A Hidden Treasure

Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend, and it went a little like this:
“Fifty,” I said.
“What?” my friend responded incredulously.
“Yeah, fifty.”
“No way.”
“That’s what this pastor I met last night said.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Me, too, but that’s what he said. And he’s a pastor!”
My friend shook her head in disbelief. I was simply grinning from ear to ear.

Let me give you some background, and then I’ll let you in on what we were talking about. Maybe you’ll guess before then.

When I moved to Europe a little over three years ago, one of the main worries I, a reformed Protestant, had was finding a church where I felt at home. I mean, isn’t Belgium Roman Catholic? Isn’t all of Europe? It used to be, of course, but as most people know, 21st Century Europe is pretty secular. There are tons of Catholic churches but they are mostly just for baptisms, weddings, and funerals, and for the inspiration of architects, artists, and people like me, Jesus lovers who get all excited about sacred art and the history of Christendom. I especially love the big Catholic church in Soignies, near where I live, with its clean, straight lines and dramatic outline against the sky, but as a Protestant, it’s not really an option for me as a “home church.”

Fortunately for me, there is a good Protestant Contemporary Service on the base. I love the English-speaking service with its familiar music and jeans-and-untucked-oxford liturgy. It reminds me a lot of the churches I’ve been a part of over the years in the U.S. By now, I’ve been singing with the worship team for a couple of years, and I enjoy the gathering of believers there. The chaplains we have right now are top-notch people who preach the Word. I actually only visited a couple of other churches, both aimed at Americans. I never even visited any of the French-speaking services nearby mainly because I figured I’d look and feel like and outsider.

I also surmised that there weren’t many local Protestant services, especially after I looked online and found only two or three. Adding to the mystery, of course, is the fact that you just don’t see any Protestant churches as you drive around. It isn’t like the U.S., where you drive a few blocks and oh, hey, there’s another church, and it certainly isn’t like my hometown of Wilmington, NC, where there are so many protestant churches in the downtown area that there is an entire poster devoted to “The Steeples of Wilmington.”  Even if there were a lot of them, they wouldn’t be all that obvious. Unlike the large and often breath-taking Catholic-owned buildings, Europe’s Protestant church buildings look like storefronts most of the time, or they are tucked away back in the corner of some residential area. The one I attended with friends in Grenoble, France is a sort of storefront, but nestled back behind some other buildings. And the one I attended on Friday night is similar, but more like a converted out-building behind some houses. But what the two buildings really have in common is much less tangible and far more valuable. They are repositories of the love of God.

I’ve met lots of really nice people since I’ve been in Belgium, but Friday night I met family. I attended a music service in an evangelical Protestant church. They had invited a Canadian worship musician to come and sing and deliver a message and the little building was filled to bursting to listen to this talented fellow named Luc Dumont (there will be a post about him, next). And every person I met, every single one that I talked with and sang with treated me like I belonged. Right there. With them.  I didn’t feel like an outsider at all, even though I was clearly the only American in the room, and my French is not as good as everyone else’s, and no one there, except my friends who invited me, knew me from Adam. But there, in that nondescript building, I met the international family of my faith, and it was like finding a treasure that had been buried in plain sight. I practically floated home afterwards.

So what were my friend and I talking about?  We were talking about Protestant churches in a tiny little area of Belgium, the itty-bitty Mons area in the French-speaking region of Hainaut. Now I’m pretty happy in the Protestant Contemporary body of believers on base, and I don’t expect to go anywhere anytime soon. I’m happily surprised to find out, though, that if I wanted to, I could visit a different body nearly every Sunday for a year. I’m not going to do that, of course, but I expect I’ll visit one or two here and there, just to get to know some more members of this big, unexpected, francophone family, and uncover another bit of this treasure.

Fifty. Five-zero. Five-oh. Pretty big family I’ve got over here all of a sudden.

On Humane Eating

A few weeks ago I began what I have been calling “the vegan challenge.” A lifelong animal lover, I’ve always been disturbed by the inconsistency of loving animals and yet eating meat, so I have done a few stints as vegetarian, pescatarian, and flexatarian, but I had never gone all-out vegan. I decided to try it. I read a few books, most notably The Kind Diet, by Alicia Silverstone, and Eat to Live by Dr. Joel Furman. I recommend both without hesitation. I was surprised by Silverstone; she proved thoughtful and fun to read. Fuhrman is practical and backed by empirical evidence. The two validated my beliefs and gave me good information so I decided to give it a go. It proved easier than I expected it to be, and I was in for a few surprises along the way.

The only major challenge I faced, along with its accompanying concession, was eating out. I live in Belgium. Europe is not California, where vegans abound and Earthfare and other vegan friendly stores and restaurants are plentiful. The contrary is true; ask for vegan food and people look at you like you have two heads. On the other hand, ask for vegetarian, and they will give you the meal of your life. Tons of roasted veggies, a starch and…*sigh*…some sort of cream sauce; so au revoir, veganism. I conceded almost immediately: when eating out, you may have to eat a dairy product. And so I did, from early on, eat dairy perhaps once a week.

When eating at home, I had no problem. I didn’t miss dairy most of the time. I had thought I would miss eggs, and at first, I did, but I quickly learned that I don’t need them at all. Recently someone offered me some organic farm eggs, and I took them, thinking I would enjoy a frittata or some spaghetti with eggs, a former favorite. I learned, however, that after six weeks without eggs, I don’t really like them anymore. Good news for me since I have cholesterol issues. And I have learned to prepare some wonderful dishes that more than make up for eggs and cheese.

Ratatouille is my new go-to dinner. I make it on Sunday maybe once a month and eat some for lunch or dinner for three or four days. Eggplant, zucchini, onion, and whatever else I have, plus brown rice or my new favorite grain, quinoa. Quinoa is without doubt the best “grain” ever. It isn’t really a grain but rather a seed, and packs a higher protein punch than any other similar item. Quinoa has become a new staple for this starch-lover. Whole grain pasta with loads of spinach, basil and olive oil is a lovely meal. Roasted vegetables with olive oil are a favorite; frozen green beans, fresh eggplant, onion, zucchini, and whatever else I have are all delicious roasted. Any kind of dark green plant is very good for you, and very filling, so I try to use a lot of dark green vegetables.

Fuhrman recommends a pound of spinach or other dark green leafy vegetable a day: a POUND! That is so hard to do, but I have begun eating loads of spinach. My favorite breakfast either fruit or a smoothie. A bag of frozen fruit, about two large handfuls of raw spinach, half a cup of juice and some flaxseed — throw it in the blender and yum-yum-YUMMY! The spinach is tasteless but gives the smoothie a satisfying crunch. If I’m short on time, a half a bag of fruit, the same two handfuls of spinach, a tablespoon of almond slivers and some flaxseed equals delicious satiety until lunchtime. These are the two best choices for breakfast I’ve ever made in terms of feeling full and satisfied.

Lest you think this journey has been easy, I have missed one thing quite a lot: sour cream. It’s the only dairy product that I would love to have, especially when I eat one of my staples, something I call nacho salad. All canned products: black beans, refried beans, pintos, green chiles, and rotel, along with cumin and chili powder. Simmer a half hour or so then serve over tortilla chips and salad, along with sour cream to top. I’ve continued to eat this dish, but I have really missed the sour cream. Soy sour cream is hard to find here; perhaps you can find it but I haven’t yet. I hear you can make a good substitute using raw cashews, but I’m not that ambitious in the kitchen. So I’ve done without up to now but I tried a soy cream product and it’s a decent substitute. And about the tortilla chips: be careful, they are rarely vegan. Read the labels!

Speaking of reading labels…this fascinating pastime has become my new hobby. Well, not really, but in the grocery store I do wear my reading glasses now. You’d be surprised at the things that contain milk products. Like “veggie” cheese. Good grief. If I wanted milk products in my cheese, I’d buy CHEESE.

One final piece of good news: I’ve lost five pounds without even trying. It’s pretty easy when you’re eating so much green stuff. On the other hand, if I give up wine, I’ll lose five more, at least. So that will be the next challenge! Stay tuned!

And a post-script:
The above was written several months ago, and I’m no longer strictly vegan. I’ve added back in farm butter, an occasional egg, and farm or abbey cheeses. I’ve also eaten two tuna baguettes in the past couple months because I was totally craving one at the time, and when I was home in coastal NC, I ate calabash seafood. Twice. Or maybe three times. I’m not even a great vegetarian, much less vegan! 

In any event, I am continuing on the journey of more humane eating and while being 100 percent vegan would be the ideal, I’m not there at this moment. Nevertheless, this journey is one worth taking, and one I feel good about. Take a step or two toward a more plant-based diet. Save the planet and save your life. And the lives of a few of God’s furry creatures along the way.

Childlessness Revisited

Childless by choice. That is what I am, who I am. I made that choice years ago, when I realized I had married a man who was unfit for fatherhood, frankly unfit to be called human, for reasons I won’t go into today. By God’s grace and providence, I didn’t have children with that selfish piece of human excrement. And when I later married a man who would have made an imperfect but decent dad, my mind had already been made up; I was not going to have children. Ever.

And so I didn’t.

Divorced again, for going on seven years now, I’m a few years (ahem) past the age when being a mom would be possible for me. Neither would it be something I would want now: waking in the night for feedings, changing diapers, chasing a toddler around, and dealing with all the changes a child would create in my settled life. Nevertheless…

Two of my dear friends back home recently gave birth. One of them is at precisely the age one expects to be starting a family, and the other is a little older. The older one is actually almost my age, only a handful of years younger, and she just had her second child! The first one was born a couple of years after I was full into menopause. A teacher like me, she quit her job and jumped head-first into full-time-mom, and her happiness has been palpable ever since. A few hours ago, her toddler became a big brother. I know she and her husband are over the moon, and I am as happy for her as I could possibly be. And just a tiny bit jealous.

I don’t want a baby. I never did; that’s why I didn’t get pregnant when I could. I still don’t want one. When I was twenty I didn’t want the upheaval, the mess, the work, the constant interruptions, the worries and the potential heartbreak, and by golly, I sure as heck don’t want those things now! But I do want something. There is something missing, and I would be dishonest to deny it. And so I must admit that I want something I will never have outside of the providence of God. I want a family.

It’s perfectly right that I find myself now, a woman of  un certain age, and I don’t have a family. I didn’t make good choices as a young person, and my life didn’t follow the path that most people’s do.While in college, I read several books about the sustainability of the planet and overpopulation and such. One book I read was even called “Childless by Choice,” (Marian Faux) and it definitely impacted me. So I made a conscious decision in my mid-twenties to be childless, and that choice stayed with me. I never wavered. Until recently.

Middle age has a way of making you rethink the decisions you were so sure of when your life stretched before you like a long country road. I have begun to see that this road has an end, an unthinkable idea when I was 20, 25, or even 35, and it appears that the end is even less inviting when it’s reached alone. It’s one thing to face your mortality with a house bulging and bouncing with children and grandchildren; it’s quite another when your house is quiet and calm. At this point in my journey, I wish I had had children.

Some would say I do have children. In way I do because there is no doubt my students, many of them anyway, love me. One of them is now in her thirties (told you I was middle aged) and is among my four or five closest friends. Another, a recent grad from NC, calls me his “mamá blanca” (he’s African American) and I count his mother as a very good friend. Two others, graduates in the past four years, are coming to Europe this year and contacted me so they could come see me. One of this year’s graduates says she’ll show me around her home island of Crete if I come, which I absolutely will. Two others hugged and kissed me after graduation as if I were family, and I have no doubt I will see them again one day.

So in spite of not ever having given birth, I suppose I do have children. They are the kinds of children who will become friends one day, and for that I’m grateful. Does it make up for never having children of my own? Does it fill the empty place where my own “family” should be? If I’m honest, I have to say no. Nevertheless, I am not unhappy, and my life feels generally quite full. Nevertheless, perhaps one day…

 

God sets the solitary in families;

He brings out those who are bound into prosperity;

But the rebellious dwell in a dry land. Ps. 68:6, NKJV

 

Three Cat Night

Yesterday I went to Brussels and “adopted” three adult cats to foster. I intended to foster two but I ended up with three because eight was too many.

Ahem. Well.

There were two cats on short time in a shelter in Brussels. They are two of eight or so that were in the cattery there, all adult neutered males, and all have been there for over a year, some for two years. I went for Bambi and Toby because they have been there the longest, over a year each, and they are only a few weeks away from their time being up. When I arrived, I fell in love with Alban, Mingati, and a sad tuxedo cat. And I stood in the sterile, concrete cattery and tried my best not to cry. I was mostly successful. But only mostly.

I managed to get out of there with only three cats to foster, but with a heavy heart and a determination to find homes for as many of them as possible. For now, Benny (The Cat Formerly Known as Bambi), Toby and Alban are safe in my upstairs guest bedroom. They have a veterinarian appointment on Monday for a check up and then hopefully they will be ready to be adopted.

Mingati, the handsome tabby with Bengal markings, is on a short list as well, but I didn’t take him because there is a lady interested in him. He is on a 12-day quarantine to buy him some time. He is gorgeous.

Mingati

Mingati: his curious face and his stunning Bengal-like coat!

Although Mingati still has a lady interested in adopting him, he isn’t out of the woods yet. Until he is safely adopted, he is not out of the woods. In fact, as you might imagine, any animal in a shelter is at the mercy of the people who run the shelter. Sometimes decisions are made that are in the best interests of the animals, and sometimes decisions are made for expediency. That is why the No-Kill movement is so important, and why so many people are on board.

Alban in the middle, Toby bottom left and Benni bottom right. Top left and right are two who remain at the shelter.

Alban in the middle, Toby bottom left and Benny bottom right. Top left and right are two who remain at the shelter for now, but they are in my heart.

The tuxedo boy, top left, is very sad and shy, but he loves attention. Top right is a fat-cheeked small cat who loves rubs and snuggles. Not pictured are a small, inquisitive tabby, a bigger friendly tabby, two reverse tuxedo cats who love people, and I can’t remember if there are any others. All are sterilized males, and I think they are all two to four years old.

So for now, we think they are safe there, and Benny, Toby and Alban are here with me. But that isn’t the end. I’m not the end for these little ones. They need their forever homes. My own George, Gwen and Maggie are mine; they and my little dog love me and they need the majority of my attention and love. So these fosters and the ones left at the shelter must be adopted. You see, this is how no-kill works; people like me and you, we adopt these animals temporarily and work our butts off to find forever homes for them. We work really hard to find their homes because we have a vested interest; they are living in our homes. We have much greater motivation than shelter employees. It’s pretty simple, really, and it’s proven to work.

I love doing this because I know I’m making a difference. These cats deserve a chance and I’m helping to give it to them! It feels good for me, and at the end of the day, when they go to their forever homes, it will feel beyond good for me and for them. I can hardly wait.

Until then, I’m having three cat nights. Well, to put it precisely, they are six-cat-one-dog nights. And days.

But George isn’t going to put up with that for long!

George, my alpha cat.

George, my alpha cat.

So help George out and spread the word!

A footnote: be aware that when you look for no-kill information, you will find some naysayers. They are wrong. Keep digging before you make up your mind. 

Gueneviere: Gratitude in Fur

Gueneviere: Gratitude in Fur

Gueneviere can’t resist the opportunity to lay her head down…her head on the cushion from one of my mom’s pets’ beds, her bottom resting on my precious friend Mary’s hand embroidered cushion. And then Gwen herself — she was Mama’s baby. I am more grateful than I can express that I brought her home with me after Mom died. Knowing Mom loved her and now I love her makes me happy and grateful and warm.

Final Installment in: Ferals and Fosters

“Where are the boys?” I asked, when I could only see Pepper sitting on top of a box.

“I don’t know,” answered Jay. We started searching the room, and Jay noticed a hole in a box underneath another box. We moved the box on top and opened the other one, and there were Sampson and Stormy, snuggled up together. “Oh, dear,” I said, as Jay picked Stormy up. I gathered Sampson up and he stiffened but didn’t resist. I put him in the carrier and zipped it up. I wished them luck and headed home with my little ‘fraidy cat.

Sampson remained in his little circle bed inside the wire kennel for the first half day. Then he ventured out to eat. Later that evening, to my surprise, I heard him meowing. I had never heard him vocalize at all before! I went up and walked into the room. For the first time in his little life, he didn’t run from a human. In fact, he didn’t seem at all afraid. He was cautious, and he was curious. And lonely. This was the first time in his short, four or five months of life that he’d ever been alone. He finally didn’t have his brother and sister to lean on, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to be held but he sure wanted me near. So much so, in fact, that he actually approached me! This, too, was a first. Now he wanted me around, let me pick him up without fear, and snuggled up as I petted him. I hung out with him for a while and he finally began to play with me as I dangled a feather that was attached to a plastic stick.

That evening, when I went to bed, I heard him meowing again, all alone in his room. He was very insistent and loud. I hardened my heart, knowing I mustn’t teach him that meowing loudly was the way to get his needs met. Soon it became quiet.

By the next afternoon, Sampson was a different cat.  He wanted to be held and touched; he meowed for attention, and snuggled up against me when I held him. He called for me when I wasn’t in the room with him, and he wanted to come out and be with me and the other cats, which I tried to do, but he was overwhelmed by them, and they were afraid of him (as I expected) so I continued to keep them separate. He loved my company, though, and he wanted to play and be touched all the time. He became such a little lover-boy that I neglected my own furbabies a little so I could be with him over the next days. I was quickly falling in love with this little guy.

On my lap: finally comfortable with human contact.

On my lap: finally comfortable with human contact.

Well, I knew I was in danger of ending up with FOUR cats instead of the three I had, so I put an ad on our local community’s facebook page. Within two days, a lady contacted me and asked about him. They had recently lost their beloved black cat and their other cat was lonely; they wanted to have a companion for her, as well as for them. We talked for a few days then arranged for her and her husband to come and meet him.

They arrived earlier than planned, but no matter. I brought Sampson down to see them and he stiffened up immediately, as I was sure he would. The wife and I chatted and then I held him out to her and said, “Would you like to hold him?” and she eagerly took him from me. He was clearly uncomfortable but he watched me for clues. When he saw I was calm, he consented and finally relaxed a little. She unhesitatingly fell under his spell and it was clear she wanted him. The husband watched Sampson, whose fear was unmistakable. “Do you think he’ll relax with us and our other cat?” he asked me. I could only be truthful. “I don’t really know,” I said, “I would expect he will, but it might take time. And if it doesn’t look like it’s going to work out for any reason, just let me know and I’ll take him back.” They exchanged a look and she said, “We want him.” So I gathered his belongings and bit back tears, and I let them take my little sweetheart out the door. And then I cried like a child.

Over the course of the next few days, I learned that the other two kitties were doing great. Without Sampson’s negative influence, they were coming out and socializing with the family, finding favorite hangouts in the house, and generally becoming normal house cats. And Sampson? Well, he quickly adjusted to his new home and family, even snuggling under the covers with them at night! My darling little fellow loves to watch his new daddy play xBox and climb the enormous cat tree they have. And sleep in his new mommy’s arms. Getting updates from both the adoptive families makes me indescribably happy.

I have discovered that I’ve never done anything as rewarding as this. As much trouble as they were, as many loads of laundry and and as much money as I spent, the happiness I feel knowing they are loved and learning to love is beyond mere words. I possess a very clear understanding of  how much BETTER their lives are now than if I’d not gotten involved. If my friend and I had not let our feelings turn into action, these little guys would be cold, hungry and afraid. And the little girl would undoubtedly be pregnant by now, about to give birth to more hungry, cold, frightened kittens. We stopped that cycle, at least for them.

Let’s not let ourselves think that we can do nothing, or that we can’t do enough. Every time we say, “the problem is too great,” or “I can’t handle the pain,” remember the difference two women made in the lives of three feral kittens. This won’t be the last time I cry for the voiceless ones, and it won’t be the last time I act on their behalf. And I’m sure it won’t be the last time I fall in love with a formerly feral foster feline!

Reaching up for a kiss on the head

Reaching up for a kiss on the head

Ferals and Fosters, Part Three

So here I am, a working woman on her own, and three kittens who were definitely acting out: pooping and worse — PEEING on the bed precisely where I would sit and speak sweetly to them, offering them treats and head scratches. *sigh* A few days, and a few loads of laundry later, and the mattress was UNDER the bed, safe below some thick plastic, and the kitties were easily prevented from hiding. UNDER! Whoever heard of a mattress UNDER a bed?

Whatever. Little by little, two of the three began coming out of their shells, letting me pet them, playing, being curious and mischievous, and generally loving life. Within perhaps three weeks, these two little darlings were not feral in the least. They were, in fact, at between four and five months old, ready to be sterilized and given their shots, and shortly thereafter, they were ready to be adopted!

Unfortunately, one of the kitties simply would not be domesticated. While he couldn’t hide, ‘Fraidy, as I had been calling him, effectively avoided me by running to the far side of the bed, and as it is a queen size bed, I couldn’t reach him. He would watch his siblings get scratches and loads of lovings, but he wanted none of it. The only time I could get to him was if he was in the kennel and I crawled in after him. Which I did for a week or so, then I gave him a week without doing that, and he became even more afraid. So I would crawl into the kennel and pick him up gently by the scruff and hold him for a few minutes. He was still fearful.

By now Christmas break was approaching and I had an airline ticket to the US for a week; I was worried. I didn’t know what I would do while I was gone, especially if brother and sister were adopted before then. I had to keep trying. I told my friend, the one who trapped them with me, that he needed a new name, one that wasn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Oscar,” she suggested. “Gideon,” I replied.  Then I continued,  “Clint Eastwood, cuz he ain’t afraid of nothin’.” She responded, “Leo. Leo the Lion!” “Oh, that’s good!” I said, but before I could get used to it she said, “no, Sampson. Tough guy.” And so Sampson he became.

The other two kitties couldn’t get enough attention and I had a family ready to take both of  them within a week of posting the ad. They said they’d be ready to take them home within a couple of days. Sampson, on the other hand, continued to be afraid of everything remotely related to humans. He wouldn’t scratch me, though. He even stopped stiffening up when I reached into the kennel for him and pulled him out. And he’d be very quiet and docile while I held him and talked to him, scratching his little head. Sometimes he’d even purr a little. I remained hopeful.

The future family of the two tame kitties offered to take all three while I was out of town. I would take Sampson back as soon as I returned. So I held back tears as they drove away with all three kitties, and hoped for the best.

When I returned I contacted the adoptive family immediately via text. “I’ll be there to get Sampson this afternoon.” The wife said, “Okay…” then she continued, “We’re considering letting you take both the males home with you.” I was taken aback, but I would happily take them all back if it wasn’t working out. “What is going on?” I asked. She explained that the longer I was gone, the more anti-social ALL the kittens had become. The only one remotely friendly was the female, whom they’d named Pepper, and even she had reverted to some of her feral behaviors. I said, “You know I told you that if they don’t work out, they can come right back home with me; don’t fret. I’ll be there this afternoon and pick up any or all of them, whatever is best for you and the kitties.” And I headed upstairs to put fresh litter in the catbox and fresh water in the bowl.

I arrived to get Sampson, and I figured I’d probably be bringing Stormy, whose name references the wildly popular series, Dr. Who, home, too. Jay and Yvonne welcomed me in and we stood chatting for a few minutes. Finally, Yvonne looked at me and said, “We’ve decided we want to try to keep Pepper AND Stormy.” The couple exchanged a look. “We want to give them a week without Sampson.” I said, “Okay, that’s a great idea. It’s likely Sampson’s fear has had a negative effect on the other two.” They took me up to the room where the cats were staying, and only Pepper was visible. “Where are the boys?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Jay. We looked around for them but only saw Pepper, sitting quietly atop a box. “Uh oh,” I thought, “they’ve managed to escape!”

To be continued…

Ferals and Fosters, Part Two

Yesterday, I posted about our base’s feral cat problem, and the three cats a couple of friends and I decided to rescue. Kittens, actually, about three months old. Feral kittens, to be precise. And they were coming home with me. Why me? Because I was the sucker of the three of us that was willing to spend the time trying to socialize them.

Now you should know, gentle reader, that I’m a terrible foster mom for cats. One of my cats, Maggie, is a failed foster. She came to me after having been found in a car engine as a tiny kitten. I tried to find a home for her but finally resigned myself to the fact that she would be mine. And she is; she loves me as much as any animal I’ve ever had, I think. I can’t imagine giving her up.

Maggie, my failed foster

Maggie, my failed foster

There were only two possible ends to this, neither of them good. One, with me as the crazy cat lady with six cats and no boyfriend (ever) or two, with me in tears watching my darling little furbabies ride away with their new family. Nevertheless, I brought the three little lovelies home.  I set up a borrowed extra-large kennel in a guest bedroom. I covered everything up, even putting a large shower curtain on the bed, under the fitted sheet, to prevent permanent damage from potential accidents. I blocked off ways to get under the bed because it is vital that kittens who need to be socialized not be able to hide from the human. My plan was to let the kitties out when they felt more comfortable, and to come in and sit with them often, letting them get used to me, begin to trust me, and eventually, hopefully become domesticated enough to be adopted.

The first night I left them free in the guest room while I slept down the hall, and all was well. They scampered into the kennel in the morning and I latched the door and went to work. That evening, I went and sat with them for an hour or so, working on my computer and talking to them softly. The following morning, there was a pile of cat poo in the middle of the bed. Well, no real damage done, I thought, and off I went to do laundry before work.

Three little fosters...

Three little fosters…

The next morning, same thing. And the next, the poo was surrounded by a veritable small pond of pee. And on top of that, they had managed to get under the bed. Well, then. An hour or so later, there was more laundry in the washer, the kittens were back in the kennel, and under the bed was once again blocked off.

The next morning, exactly the same scenario. Seriously? I mean, SERIOUSLY?

To say I was frustrated would be a vast understatement. I was seriously considering taking them back to the Kitty Kabana…

To be continued…

Ferals and Fosters, Part One

A few weeks ago, the military base where I work began talking about “getting rid of” the base’s feral cats. This particular military base is home to families from a lot of different countries, all either NATO or partner nations. Relatively few of the families are American; our presence is so numerous that we have to live off base. Which is fine with me; I love living out among the Belgians! But I digress.

Pet ownership is as popular in Europe as it is in the US, but the attitude regarding spaying and neutering is vastly different. While becoming more accepted, elective spay-neuter remains the exception. The prevalent paradigm in some countries is even that such surgery is cruel. This means, of course, that when families on the base where I work get a cat or a dog, there is a high likelihood that the animal will reproduce at some point in the near future. Add that to the fact that sometimes a family will PCS (Permanent Change of (duty) Station, i.e. “move”) and simply abandon their cat, and you have a recipe for exactly what has happened here on the base, and particularly near our ancient school buildings: cats give birth to kittens, kittens don’t have human contact, and POOF! Feral cats.

Our base’s history of feral cats is long and colorful. There is even a story of one falling through the drop ceilings and into a classroom! You can stop laughing now. Or go ahead and laugh; it is pretty funny, I admit. And several friends have adopted kittens that were born homeless to feral parents. When such kittens are adopted as soon as possible after they are born, they quickly socialize to humans. Such is exactly the case with my friend John and his best pal, Bruges.

John and Bruges right after he was adopted from the base

John and Bruges right after he was adopted from the base

 

So recently a few of us resident cat-lovers decided to do something about the problem. We began advocating for the cats, and two of us went so far as to trap three little black kittens living under the math building. Their mom had already moved on, and they were probably about eight or nine weeks old. They were easy to capture using a humane trap, and we took them to our colleague’s little shed beside her house; we call it the Kitty Kabana. For a couple of weeks, these fairly wild little creatures were doing fine: eating and protected from the elements. Unfortunately they were not becoming any less wild. After reading a couple of articles on taming the kittens, we realized they needed to be inside a home, getting used to having people around. Whose home? Ahem. Mine.

Want to find out what happens? Stay tuned…

Doing Good Across the Globe

Some people are drawn to causes that help children. Or maybe their passion is in finding a cure for cancer or Alzheimer’s. Others enjoy contributing to charities that fight poverty or hunger. Christians are called to help spread the Gospel, and many do that by supporting missionaries or local churches. I’m pretty fond of all these particular causes, myself. I’m a Christian with several friends fighting cancer, another whose mom (and the rest of her family) is dealing with Alzheimer’s. A lot of people I know contribute to World Vision or Compassion International (including me!), and most of my Christian friends give to their churches and to foreign missions. All important and good causes. My most important projects, however, are not always the most popular because the needs that speak to me most loudly are those of animals.

Right now one of my favorite causes is called Nowzad. Nowzad is an organization that rescues stray, abandoned or abused animals in Afghanistan, provides animal welfare education to the Afghan people, helps care for and humanely reduce the stray dog population, and helps soldiers rescue dogs and cats from the front lines and gets them the heck out of there, often sending them home (to the USA, UK, Canada, Italy, and other partner nations) to the families of soldiers serving in the line of fire. Lately I’ve been trying to help Lisa get out of the line of fire. She’s adorable, but so are all of them.

I’d invite you to take a look at some of what these good people are doing and support the cause, if you are so moved. These are good people doing good work in a dangerous and frightening place. I’m proud to help them do it!

Buddies

Two of my rescues: Hillcat, the tuxedo tripod who has already crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and George, my little black baby who continues to live with me here in Belgium. Each has his own story, but we’ll save those for another post.

And shortly I’ll be posting about just how important animal causes are to me…stay close!