Bah Humbug

We've now entered the season of my discontent - Christmas. This is the season that everyone is supposed to be cheery and full of goodwill. I try, truly. But our society makes the season less than the religious holiday it is supposed to be.

The buying begins earlier and earlier every year. I hold to my guns and refuse to buy or enter into the Christmas fray until at least the turkey carcass is in the trash from Thanksgiving. But, now that is over, and the leftovers devoured, I have no excuses. I must begin.

Granted, it is a little easier these days. Lists are made by everyone, complete with internet links, and there is no need to think about Christmas presents, just pay for them. With free shipping everywhere, I can at least stay out of the stores.

My kids know not to desire the latest tickle-me-whatever or new WAAAAAH (Wii) that requires standing in the cold outside the doors of a store that has 2 of them, because there is no thing that would compel me to do so. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, I can, like the Grinch, find a little Christmas spirit.

The Weekend After

I'm beginning to emerge from my Thanksgiving-induced coma, brought on by excessive cleaning, cooking and eating. It feels exactly like having finally beaten a bad case of the flu. My body is weak and unwilling to exert the slightest effort.

That must factored in when the accident occurred today. Wm was insistent, in his little boy way, that I play with him. I also owed my mom a phone call, and since multi-tasker is my middle name, we decided to ride bikes while I called my mom. Perched on my daughter's bike, which unbeknownst to me had been adjusted to accomodate my husband (my one-foot-taller-than-I-am husband), I absentmindedly began to ride.

I've ridden bikes all my life, and though I definitely have a few miles on my old bones, expected it to be like - well, "just like riding a bike". You never forget. What I did forget was to check the gear and the brakes. Phone to my ear, I hit the brakes which were like hitting the stop button on the DVD player. Stop it did. I did not.

Laying on the driveway, I yelled to the phone, now in pieces, "Hold on, Mom" as I assessed my injuries. Surprisingly, I felt okay. I retrieved the phone, only to discover blood on my jeans.

"See, Wm, Mommy isn't good at riding bikes," I told him, hoping this would get me out of bike riding for, well, eternity.

After finishing the phone call, I found I had a nice hole in my knee, small, but deep.

Tonight, my family asked if I was okay.
"Sure. Not that anybody would even notice if I died, except when dinner time rolled around and it wasn't made."

Lauren, the oldest, put her arms around my shoulders, murmuring a protest as Anna said, "Ahhhh, nooooo, that's not true. What about lunch and breakfast?"

The Day Before

Before leaving for work, dh asked what my plans were for today. Well, um, I have 17 people for dinner tomorrow, so I think I might go in for a manicure. Later, I might go shopping for new summer shoes. I'll be cleaning, for Pete's sake. Why, you might ask. Just family, isn't it?

Two days ago, I decided to tackle one teen's room because I was sure something was dead in there. She was going to be out for the day, so I decided to rent a backhoe and find the carcass. After much laundry and tossing of crumpled papers, I found four old yogurt cartons with spoons (which is why I have no utensils, the rest are under the deck outside, or in the sandbox). I won't tell you what else I found (think small, foo-foo, badly trained dogs) so that the health department doesn't come to investigate.

Teen #2, impressed with the results, asked me to perform similar miracles in her room. We started on her closet, finding evidence of a colony of mice or perhaps prarie dogs from the looks of it. They've been feeding off of the hoarded Halloween candy (and she didn't go trick-or-treating this year) and a bit from Easter. They were all comfy amid a gazillion stuffed animals that are too special to get rid of but not special enough to earn a place other than as a mouse mattress in the closet. We'll have to finish this project today, as she had to camp out in her sister's room last night since her's looks like Armageddon.

Like an archaeological dig, it's amazing sometimes the things I find in their rooms . For example the spoons. In Forever, Erma, she says that "You're rich when you can have eight people to dinner and don't have to wash forks between the main course and dessert." Well, we're dirt poor then. Dirt, I say, because that's where the forks are - out in the dirt - having been used to dig worms and slugs. A trip to Wally World fixed that yesterday, with a purchase of spoons and forks stamped out of sheet metal in China. So much for my Julliard Oneida pattern from my wedding. What was I thinking?

Yes, today will find me unmanicured and dishpan-handed, but I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving, the one day dedicated to nothing but family and eating. Can't get better than that!

And for those that have asked, we've not yet made more chin videos, so I leave you with this American Greetings Thanksgiving chin video. Now on to Thanksgiving. See you on the other side!

Click here to see the chin video.

Thanksgiving in Africa

PS3

Campers braved the chilly weather to be the first to own a PlayStation 3. We're not talking communing with nature camping. This was side of the road city and parking lot camping. Whether for profit or the pure joy of owning the latest system, these people were truly dedicated to the cause. Here in KY, one lucky camper set his tent on fire with his butane cookstove.

This obsession with an entertainment device and the lengths to which people are willing to go to get one must not read well in international newspapers. It almost took the chill out of my blood from hearing the word draft on the radio the other day. Perhaps these young people do need to get a life.

Perhaps the Playstation should be secretly designed to educate. To move on to the next level, you have to complete the following Calculus problem. Maybe we could hook it through the internet to generate electricity from the movement of so many fingers on the controls.

Better yet, the Playstation could end the war in Iraq. Yes, you heard me right. The war is costing this country billions. It would be less costly, in dollars and lives, to buy EVERY household in Iraq a TV, a satellite dish (for around the clock sports) and a Playstation 3 with games. The result would be that every man and young boy in the country would not emerge for weeks, maybe months from their homes. Just like in America, they would become inert, addicted to an alternate reality. We could ship in junk food for their favorite soccer game, inducing the fast food brain coma.

Truly though, what does it say about our culture that we're not on fire for causes, but we're willling to set our tent on fire in the attempt to be the first to own a game?

Now, I have to go get Wm off our inadequate PS2 where he's playing Lego StarWars, and try to feed him breakfast.

Black Monday

Irresponsible adults inflame me. My neighbor has a dog, part border collie, part lab, that has three times before killed our chickens. Last night, she killed Chicken Lickin', William's pet bantam that broods our eggs. I can't prove the dog did it, as we didn't see it, but we know. (Kind of like O.J.)

I've repeatedly called the neighbor, complaining that the dog comes into our yard and makes handling our horses unsafe and tries to get our chickens. He promises each time to keep her up. Time lapses, and again she's in our yard. The man evidently has never heard of a leash.

In the third attack, she was proven to be the culprit, found with a chicken in her mouth (who miraculously lived despite terrible injuries). Only domesicated dogs and cats (and men) who are well fed kill for the pleasure of it and leave the body. So, I know it was a dog, just don't have the evidence to prove it.

My only recourse, according to the law, is to shoot the dog while it's on my property. I can take it to animal control, but they will release the dog to the owner for a fee. I can't shoot the dog. She's actually a nice dog doing what her instincts bid her, but with a bad owner.

William took it pretty well, his greatest concern being "who will I hold now?" as the other chickens are hard to catch and don't like to be held. Chicken Lickin' had learned that if she tolerated being caught and held, she was hand fed nice morsels.

I am now rethinking my chicken population and considering reducing the ones I have. The remaining will have to stay in the chicken tractors, protected from dogs but losing their freedom. An interesting concept in today's world - better to live free but with more risk, or live safely with no freedom?

Can you tell I've been reading Op-Eds by Iraqis on the NYTimes website?

Lost After Translation
Republic of Dreams
Fear of Freedom

Keeping Up

"How do you know they're keeping up?" I'm often asked when my secret identity, Mom Homeschooler, is discovered. Just as often, I hear a worried homeschooler wondering if their own students are "keeping up".

Today at Church, the priest's words flowed over me, humorous and interesting, yet not so important. Then, I heard, like words in bold red:

God doesn't measure us against each other. He measures each life, each person. And the measure he uses is vertical and horizontal. He measures with a Cross.

So if you have children homeschooling, or even kids in school, consider this measuring tool before wondering if your child is "keeping up".

What It Takes to Be Great

Tomorrow evening, Lauren will play Six Roumanian Folk Dances by Bartok at her studio's fall piano recital. This week, I was thinking back to when the girls were little. I had hoped that they would come to love reading, music and horses. I got my wishes on all accounts. The ironic part of this wish is that at the moment, reading, music and horses are what drive me to the brink.

My girls read almost to the exclusion of anything else. Thick tomes go with them everywhere, as I have reminded them often to never go anywhere without a book and you'll never be bored. Some days, however, it is exasperating to move the 800 page Harry Potter for the zillionth time off of the kitchen table or to get the girls to put down their books and do something.

Both girls are amazing horseback riders, though often my time (and my checkbook) revolve around horses. I spend a great deal of time hooking up the trailer and hauling horses. Yet, their passion for horses is a healthy outlet and we've always thought it worthwhile.

As for music, Anna is considered a leader in the Church teen band, for though she quit playing piano, the music became a part of her and she can read it. And Lauren, well, you would have to hear her play to understand. She and her teacher, however, enjoy pieces that are very emotional and furious. Listening to hours of practice a day has me drooling over Bose white noise headphones.

Occasionally I am asked how a parent can guide a child to become great at something. Certainly, homeschooling has played a large part in this for us, as having great chunks of time and flexibility are factors.

But in today's world, a more important factor is focus. We are surrounded and bombarded with choices in not only entertainment and activities to name a few. As a homeschooler, I am often overwhelmed with all the activities, field trips and possibilities there are available. Earlier in our journey, I often wondered who took the "home" out of homeschooling. It took some time, maturing and perhaps, the birth of my son Wm later in life, to realize that I did.

With the feeling of not wanting my children to "fall behind", perhaps some guilt over socialization, wanting to find the fun in homeschooling, we were driving around like crazy people. At one point, each girl was involved in five different activities. Almost cosmically, they all seemed to mesh together so that I was able to accomplish them all, yet we seemed always in a hurry, always stressed, a house turned upside down, blaming the chaos on homeschooling.

When Will was born, I began to cut back. We could not spend all day driving to all the activities, and as the girls delved deeper into their chosen passions, we began making critical choices. And with those choices, came the time and the ability to dive deep into their chosen passions. Both began riding more. Lauren has more time to play the piano. Anna spends more time writing her novel. We cut out activities like soccer and 4H, for example, which were terrific programs, but hampered our flexibility.

So I am asked sometimes by a parent how they can help their child want to play like Lauren plays. I would say it takes faith. Faith that you are not hurting your child by saying no, you can not do one more activity. It takes the lack of distraction. And not to take away from Lauren, it takes finding and following that child's interest without watering it down with other activities.

I'm sure this post isn't as coherent as I'd hoped when I first started it, as Wm is ready for his nightly bedtime reading and is distracting me. So, I sign off.

Cowboys

You know the song that starts, "Mama, don't let you sons grow up to be cowboys." I've got a new version for you: "Mama, don't let you daughters grow up to be hookers." Mamas, what are you thinking letting your daughters out of the house wearing these clothes? Look at this poor girl. She obviously put on her slip and walked out the door, forgetting her dress. Does she know it's winter? WHO would let their daughter go out like this?

Don't give me the she's got her own money and her own mind and she wants to fit in with the crowd crap. If she lives in your home, you still have some say, or should have, in what she looks like when she leaves your front door. Is this, my young women of the world, the message of strong, capable, yet beautiful women we want to project? No, these clothes say, Look, I wore my nightie to the dance so that'll save us time later.

Several times while dress shopping with my daughters, I had to ask, "Is this a dress??" Seeing their nods, I looked again at what looked like a silky version of the baby doll pajamas I wore as a kid. All they needed were bloomers.

And don't tell me she buys it when you're not there. For one thing, they take returns, people. And another, I saw you, Mom, there with her. Say NO. That's not appropriate. Of course, you mom, that I saw there at the store, send your precious teen to an all girls' private school so that she can roll her skirt up to her @$$ and wear shorts underneath peeking out. Very attractive with the oversized mens' sweatshirt.

Want respect? Don't go around looking like Britany Spears (see her horrible fashion statement in this week's Newsweek.). People do pay attention to her, but they don't respect her. I'm no prude, truly. I understand wanting to feel pretty and sexy, (though those days are starting to slip away; not the wanting part, but the ability to be part), but you don't have to look like you're soliciting. Believe me. Leave a little to the imagination.

An Embarassment to my Children

Have you ever taken a four, almost five, year old boy shopping in the formal dress department? Have you ever tried to keep said boy entertained while his teen sister tried on every dress in the store? At first, he enjoys himself hiding in the skirts of long formals, doing his best to scaring the grey hairs onto you with visions of the store calling a Code Adam. Then, he begins hanging on the racks of the shorter dresses, tipping them precariously. On to the fitting room. Such times call for desperate measures.

Wm. and I had already used one unoccupied hallway of the large fitting room (which was empty except for us, I might add) to learn to skip and to let Wm. practice his somersaults. My next suggestion to roll back and forth a small toy race car was met with the suggestion that instead, we should see who could throw it the farthest. And as boys do, he was talking loudly.

"Mommmmm, tell him to be quiet," whined both sisters.

So, we investigated the large three way mirror. We counted how many Williams we could see. We noted that Mommy could wave to herself. Okay. That lasted, what, two minutes? Wm. began to search for ways to misbehave so that we could go home. I showed him how you could lay on the floor and look upside down and make faces in the mirror.

"Mommmmm, get up, you're embarassing me," Anna intoned with rolled eyes.
Again, I note, NO ONE WAS IN THE ROOM!
"What's she doin'?" Lauren asked.
"She's being a MOM," Anna replied, as if that explained everything in a nutshell.

I laughed. It seems that at this age, my main occupation is the embarassment of my teenage daughters. I consider it my job. I tell them that if I'm not embarassing them, we're not having enough fun.

Given that I speak and act frankly, this isn't do difficult. Lauren has requested that I not check horses' privates when anyone is around, even though we are in a barn and teaching others what taking care of an animal entails and with other horsey people that know all about it anyway. Yet, it doesn't embarass her ONE BIT to bring to me her old, poop encrusted favorite chicken who seems to be under the weather. Could I maybe wash this chicken butt for her? Huh, maybe it's a little too embarassing. Could there be a more humbling task? (Note: chicken is just fine this morning)

My children, you must learn to laugh at yourself! Sometimes, it's the only way to get through a day! So, I am teaching them to laugh at themselves. Not too long ago, we were amused by finding what we call the Chin songs. If you want some examples, go on YouTube and search by "chin". Or, you can see my first, unfinished attempt here:



As you can see, I haven't yet added hair and a hat, but we had fun. So the girls used the time they should be studying biology, to make the following video of their own:



Most likely, they'll never remember that the stacks of thylakoids in the chloroplast are called grana, and that the second stage of photosynthesis is called the Calvin Cycle. But they will remember the night we made chin videos and laughed.

P.S. I challenge you to make your own chin videos!

The "Magic" Gopher

Magic Gopher follow-up.

How does he do it?

If you make a chart of all possible answers, the only answers possible are multiples of 9:
9, 18, 27, 36, 45, 54, 63, 72, 81.

If you look at the chart of symbols, all of the multiples of nine have the same symbol. However, each time you do it, the symbols change, yet the multiples of nine all have the exact same symbol. So, no matter what number you choose, your answer will be a multiple of nine and will have the same symbol of any number you could start with.

Eyes Wide Open

There are four Hispanic men that clean stalls at the establo where my daughters ride. Each time we see them, the greet us cheerfully, whether in the cold, in the rain, or a sunny day. Always, they say "I am fine, how are you?" in a sing-song. Yesterday, one of them (I'm ashamed to say I don't yet know his name) said, "Not so good," when I asked how he was doing.

When I inquired as to why, he put down the shafts of the full wheelbarrow and pointed to his eye. "A horse hit me in the eye with his head. "

I comiserated, having been "head-butted" before, it hurts like the dickens. I asked if it was better. No, it wasn't and he couldn't see so well in that eye.

"Have you seen a doctor?" I asked.
When he said no, I displayed the total lack of awareness of middle class, white Americans by asking why not.
"Oh," says he. "I'm too busy."
Too busy. Still clueless, I cheerfully rejoined, "You'd better get to the doctor. You only get two eyes, you know. It's important."

Later, I reflected. He doesn't have the money to go to the doctor. He's likely an illegal immigrant with no insurance. He might lose the sight in his eye forever.

It may be that talking about illegal immigration in principle is easy. Nameless and faceless, it's easy to say of course, they should apply to come legally. Of course, we should not pay for their medical expenses. Confronted with reality, a young man sees us pull up with two horses we recently bought, knows we live down the road in a nice house, sees horses getting "vetted" (seeing the vet) weekly, and he may be blind in one eye for lack of an office visit.

My own faith teaches that we should care for people, illegal or not, leaving the legalities for others. That's one of the things I love about being Catholic. Today, I'll phone Catholic Charities. Perhaps they have an eye doctor.

Protegées

It has been drawn to my attention that I've also led the following down the path of blogging:

PITA Woman (My friend in all things Great Dane)
Moments In Time (My Dad, who is gifting me with his memories and observations)

Please visit and encourage their writing!

Life Lessons

Go to Magic Gopher and watch him guess your number. Can you figure out how it is done? I'll tell you tomorrow.

At first, we were taken in. My girls said, "Don't talk." Well, we didn't have a mike connected.
I thought, "We'll not move the cursor." That wasn't it. Were we drawn in or what?

Anna started to write things down.
"What'd'ya doin'?" I asked.

"Looking for a pattern." Smart girl. There's your clue.

We learned that:

• This website isn't magic and can't detect you
• Gophers in silly hats can't read your mind
• Look for patterns
• While paying attention to what you are told to pay attention to, you actually miss what is happening
• And most importantly, for many events, there is an explanation, even if you can't understand it at the moment.

Enjoy!

My Contribution

When I die, they will most likely say, "She didn't accomplish all that much but she did get some people blogging!"

Please visit and encourage two friends of mine new to blogging:

In the Good Shepherd's Care, Christine who always makes me laugh
Loving and Learning , Mary, who shares her life in California with her husband and an autistic child

She Gets it All

During a playdate with his best friend, William found a photo of his grandparents. Aidan had lost a grandparent earlier in the year, and somehow, it figures into conversations often as they try to understand and make sense of his death.

"This is my grandpa," William said, pointing to the male figure. "I have other grandpas, and if they died, like yours, I'd still have this one." He paused. "But what if this one died, too?"

Aidan looked down at the photograph and pointed to the grandma. "Then she," he said knowingly, "would get the house and everything in it."

William nodded and they moved on to play with their toys, the complexities of the world figured out for now.

Democrat or Republican?

Today, I have a guest writer! Please welcome my dear friend and neighbor, Christine McCloy, to the blogosphere!

The mood at our home on Tuesday night, Nov. 7, 2006 was one apprehension and uneasiness as my husband watched one after another Congressional seat fall into the Democrats' favor. My husband was glued to the T.V. flipping from one news report to another to get the latest poll counts. During commercials, he would pace over to the Internet and check on line for any additional information.

In the meantime, our 5-year old, Aidan, (the youngest of four children) acutely devised a plan to remain up past bedtime alone with Mom and Dad. He plopped his haggarded little body between my husband and I, he and began watching the election returns. Being the "astute" parents that we are, we recognized his plot immediately. So, Aidan realized he had to change his strategy in a hurry. Our little soccer playing, bug catcher transformed into a political activist before our eyes. "Daddy, why do all the "red boxes" (Democrats) have checks? Are they winning a lot?" he observes.

"Yes, Aidan." Rod laments, "they are winning a lot."

"Daddy, we are Republicans, right?" Aidan remarks.

Now, at no point did Rod and I announce our political preferences to Aidan, but I am assuming the grim look on Rod's face and tension in the air led Aidan to guess the "wrong-side" was winning. For the first time that evening, Rod turns to face the bugging politician and responds, "Yes, son, we are."

After time to contemplate the ramifications of this, Aidan presses, "I am five and I am a Republican. Can a four year old be a Republican?"

By this time, I am also distracted from the T.V. by this new found interest Aidan has in the election returns. Wondering where this is leading, I take a stab at answering, "Yes, Aidan, a four year old can be a Republican."

Aidan pauses and carefully words his next question. We could tell by the look on his face that it was a very important question to him. He took a breath and inquired, "Well, then is William (his best buddy in the whole world--who also happens to be four years old) a ......Democrat?"

Realizing the answer seemed to have consequences for their friendship, I slowly responded, "Well, I think William might also be a Republican. We can ask him tomorrow." Seeming satisfied with that reply, Aidan adds with a perverse pleasure, "But three year olds, (ie. his cousin Jake with whom he recently had to share his toys for 5 days straight), are Democrats, right?"

With that, we sent him off to bed.

Keirsey Indicator

There was a link in a previous post about the Keirsey Indicator, similar to a Myers-Briggs test. These indicators are meant, rather than analyzing people, to help people understand each other and their God given talents and challenges. I find it fascinating. I found a link to an easier and more descriptive online test at http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

I am an INFP, sometimes an ENFP, for I am energized by being with people, but eventually, need time alone, indicating I'm more of an introvert. To read more about my personality type, go to http://keirsey.com/personality/nfip.html.

Lost in Translation

I heard gales of loud laughter coming from the computer room. Lauren and Anna were doubled over, laughing. They had been discussing for a long time a new name for Anna's horse, which came with the name "Nikki". Wanting a sporty name that would mean something for Mounted Games, they were looking up translations in other languages for the word "speed".

To discover what tickled their funny bone, go to FreeTranslations.com and translate the word "speed" from English to Norwegian.

My entry in the "Name that Horse" contest is Nike, as in the sports equipment/shoes, because:

• In Greek mythology, Nike was the goddess of victory
• She can easily get tshirts with her horse's name on them
• And, it's not too different from Nikki, making a great transition for the horse, though we're told she's not been Nikki long. Wonder what she was before?

To Do

It would be nice if my absence from my blog indicated that I was sitting beside a pool in the Caribbean sipping a piña colada. In reality, it indicates the number of scheduled activities and the length of my “to do” list.

I sat down this morning to make a list (something I *rarely do) of all the things that I would like to accomplish in no particular order. I’m up to 43 lines so far, 44 if you count writing for my blog. 45. Color my hair.

The day also started off with a deficit. Wm. cried in his sleep last night for no apparent reason. Now, given that he hadn’t had much quality sleep, one would have thought that nothing short of an explosion would wake him this morning. Au contraire, he was like a rooster crowing at the crack of sunlight. And he wanted me to play. 46. Fix Wm’s computer.

I hadn’t yet found the coffee pot, nor let the dogs out to do their business when he already had the PlayStation going and begging me to join him. He sat yelling for me, wearing only his underwear and his new black cowboy boots. In addition to his apparent neediness today, Lauren is preparing for a recital and is playing (loudly) all morning. 47. Buy Lauren’s recital dress.

Thus far this morning, I’ve managed to review Biology and make up the test for the girls. I’ve fed the dogs, and made lunch. That’s it. I feel like I work and work, and accomplish little. 48. Give Paris (dog) bath ‘cause she seems to have that fungus thing again.

So, now we are off to a special piano class in preparation for the recital and my list waits. 49. VOTE


*I am an ENFP, and as a P, I have lots of grand ideas but don’t always accomplish those ideas. What are you?

Lazarus

The stranger had tears in her eyes as she stood at my door last night, asking if we had an orange cat. Well, yes we do. She apologized repeatedly that she couldn't avoid it, but had hit an orange cat with her car. It had just darted out in front of her. Something in me didn't react right away, not believing it was our Jack (named for Jack the Ripper, as he also was a prolific killer in his youth). Somehow, I just thought I'd know if it was him.

She looked past me at William, I am sure thinking she'd hit our child's beloved pet.
"There are a lot of red tabbies around here," I said, "it may not be ours. Is it very big?" Jack is very big, weighing in at 15 pounds.

She wasn't sure, and clearly still shaken. The woman, wearing a Hoosier Horse Park hoodie, turned to go. "Please don't blame yourself," I said.

"That's going to be hard to do, " she said, getting in her small, dark blue car.

She drove off as I grabbed a flashlight and garbage bag. "Oh, Jack," I shook my head. Still, I didn't feel it. Jack, to our knowledge, has never crossed the road. With five acres to roam, he seems instinctively to know that the road is his boundary.

My flashlight picked up red eyes on the road, and I steeled myself for an unpleasant sight. As I neared the cat, I saw it's size. "IT'S NOT JACK!" I called to my daughters.

"I know!" she yelled. "He's asleep on your bed!"

As I neared the cat, I saw it was sitting up and it turned and looked at me. It wasn't dead! In fact, I tried to touch it and it got up and ran off. I gave chase and when I reached it, it again ran off. It appeared to have no injuries that I could see, and I could no longer find it. I hoped that it had a home and could go there to get warm, but it was nowhere to be seen.

I went back home, upstairs to gratefully pet Jack, and worry for a woman that was having a bad night, feeling guilty for unavoidably hitting a cat. I've put a sign in front of our yard, "ORANGE CAT OK! but not ours" hoping that she'll drive by, and be happy that the cat, like Lazarus, rose from the dead.