My Poor Kitty

Maine Coon Cat

In one week Charlie lost one third of his weight. The fluffy hair didn’t add to his bulk as usual. He was muscular for a thirteen year old cat—so the vet reported two years ago. How proud we were to hear those words. His fur glistened and he was so handsome. He was a show stopper whenever anyone noticed him.

Charlie is an outdoor/indoor, Maine Coon cat. A typical coon. Big fur, padded feet and lots of energy for the hunt. I got him from another owner when he was one year old. He was mostly an indoor cat then. Not much human company during the day. A friend of mine warned that Charlie would not last a week in our woods.

Fourteen years later, Charlie continues to roam our property woods and open spaces. As he romps around, he is alert to every unusual sound and movement—the reason why he has lived so long.

Not only does he roam freely, we take daily walks with Charlie down our quarter mile drive, through our wooded property along some of our logging roads and back to the house. A twenty minute jaunt. Usually Charlie just follows us. Other times he bolts ahead, passes by to jump up a tree trunk where he claws upward a few feet. He stops, looks back at us and revels in our gleeful accolades. He wants us to do the same. We oblige as we run and grab a tree in a fumbled effort to climb. He is unimpressed with our one foot off the ground and our fingers just caressing the bark. He jumps down and walks on.

My quick rendition of Charlie's reaction.

Still other times, we walk Charlie on a leash. The restricted pet gear appeared as we decided to travel with him. Home alone is no fun for our kitty and a worry for us.

The first day was a traumatic event when a jogger approached us on a trail. Charlie had his eye on this tiny bouncing creature heading our way. As it grew larger, he panicked. I picked him up to calm him and when the “creature” turned up to be as tall as hubby and bounced up to us, Charlie propelled himself from my arms landing at the end of the leash where he twirled in a mass of fur, claws and hisses. As I reached into the frantic heap that was once my cat, the jogger said “Calm down cat… .” and disappeared down the trail.

I picked up Charlie and noticed his heart beating wildly and his leash had loosened so that he could have slipped out and run off into the wilderness.

Charlie is a home woods cat and people are not what he likes best—except for mom and pop. Whenever there is a threat of another human being or vehicle approaching, he sticks his head in the crook of my elbow and I hold him firmly until the “danger” is passed. Poor Charlie. Don’t know what ever happened in his kitten-hood that would account for this reaction. We are pretty solitary where we live and anyone visiting is lucky to meet Charlie. The UPS man hasn’t got a chance as he rumbles up our drive.

Sadly, Charlie has not been well as of late. Three weeks ago, he lost weight pretty fast. He wouldn’t eat. He was listless. After two days, I brought him to the vet’s. They discovered a broken front tooth with a swollen gum. They ground the stump down and prescribed two prescriptions: an anti-biotic and a stomach coating pill for reflux. Crush the pills, dissolve in water and squirt into his mouth with a syringe. “Meow!” Translation: “Not on your life, woman!”

At first, Charlie ate a bit more, but now he eats less every day and continues to loose weight. At fifteen years, we feel he is failing. It is so painful to watch him stare at his food. I move his bowl to wherever he decides to sleep. That is what he mostly does. No more romping and wanting to go outside. I prefer to keep him inside so I can keep an eye on him. Old age is not a blessed thing for any life form.

Feeding Meds To a Cat

As I administer his meds, he grows leery of both Mom and Pop who must hold him down to control his reaction to this insult of forced feeding. Finally, Pop said, “It is no good to do this to him. He is failing. Let him be peaceful.” I looked into Charlie’s pleading eyes as he prepared to fight off the next dose. “Okay, Charlie. No more. Be peaceful. All done.” He understands “no more” and “all done” and he relaxed. Tears ran down my cheek as I put the meds away.

Today, Charlie chose to sleep wherever I happened to be. Right now he is snuggled on a blanket I placed under my desk for him to keep warm. Food does not interest him anymore. He is shown the water and food bowls several times a day. He visits his potty for his kidneys are working. Nothing else seems to be. Thankfully, he is no longer retching.

I love my poor, little Charlie. He’s been with us for fourteen years. He still finds the strength to climb onto the bed and sleeps near my legs. Sometimes he climbs up to my shoulder and purrs in my ear. I pat him for a while, then he disappears until morning.

It is so very difficult to lose a pet. I’ve lost others before. I cried for weeks afterwards.

All we can do is pet him and let him know we care. He knows. And he loves us too.

Good night Charlie. Sleep well.

Love, Mommy.
XXXOOO

A Creative Process

Daily activities may find me tackling projects most people I know would never attempt.
Example, body work on a car. Yes.

Years ago, we had a very rusty car. It was a 1974 Plymouth, Valiant. After eight years of ownership, small rusty segments fell to the ground below the fender almost daily. Why get another car, this one was paid for, no more car loan.

During my teens, my neighbor, Richard, and other high school boys had done body work. One of the boys, Fiddy, designed a unique look to his headlights that he proudly paraded as he cruised around town. He had created a hood at the top of each headlight, which was pulled out and downward in a V shape, just about an inch or two in front of the light. It was pretty cool and very creative.

If Fiddy or Richard could do body work as teens, I could do the same in my thirties. Besides, I studied art at USM. One class project was a bondo covered sculpture. Bondo is pretty tough to work with. If I could handle it for a small sculpture, why not a bigger sculpture? Our Plymouth.

All I had to do was scrape, cut away, remove and neutralize the rust with acid. Then pop-rivet sheet metal, add metal screen which could be shaped as needed, apply bondo and sand it into shape. With mask to protect my lungs and rubber gloves to protect my hands I was grinding away when a neighbor walked by. I looked a fright as I sat on the pavement with my gear, I’m sure. “What are you doing now? Is there anything you don’t do?” she asked. Not really. If something needs to be done, I just—do it. I had impressed this neighbor when I had built decorative walls to hide the space below the porch and the deck. It looked great and added to the charm of the house. Another big sculpture.

I think in terms of art. Projects are sculptures, writing is painting with words, and art is painting with a pigmented medium.

While I work on all these distractions, I ponder my next art work. What will I paint next. I mix colors and add colored glazes to get certain effects. Always works well in my mind. Working at the easel is different. Depends on lighting, colors available and—patience. Something else may happen and is better than I imagined. There are times where I just want to throw the painting away. But I keep it for a while. Every time I come across it, I shudder. There have been paintings that I kept for years, which I finally ripped to pieces or burned. No regrets. Here is one of my latest pieces. Sold. smile…

Writing is the same. I spent twelve years writing a story that was bouncing around in my brain for two years prior. So I wrote whenever I had time. The project haunted me. I had to complete it. I finally did—twelve years later in my retirement. I’ve been re-writing this story for the last three years. A slow process. I read novels of the same genre as I study the writing process. Therefore, I have re-written, ripped out segments, added new ideas and have re-shaped the story a bit. I like it better—another ‘sculpture’ I intend to finish.

Meanwhile, I’ve written a few fun stories just to get experience writing about another topic. Research is fun as I write. I have to either remember what life was like in the ‘50s or whatever period I choose. I’ve lived it, so I write about it.

On to my next painting or chapter… .

Smile in your mirror every day. Create something that makes you happy.

Jo M. Orise September - October 2014 Art Update

Belties and Clouds by Jo M. Orise

Getting ready for a one-man show. 

Location: The Brown Bag Restaurant Cafe, 606 Main Street, Rockland, ME.

Date: September 3 to October 31, 2014

Time: Mondays-Saturdays

I will display a variety of framed artworks: watercolor, oils, acrylics. Mostly originals and a few reproductions.

Pieces may be purchased at the cafe. Ask for assistance to remove artwork from the wall and pay the cashier.

Whether you purchase or just view the artwork, please take a card and send me a note. Let me know what you think about the pieces. I always love to hear from viewers. Critiques are always welcome.

While you are at the Brown Bag, try their great food creations.

English: Whoopie Pies (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We love having breakfast there and bring home a healthy share of their home-made bread, pies and sandwiches. Full breakfast menu makes one drool. Chef Calvin performs magic at the cook-stove. The cake lady and bread crew do a wonderful job at creating delicious, specialty cakes, breads and muffins, sticky rolls, brownies, whoopie pies, and lots more. The staff is friendly and fun to talk to. Some of them feel like family. If you get to know the regular customers, you'll find them friendly with great stories to share. You must go there and experience the ambiance. Our first visit was in 1999 and we got hooked.

So, people, go to the Brown Bag Restaurant Cafe, enjoy the food, look at my artwork and if one moves you, don't be shy to ask an employee to assist you with it's purchase. Bring an artwork home—you will have something special to enjoy for years to come. Visit my website: www.jomorise.com

Jo M. Orise August 2014 Art Update

I am so psyched!
Sold four paintings in one day. The Aldermere Farm, Rockport, Maine, hosts a one day Art Show for artists to display their work and hopefully sell their artwork.


Sales are shared with the Farm which is a non-profit, heritage trust.

And, I sold two other pieces at the Blue Shutter Gallery, in Wolfeboro, NH. Yesss!

It is nice to know that someone out there appreciates the work I create. Thank you for your patronage. 

Updated my virtual gallery, http://www.jomorise.com with newest artwork. They are indicated with an * .

Leave a comment, love to read what you have to say.

See me on FaceBook
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jo-M-Orise-studio/163197653818087?ref=hl

Floating Belties and Strong Daisies

Why has one of my latest paintings mysteriously changed position in my art bin? Floating, so it appeared to be, instead of sitting in proper position with the rest of the paintings.

"Hmmm.  Did Charlie (cat) jump into the bin and snuggle under the painting? I hope not!"
I investigate the other paintings. No paw prints, no chewed paper, not cat fur. That is strange. I adjust the painting so it is now standing as the others are in a vertical stack.

English: Belties at Old Bridge of Urr Belties (belted galloway cattle) in field by B794 above the hamlet Old Bridge of Urr. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hubby walks in from his office. "I have to tell you, Hun, your latest pieces are really interesting. You are really good at revealing relationships in your paintings."

"Thank you. I didn't think you liked the last two."

"Oh, no. They are really good. You've captured the feeling. The relationship between the two belties in your water color. You can see the affection shared between the two in your composition, and the posture of both cows. It really like it."

I look over Hubby's shoulder as he edits his latest letter to all his friends and relatives. He loves writing. Been at it for years. In my former employ as a teacher, I used to mail his stack of weekly letters as I arrived at work. I'd hand the collection with handwritten addresses to the receptionist  "It's nice to know someone still writes letters," she had smiled.

"Here, review my latest letter," Hubby turns in his seat.

As I sort through the four pages, I am shocked to see my two latest paintings in his current letter.
"You photographed my paintings?"

"Yes. They tell a story. You captured the subjects and expressed more than the image."

"Thank you. But you never asked."

Hubby's smile disappeared. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it would be a problem."

"I thought the cat had been in my bin. But it was you."

"Uh, yes. Is there a problem?"

"Well, no one has seen my latest work and now you are dispersing an image of them to several people who either won't care or will share it with others. That is not fair. You must ask first. If Jamie Wyeth's new creation were shared that way, you would be sued. There is such a thing as copyright infringement."

Silence.

"Why did you photograph the daisy as well?"

English: Daisies (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hubby, smiles. "You captured something I didn't notice. As we worked at logging, moving the branches out of the way, piling the logs and cutting some into firewood, you found a little daisy struggling to survive through the disruption we imposed in its environment. You plucked it up, placed it in a tiny bottle and gave it another life.

"Then you painted it. You captured its inner being, wanting to survive, reaching for the sun. It demonstrated strength. It spoke to me. It is a simple painting, but it caught my attention—I had to write about it. You have to keep painting because you are good at it."

Silence.

"I hope it is okay to send the letters as they are."

Hubby's words soothe and encourage me. They were simple paintings, not complicated as some seem to be at times. I am my own worse critic...isn't every artist?

The printouts don't really do justice to the colors used in the original artwork. But that is the printer's fault. Too many browns I told Hubby as he first tested our new printer. He likes brown, I suppose.

"Okay. But ask me next time. Also, I recommend you crop the daisy better. You left one border in the painting. It distracts from the subject because it is not part of the composition."

"Thanks, Hun." Hubby happily edits his narrative.

"Charlie. You want some milk?"

"Meow," the cat smiles. I swear it sounds like 'Meowilk'. Charlie is almost human. Therefore, he wouldn't nap in my art bin. My artwork speaks to him too: He's afraid of cows. :-)

Stubborn Hubby

"Stubborn 4 Life" LosAngeles Graffiti Art (Photo credit: anarchosyn)

Jo, where have you been?
Oh, out chasing my paint brush and writing when I can. Lately, I've been helping Hubby cut trees, removing limbs, piling limbs, chucking limbs. We have such a huge pile. I suppose you could call it a wall. A very long six foot high wall of pine needles, spruce boughs, birch branches, roots, rotted trees and lots of twigs.

Exhausting work. Hubby is not as youthful as he believes he is. Nor am I. But he still impresses onlookers when he fells two trees at once. Scary and awesome. In the end, we toss and turn as we try to sleep. His knees, his calves, my knuckles, my feet, my back hurt. I offer to get the turmeric.
He replies, "It's okay. I'll be fine."
 "Are you sure? When was the last time you took a turmeric capsule?"
"Yesterday."
"But you're hurting tonight."
No response. So I rise making my way to the medicine cabinet where I store my home made turmeric powder capsules. Dark orange turmeric powder in veggie gel capsules. Organic. A local compounding druggist taught me how to make my own capsules.  Quite simple. Messy. But simple. I pour eight ounces of water and pad back to the bedroom, in the dark so Hubby won't be disturbed.

English: A variety of Turmeric Flower found in Maharashtra, India. Turmeric or "Indian Saffron" is one of the most commonly used spice in India - a key flavoring ingredient in any Indian cuisine. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

"Here is your turmeric and lots of water. Be sure to drink plenty."

Turmeric powder 薑黃粉 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

"It's okay, sweetheart. I took some yesterday."
"I know. I take one every day. Some times more. You need to take one tonight."
"I'll be okay."
"You aren't okay now and I want to sleep. I ache, I'm taking my dose and if you don't take yours I'll be up all night listening to you toss and turn... and snore."
"All right. I'll take it. But just a sip of water. You brought too much."
"Oh. I forgot you like being dehydrated as well as being in pain."
"Aww. C'mon Hun. Be nice to me."
"What do you think I'm doing? I am nice to you. Why else am I walking around in the dark risking a broken toe,  hauling water from the well along with this ancient two thousand year old remedy for inflammation?"
Silence.
"Well? Shall I pour it over you or will you drink it?" I laugh.
"You are a good wife and great caretaker. Okay, I'll take it." Hubby takes the pill, sips about a tablespoon of water. Enough to possibly choke on the capsule.
"I think you need to take more water, Hun."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"Well, okay. I'll drink some more."
"Thank you. If you finish it you'll find a prize at the bottom of the glass."
"What prize?"
"Me looking at you from the bottom. Smiling at you."
Hubby guzzled the eight ounces of water, grinned and handed me the empty glass. "You are a caring wife. I love you."
"I love you too. Now lets get some sleep. We'll both feel better in the morning."

Next morning, we were free of pain and Hubby thanked me for the turmeric.

"You should take another capsule before we start cutting more trees today. Six hours of hard labor is too much for seniors like us. We aren't young anymore."
"That's okay Hun. I took one yesterday."
"How can I forget." I smile as he walks out with his chain saw and ear protectors.
I take a turmeric before I join him and tuck an extra one in my pocket. Just in case. I am a good wife and he's a great hubby. Just a little stubborn is all.

PS: Sometimes, when I run out of capsules, I stir turmeric in hot bouillon or in my mashed potatoes. A capsule makes it easier to swallow.