say ‘recycle!’ Gem grabs the box, puts his foot on it, and rips it up in a frenzy of canine destruction. It’s our way of going green.”

They may be exasperating, adorable, comical, or sweet, but for many of us, the pandemic brought into focus just how much our furry friends add to our lives.

As Utley said, “Our fuzzy companions give us just what we need during the dark times.”

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