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What a perfect morning after Thanksgiving!!

bad picture alert:

Add in warm bovine breath and springy kicks and 2 perfect white polka dots on her chocolate forehead and you can imagine our new heifer!


YES I said HEIFER!!  Heifer means we can milk her or sell her as a milk cow-we don’t have to send her to freezer camp!  She will help support our expensive experiment out here AND we can get “attached” without knowing we will have to eat her!  😆


Happy happy happy dance!!! and a heartfelt Doxology!


My poor sweet Buttermilk died yesterday.  I took him to the vet Saturday morning when he had a hard time walking.  X-rays and bloodwork were fine ans since he was only 3 it was not age related.  The vet decided he had some sort of head trauma from one of his outdoor hunting trips-did he get tumbled by a car on our nearly empty gravel road? butted too roughly by a goat while hunting mice under their feeder? maybe stepped on by one of the steers?  Did he visit a neighbor and get clocked with a shovel?  We will never know.  She gave him fluids, steroids, antibiotics and pain meds and we came back home.  By Monday he was walking around and sleeping in comfy chairs-sleeping a lot.  Yesterday morning he was nowhere to be found-we searched off and on all day.  Scott found him in the evening in a little crawl-space cupboard we keep cans of paint in-located in the back corner of the basement.  It looks like he wanted to be left alone to die in peace and privacy.  So I think today, the day we bury him while sleet and ice chunks rain down, I will post happy memories of my Buttermilk.  He was one of those once-in-a-lifetime cats.

Buttermilk was born to Mama kitty in my bedroom closet-I watched.  She was too tired and he was twice as big as the rest of the litter so she did not help him out of the sack.  I did. I rubbed him until he squeaked and then Mama’s instincts kicked back in and she took him out of my hand.  From then on he was mine.  He was mine enough that at one point Mama hid him in the basement (only him) and continued feeding the rest of her babies in my closet.  I must have been messing with him too much for her liking.  She brought him back a week later.  As Buttermilk grew we saw that he really had nice manners and made the decision to have him neutered so he could always be our house kitty.  He grew big and sleek and sweet-getting along with dogs and cats and kids alike.  I think I will post random memories of what he liked and did interspersed with pictures that may or may not have anything to do with the words.

Sleeping in a patch of sunshine was a gift.

My vase of pheasant feathers was irresistible.

He never outgrew playing with feathers or chasing strings.  It was always so funny to watch a 13 pound cat tumble with kittens and try to beat them to the moving string.

Got distracted by the wee chubby widdle finners-thats what a walk through picture files can do to a mama…

Never once in all almost 4 years of his life did he scratch a child…and he has been packed and dragged and dressed and pushed and squeezed and stuffed into small spaces.  I think Patience was his middle name.

Every time we did a birthday we left the paper on the floor for a little while so we could watch Buttermilk slide in and dive under.

This one is Logan blowing out a candle last Advent…I love the spark! Forgot I had this one…

It seems like nearly every picture file on my pc has at least 1 of Buttermilk in it.  He was smack in the center of every event we put on film and right there for all the non-event day-to-day living as well.  Comfort on a cold night, comic relief in tense moments, as ready to curl up with you as to play chase-the-broom,lover of catnip and green olives, that was Buttermilk.

Times like are times I wish I had developed writing skills equal to my thoughts.  If  I were able I would write him something like Lord Byron did when his Newfoundland passed away I would.  Something that did not deny his beasthood and elevate him to human and possessing of a soul.  Something the showed how his life as a beast glorified his creator in a way I think I as a better-able human am still struggling to do.

Instead I will just say:

Buttermilk: He was  a GOOD cat.

I have not posted since the 11th! Go figure!

roman gladiator

STOMP! Quick and terrible death is my spider policy. I have never understood the scream and let it hide to come out and get you while you sleep approach–if you hate spiders for real; then you kill them, kill them dead plus an extra stomp and one of those grind your shoe into the floor with a twist moves just be certain! It's even better with a loud "HA!" at the end and a victory lap of the house brandishing the twisted remains on the end of a broomstick!

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