Farewell, My Tiny King

This is not a post I ever wanted to write.

Our beloved Buddy Katzmann Schmidt left us this morning. He was doing what he loved, frolicking around the house and enticing Winston to forbidden chases, when he lept from the stairs, suddenly collapsed, and went limp. He was gone before we could get him into the car.

Buddy was more dog than cat, more human than dog, maybe something else entirely. I've always thought that either of the first two comparisons might be somehow insulting to him. Still, it's hard not to make them. He trotted up to us when we called him. He'd sit in front of me and meow when he wanted to play Koosh-on-a-wire, just like a dog would. There was a time when I felt bad for bringing him inside permanently, so I taught him to walk around the yard on a leash. When I'd call Winston over to play, nine times out of ten Buddy would race in from another direction and sit between us, stopping the big guy in his tracks. "Buddy, goddammit, stop screwing with him." And then, invariably, Buddy would jump up onto the ottoman next to me and watch Winston and I play ball. It was as though he wanted to help with the training.


He didn't do typical cat-like things. No jumping on the counters or climbing across the back of the sofa and slapping at the back of your neck while you were trying to watch television, no clawing the upholstery, no sudden bites when he'd decided that he'd had enough of you. Buddy never had enough of anyone. He never demanded love, but he never walked away from it, either. In our ten years with him, he spent countless hours next to us on the couch, sometimes tucked under our arms, sometimes just resting against our legs, and never had enough of us.

Buddy would have been eighteen next spring, a good long life for a cat. But it's never long enough.

It's two in the morning. I have to be at work in six hours. But I can't sleep, because he's not curled up at my side. I'd hoped that typing this out would make me tired, that this was what I needed to do before finally being able to settle in next to A.B. and Winston, but it's not helping.

I'm haunted, not by my last sight of him, but by the memory of him in the days before. On Friday, he sat behind the chair I'm sitting in now and meowed at me. When I turned around, he hopped smartly to his feet and marched into the kitchen, where I kept his favorite toy. We played for a few minutes, and I marvelled at how well he still moved. "Nice chase, Buddy! We'll play again on Monday when I get home from work." It was an after-work think, Koosh-on-a-wire.

Last night, at the BadRap charity event, I talked about him to dozens of people, telling them what a neat cat he was, how he had Winston firmly under his control. We all laughed at the thought. "You should get that on video and share it with the group." Buddy was an inspiration to many cat-loving pit bull owners. I promised that I would remember to record the next time Buddy cut Winston off on his way to a ballgame. But, of course, I never did record it.

This morning, Winston and Buddy were both on the bed. Winston was laying across Accountant Boy's ankles, and Buddy stretched out to face him, laying across my feet. "Look! Buddy's learning a new trick! He's doing The Winston!" We stayed in bed for a long time, not wanting to move them. Later, I looked behind the recliner to see why the vertical blinds were askew. Buddy looked up at me, slats surrounding him, pale sun lighting up his bright, green eyes. He looked stunning. "I should get my camera. You look so handsome. I'm so happy that you're my cat." I told him that all the time, several times a day. "I love you, Katzmann." That look, him staring up at me inquisitively from behind the recliner, was the last look we ever shared. I reached down to scratch his ears, then went upstairs to get dressed. I was up there when A.B. shouted desperately for my help, even as we both realized that there wasn't anything that we could do.

All I can see when I close my eyes are images of my beautiful boy, happy and active, defiantly youthful and vibrant. They're wonderful images, all of them. I'm lucky to have so many. I can't believe that I won't see him again. And I can't sleep.

Acorn

Confession time.

I lost all interest in talking about myself for a while, and as a result I lost all interest in blogging. I then grew depressed over my lack of creative motivation, which pushed me even further away from here. I didn't do any of the ambitiously planned things that I said I was going to do while I was unemployed. It was not all that I thought it would be.

Just at the point where I thought I was going to lose my mind, vacuuming the house three times a day and spending an entire week not needing to put on shoes because I didn't stray beyond the edge of my property, I got a new job. Good news, yes, but not so good for blogging. My new job is more restrictive than my old one when it comes to the Internet, and I've kind of been enjoying actually working when I'm at work.


I have been knitting, but I haven't been all that great about writing about it. I finished Forestry more than a month ago, and I took some not-so-great pictures of it, but I forgot to write down what size needles I used. I started on one of my oldest projects in the bin, and I'm about halfway through the chest/back/arms. I swatched some silk last night. It's good. I'm just not writing much about it.

In short, this isn't a 'give up' post. It's also not a 'catch up' post. I may never go back and write about the mods I made to Forestry or the sweater I'm making now. If someone were to ask me about either of them, which is improbable since I've done an even worse job of keeping up over at Ravelry, I'd try to come up with more information. Otherwise, it's a done deal.

What does that mean for "Knitting for the Large-Headed Gal"? I hesitate to call this a relaunch, because then I'd feel compelled to keep up, and I don't write well under that kind of pressure. It's why I took a job nearly identical to my last one instead of running off to become a writer. For me, writing is like being in a pen with a silverback gorilla. I have to look askance at it while picking at the grass in front of me, never staring at it head-on.

It's an acorn year for the oak tree in my front yard. A pair of doves built a nest above my deck last week. It's almost the end of summer, but things continue to make a go of their fresh starts.

Let's move forward from here.

Heavy Boots of Lead

"Alright, Blunder. Hold that pose. Nice job of looking pensive. Good furrowing."

"O.K., but Buddy?"

"Yes, Blunder."

"I wasn't trying to look pensived or whatever. I was just waiting for something fun to happen outside. This is just how I look all the time."

"Oh, dear. How many times must I explain this to you, you great, lumbering oaf? We are to lie here and look pensive as a reflection of the Woman's current state of mind as she stands in the no-mans'-land between her old and new lives. The camera is her mirror-glass, and we are the reflections of pensiveness of her soul. It's all very artistic. Now furrow that brow. Furrow, you foul beast!"

"Umm, Buddy? She seems kinda alright, actually."

"That's because you don't gaze deep into her soul, not as I do. I stare at her for hours and relish the gentle feel of her breath on my whiskers. While she's sleeping."

"Man, that's kinda creepy. I don't think she wants me to do that. I don't even think she wants you to do that. But I guess I could try harder to see the pencils in her soles or whatever. Hold on."


"Nope, still looks O.K. to me. On the plus side, I may have head-tilted my way into a walk around the neighborhood. Yeah!"

"And yet I am the one who understands her vision. Where is my reward? Dammit!

Almost two months into being differently-employed, and I still only have them engaging in imaginary conversations every couple of days or so.

It's been a whirlwind of activity since May 1st. Daisy and Falstaff moved out of our rental house, Daisy moved across the country, Accountant Boy bought another car, Winston made a couple of new friends of the bully-dog persuasion, and I think I broke a couple of fingers while putting down a new floor in our bathroom. It hasn't been boring, I'll say that much for it.

Oh, and I'm still working on Forestry, the stupidest project to have on the needles during the summer in Contra Costa County. I have to sew in the sleeves and knit the collar, but it's slow going now that our unseasonably cold spring has given way to the normal summer. I'm also being slowed by my right hand, which has some kind of arthritic clicky thing going on. I think I injured it while painting the rental house. Of all of the things over there that could hurt me, I least expected trouble from the paint. And yet it was the paint that almost killed me. Who would have thought that a quart of enamel would be behind this exclamation: "Why the F%$K do things keep EXPLODING IN MY FACE IN THIS GODDAMN HOUSE???" But that's a story for another day.

Green (Molto Vibrante)

Hrmph...errrggh...

Bernini's David? What's the deal?


Oh, Domina! I did not see you there, as I was straining mightily against these verdant bonds. Do no fear for the David. Your champion shall be freed anon.

Domina, eh? You've conferred a title on me? That's so thoughtful of you. Grazie mille, David!


You do indeed appear to me as a noble lady, and I would bow before you as a proper gentleman, if only I were able to wrest myself free of these ropes. What manner of enchantment strengthens them so that they are able to hold the David fast in their grip?

It's Berroco Ultra Alpaca in Erwyn Green. I saw it on Dizzy Sheep a few days ago, and I broke down and bought it. I could have held off, but the name, well, it's sort of sentimental to me. Sure, it's only a homophone, but close enough for me to take it as a sign that I was supposed to buy the yarn.


Grrrr....hrrrphft...foul restraints! Pardon me, Domina, but what does the lord of the house say to this extravagance? Has he not tightened the purse strings in anticipation of your full-time return to the manor?

My full-time what? Oh, you mean the layoff?

The David has noticed that the air swirling about his neck is no longer pleasantly conditioned. Is this not the doing of your miserly husband?

No, it's the broken blower on the furnace. We just need to get someone out to fix it. We're not holding off because of money. It's a timing thing. We'll get it fixed before summer hits us full force. I'm going to have plenty of time to meet with HVAC people after May 1st.

Accountant Boy is handling my impending joblessness with even more grace and optimism than I am. In fact, he's worked on several versions of the budget that will allow me to take the summer off, continue our membership at the swanky gym, and even buy yarn every so often.

When I threw a skein of this yarn to him and told him that I couldn't help but buy it, he said, "Honey..." I was expecting it to continue on along the line of "...how much over budget is this going to put you?" What I got instead was, "...you need to make sure you make something really special out of this stuff so that it'll bring up happy memories every time you wear it." I'm lucky to have a partner who understands the importance of these things.


I have found what I think will be the perfect pattern for it. I'm going to make Forestry from Vogue Knitting Fall 2008 (Ravelry Link) (Vogue Knitting Link). This yarn might be a little softer and a little fuzzier than is recommended, but I still think it'll work well. A.B. looked at the picture in VK and shrugged, but I wouldn't have expected a better response from him, as the picture in VK isn't at all flattering.

The David understands the need for flattering garments, Domina. It must be difficult for you to pose yourself so near to my perfection for your finished object pictures, even on the best of days. I am magnificent.

He spends all day guarding the cat food dish, and not doing a particularly good job of it at that. Winston gulps down a lot of Friskies senior chicken dinners under the David's not-so-watchful eye. But he is pretty, I'll give him that.

Villainous entanglements! I shall throw you off as water from a duck's wing!

Best go save my yarn from the David, or, more appropriately, the David from my yarn.

Green (Pale)

Woefully behind on my project documentation, and with my knitting area desperately in need of reorganization, I decided that the very best thing to do was to pull several balls of yarn and swatch for a batch of new projects. My living room is lousy with knit squares and needles.

This lucky swatch has travelled around with me for a few days as part of an extended wear test. It's Pakucho Organic Cotton in 'Avocado'. This is one of the older yarns in my stash, purchased several years ago from Elann.com. I've washed and dried it, and figured out that it's going to shrink up about 15% on the length. It softened up quite a bit in the wash.

With that in mind, I've cast on for the Greek Pullover from an old Interweave Knits. It's going to be good - easy care, kind of rustic, something I'd imagine that I'd actually want to wear if I were tooling around Greece, as it's cotton instead of mohair - and I'm already halfway done with the back. I won't be able to try it on, or go by any of the measurements in the pattern, because it's going to be 15% too long until after it's all put together and washed. I'm knitting by faith, here. I hope I know as much as I think I know about what think that I'm doing.