Defending the cat in the Battle of Pets

George & his prey

A recent Associated Press survey shows dogs are America's favorite pet, paws down. Almost three-quarters of those surveyed identified themselves as dog lovers first; less than half said the same for cats.

This survey wouldn't seem significant - after all, do we really need to choose? - but for the comments some of the poll-takers offered:

Cats are "nasty, stinking creatures". Dogs are noisy and disruptive. Cats are smarter. Dogs have more personality. Cats are "all about cats" while dogs "are interested in pleasing their owners."

Oh my. When will we learn that generalities are fraught with error?

A lifelong owner of both, I feel obliged to pen a few kind words about the oft-misunderstood cat.

I believe that those who say they don't like cats just haven't met enough of them. They never met Cricket, who played fetch with no concern for the size of the object. A gorgeous, long-haired, black-and-white cat, he wore an expression of what surely was pride as he made his slow way up our basement steps, straddling the stick that dangled from his mouth.

Or Pete, who'd settle his fluffy body into the large, decorative bowl on our living room table and wait for someone to give it a spin. The faster, the harder, the better. Eventually, Pete would launch himself from the still-moving bowl, eyes wild with exuberance, only to return minutes later for more.

And they definitely never met George, an orange tabby who shattered all stereotypes and cut a comedic path through our hearts during the seven short years we were privileged to own him. If there is such a thing as a soul mate in the world of pets, George was my great feline love. Granted, George brought live birds, baby rabbits and snakes into our home on his regular hunting excursions. But he was also a clear cat/dog, one of those rare felines whose behavior aligns more closely with the canine than his own species.

Oblivious to any form of weather, he accompanied my Belgian Shepherd and me on nightly walks that sometimes lasted well over an hour. In deep snow, or cold rain, he refused to be carried, and refused to be left behind.

More than once, a passing motorist paused to ask incredulously, "Is that your cat?"

With a shake of their heads and a typically uproarious laugh, they'd pull away. I knew George would be a brief but bright topic at the family dinner table.

Tell me, you avowed cat detractors, this is not an animal you could love?

Nasty, stinking creatures indeed.

I'd like to suggest that our stereotypes of these two species are based on much more than their animal characteristics. Perhaps they reflect our selves.

Dogs are almost always happy, sweet and easy to understand. As pack animals they blend naturally into the human family. Loyal and sensitive, typically tuned to our body language and emotions, they overlook our faults and forgive us for things we believe no one else ever could.We love the dog, in large part, because it loves us unconditionally.

The cat personality, meanwhile, is multi-layered and complicated. The cat is at times sweet, social and playful, seeking love, warm laps and an occasional bit of catnip-infused party time. Abruptly, it becomes moody and reclusive, borrowing into dark corners to spend time alone. Cats are unpredictable, sensitive to a fault and never dull.

The dog is who we wish we could be.

The cat might just be who we are.

That the cat is more like us is for some people reason enough to dislike it. I say it's reason enough to love it all the more.

The good news about antidepressants

Turns out Tom Cruise is right: Depression really is all in your head. It's in the neurons of the hippocampus where science shows cells burdened by deep depression and chronic stress atrophy and die.

Rocky Mountain PBS broadcast earlier this month a three-part series called "This Emotional Life" that explored a broad range of human emotions and their causes.

One segment focused on happiness, and what it is in our lives that makes us feel that most ideal state of being. Marriage does, kids - due to the stress of parenting - don't. And money, if used the right way - altruistically and in pursuit of positive experiences - does. Age isn't the curse many believe it to be either. Given good health, most seniors report they are happier than at any other point in their lives.

Many of these findings turn conventional wisdom on its ear. And even though I'm a single, anything-but-rich mom, I found them incredibly heartening.

But the segment on depression cheered me most. Not only for what it revealed factually, but for its potential to further remove the stigma surrounding not only the condition, but the use of antidepressants.

While the research is not new, it has somehow never received significant press. And for those who suffer from the disease of depression, and the loved ones who suffer with them, that is a shame.

The findings show that hormones released by stress inhibit the growth of brains cells in the hippocampus - the part of the brain associated with learning, memory, mood and emotion. The longer the depression exists, the greater the damage to those neurological pathways.

But as insulin helps correct blood sugar levels in those with diabetes, science shows that antidepressants can change and correct altered brain chemistry.

Even more encouraging, researchers have seen through brain scans that antidepressants can stimulate the growth of new, healthy cells. Like the lungs of a former smoker, the damaged part of the hippocampus can be restored to the level of its original healthy function.

I take my antidepressant and mood stabilizer daily; they are as much a part of my morning routine as Folger's coffee and Chai Spice creamer. I take them for myself, but I take them also for my son, my family in other states, my friends, all the people in my life who care about me, and even for those strangers I encounter each day.

But it wasn't always so.

At 22, six months after my initial diagnosis of bipolar disorder, I packed up my Chevy Cavalier with everything I owned and moved from Wisconsin to Colorado. Somewhere in Nebraska, I threw my lithium out the car window.

As it turned out, lithium was not the right medication for me, as doctors now know is the case for many with bipolar disorder. But I didn't seek an alternative. Prozac was new then, today's most commonly prescribed and effective antidepressants and mood stabilizers non existent. In any case, I was sure didn't need them.

For the next 15 years, I was medication free. I was also a rocket of emotions, finally crashing in my late 30s into an 18-month depression. From the depths of that black hole, medication finally appeared to be my only source of light. I accepted its help with gratitude, but even as I crawled out of that hole and back to a normal life, I did so with great reluctance and a sense of shame.

I plotted ways to escape it. With enough Omega 3, St. John's Wort, SAM-E and sunshine, surely I could wean myself away from pills.

It was only until a couple of years ago, when I read some of the results of the study expounded upon in "This Emotional Life," that I became convinced they were necessary. Even good for me.

The report I read phrased the findings somewhat differently than the PBS series. It described the connections in the brain of a depressed and/or bipolar person as thinner and weaker than those of a healthy brain. Antidepressants and mood stabilizers serve to strengthen those connections, to coat them with a protective shield. They buffer the otherwise painful impact of stressors that bring the depressed brain to its emotional knees.

I hold that vision in my mind's eye when I take my morning medication. My antidepressants and mood stabilizer don't save me from bad days, but like a net, they keep me from falling all the way down and help spring me back up to steady ground. They shield me from greater harm.

"There is no such thing as a chemical imbalance," Cruise said in a 2005 interview with Matt Lauer.

Really, Tom?

Even love creates a chemical imbalance, as he revealed by bouncing on Oprah's couch in an expression of his love for Katie Holmes.

He, and others like him who perpetuate the stigma should be ashamed. Celebrities, unfortunately, have a profound influence on the American public. As such, they owe it to them to use great care in what they say. Years later, Cruise's words still ring in the ears of many who hesitate to take antidepressants for fear they will be considered weak.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

It is fear that makes people weak.

The determination to be healthy - for one's self as well as those who love them - is the definition of strength. It is what makes it possible to heal. And once healed, to spread that message and hard-earned joy to others.

Because happiness, as research shows and the narrator of "This Emotional Life" reaffirmed, is contagious.

The Trickle-down Effects of a Bitterly Cold Winter

I am trickling. Steadily, noisily, and hopefully, all night.

We're all trickling this winter, leaving our water faucets slightly open throughout the night to protect our pipes from the bitter cold.

It's a nasty winter to start a dog-walking business, not as much for a human - who can dress in multiple layers of clothing - as a dog. When a canine lifts its paws to avoid contact with the earth, it's cold. Dog-gone cold. (Sorry.)

On cold days, it's also lonely at the dog park. I'm not nearly as good at entertaining my clients as one of their peers. I know the play posture - slightly crouched, hands on thighs, a mischievous look in the eye - but because I draw the line at partaking in the getting-to-know-you olfactory rituals, our ability to interact as true playmates is limited.

Worse than the cold and loneliness, when the temperature drops well below freezing, many owners cancel scheduled dog walks. This may be good for the dog, but it leaves the walker out in the financial cold. A decidely chilly place, especially when it's time to pay the heating bill.

I have no one to blame for it but myself, however. Late last summer, I pet sat two dogs whose owner had recently transplanted here from Iowa. A native Wisconsinite, I felt an immediate weather bond with her. We hailed from the same bitterly cold, stickily hot climate. I knew her pain.

Happily, confidently, I told her those days were behind her. "You'll love the winters in Denver. They are so mild!"

A small shiver passed through me as I said those words. A harbinger, it turns out, of things to come.

She and her dogs later moved to Parker, and out of my service area. Though I'd lost a client, I felt satisfied I'd given her good news, something to look forward to as the days shortened and winter crept gently in.

Somewhere in Parker, she is cursing me. Yet I know we still share a bond, only now it's of a slightly different flavor. On these most bitter of nights, I know she is trickling, too.

Death of the Bo-tax brings Holiday Joy

Christmas presents come in many forms and sometimes from very unexpected sources. Who, for instance, would have thought I'd be writing a thank-you note to the U.S. Senate?

But it bestowed upon my female peers and I a potentially wondrous gift by voting to ix-nay from the health bill a proposed 5 percent tax on cosmetic surgery. Granted, I don't currently have the money - and am balanced precariously on the line of need - to indulge in any such procedures. But I like knowing I have the option of someday injecting poison into my face at what will now seem like a discounted rate.

I greeted these glad tidings with great joy. My son didn't join in my Happy Dance, however.

I tried to explain to him that given the head of our household is a middle-aged single female, the tax held the potential for financial ruin. That or natural aging. Neither of which painted a pretty picture.

He merely shrugged, said "Mom, please don't dance," and, like any good liberal's son, resumed playing Super Obama World Game. Youth are shortsighted, but I'm confident the implications of this to his college fund will become clear to him with time.

The so-called Botax is replaced in the health bill with a 10 percent tax on indoor tanning. Given the millions spent on defying age will stimulate the U.S. economy, and the likelihood of tanning salon devotees to incur health care bills down the road, this seems like a better idea.

Like virtually any woman my age, I'm guilty of youthful tanning indiscretions. As a teen, I offered up my string bikini-clad, suntan-oiled body to the solar gods by sunbathing on the metal roof of the chicken coop. I strongly suspect frying like bacon decade ago has enhanced the deepening parentheses around my mouth people perversely call smile lines.

Mercifully, such activity tapered off over time, and by my 30s, I was over it. This left me looking like a grub worm, and in desperation, I turned to the bottle. Magically, my summer limbs now appear sun kissed. Sure, Coppertone should offer classes on how to keep the knees and feet from looking painfully bruised and neglectfully dirty. But until that sunny day comes, I'll endure blotchy knees and streaked feet. I'm pretty sure they're a whole lot less ugly than melanoma.

The few friends I have who still make the occasional trek to the tanning salon say it's preventative. A base tan keeps skin from burning, they say. And maybe they're right.

But I'm hedging my bets on liquid bronzers and sunscreen. Plus a few shares of stock in Allergan, maker of Botox, Restasis and Juvederm. It's an investment in my financial future - not to mention my face's.

To anyone who's followed this blog, I offer a heartfelt thank you.

But I've decided to take it a little more public, actually attach my last name to it and move it to a site with more traffic on which readers can offer feedback. So far, so good.

If you'd like to continue to follow, here's the link:

http://denver.yourhub.com/~AwkwardPose

You may notice a couple repeats as I'm editing and recycling some of my old posts.

Again, thanks for reading!

Jane

I Scream, You Scream, No More Ice Cream

The trail led down the hill, disappearing through a tunnel of houses, then up and into sight again, vanishing over the horizon. It beckoned me to follow, but at 7:30 p.m., the sun had set and darkness was falling fast. Reluctantly, I turned toward home.

Late this summer, I rediscovered the joys of bicycling. Tonight, pressed for time, it was the mountain bike I chose, spinning out of my garage and around the corner onto the dirt trail, a dog-eared bicycle map tucked inside my T-shirt. Shoes open-toed, legs bare. No helmet. No water. No destination.

Racing the descending sun and clouds that threatened rain, I rode hard and fast, thinking about everything and nothing: The man at whom I was pissed, loose plans already made for the upcoming weekend without my sun, the Sunday choir performance for which I felt unprepared, a too-long-absent friend with whom I'd finally spoken that day, the man at whom I was pissed.

I stood on my pedals to ease the pain in my knees of schlepping the bike and my body up a hill. It was not even a steep hill, I noted with equal parts dismay and disgust. I'd felt deceptively fit only a week ago when I rode 20 quick miles on my slender, laughably light, aluminum-framed Trek. But sailing on a road bike over Denver's flat, paved trails was one thing. Riding the heavier mountain bike over the small roller-coaster-variety trails of the south suburbs was an exercise in humility.

At the top of that rise was a split in the trail, and here was where the trail unfurled down, up and away. It seemed to disappear into the mountains, which were framed by dark clouds. Drops of rain began to fall, but lazily so. They lacked the enthusiasm necessary to become a storm, a soaker or even a dust buster.

With or without rain, the newly discovered section of trail would have to wait for another evening. I headed gratefully downhill.

By the time I rounded the last corner of the bike trail and bounced over the curb and back onto the street, darkness was only one slim layer of light away.

Out of the gloom, the sound of chimes rang, taking on an audible shape that was instantly recognizable. It was the song of the ice cream truck. The small, boxy vehicle drove into view at the end of a nearby street, pausing at the stop sign.

Something was wrong with this picture, I thought. It was the lights. The ice cream truck was piercing the darkness of the neighborhood streets with headlights.

The ice cream truck belonged on sun-drenched summer streets, with kids who ran to it from the front yards in which they'd already been playing.

Yet here it was, the driver making one last, seemingly desperate round on a Monday night, the first of autumn. I imagined the arguments he sparked in kitchens throughout the neighborhood as the heads of children, obediently bent over homework, snapped up at the strains of their favorite summer song. They pleaded and cajoled, and work-weary parents responded with firm, then frustrated 'nos'.

The ice cream truck, so welcome on a summer's day, did not belong here this eve.

The truck and I passed one another on the street. It slowed, the driver perhaps momentarily confused at the tiny light bobbing toward it, then regained speed, the driver and I waving at one another in the off-handed way of mere visual acquaintances.

As I rode by the truck's side, the sound waves broke and shifted and the happy tune suddenly devolved into something you'd expect to hear from a horror movie fun house. It was as though the truck were speaking. Summer's over, it seemed to say. Close the windows, pull the blinds, put away the sprinklers, drain the pools, bring in the flower pots. The bitterly beautiful season of winter is waiting impatiently in the wings, ready to take center stage.

The first time I met her, she called me a dog. Inadvertently, of course. It was confusing -- meeting me and my dog at the same time, what with my dog having a sort of human female name. But still, there it was: your boyfriend's mother, calling you by your dog's name. Not the most promising start.

My then-boyfriend introduced me to his mother with great excitement. "You'll like her," he said. "She's really nice." We entered her Denver house together: Zach, me and my border collie/Australian shepherd mix, Lindy. His mother was nice, greeting us with a big smile and in warm tones, her voice lightly laced with an accent I later learned was Oklahoman. She had big, brown eyes, high, round cheekbones and dark, curly hair. A pretty woman, already then widowed several years. She must have been in her mid-50s then, but I was too young at the time -- mid 20s -- to think about her age. She was a mom. A mom I wanted to impress, but still mostly to me just a mom.

It only occurred to me later, years later, that she was not just a mom. But a woman. Even then lonely and heartbroken, widowed too young - as though there is ever a right time to be widowed - facing an uncertain financial future, accustomed to a lifestyle she even then must have known was no longer sustainable.

Her smile when she addressed me that day gave away none of it. "Lindy, would you like a drink?" she asked.

I blinked, befuddled. Lindy likely was thirsty, but I would have bet doughnuts to dollars she'd already found an open toilet. Then I realized she was speaking to me.

And so our relationship began. Sue Allen eventually became my mother-in-law, later my son's grandmother and soon after that, my ex-mother-in-law. Strained by the divorce, torn by the custody battle, our relationship - bound by my son - was always that of family.

Sue Allen died last Wednesday at the age of 79. She died alone, in a hospital, with tubes up her nose, a band Velcroed to her forehand, rubber strips of some sort holding yet another medical measuring tool cutting into her cheeks. The last time I saw her, her depleted body was little more than a slight rise under a white sheet. The last time her eyes opened to mine, they were big, brown moons in a face strangely smooth and youthfully shining illness.

Almost two decades passed between the first and the last time our eyes met.

In the time between, I remember countless evenings spent in her Denver home, with Zach's brother and sister, and later their spouses and husbands, gathered inside the sprawling townhouse. She loved antiques and the finer things in life. Her hair was always expertly done, clothes fashionable and flattering, nails professionally polished. She was without fail, and for every day that I knew her, ladylike and dignified.

Sue Allen also could cook, and I remember big, meat-centric meals, the cut of choice sometimes grilled, sometimes roasted for hours, the meals always framed by endless glasses of red wine and the smoke of cigarettes. She and all three of her children smoked. I was always trying in vain to escape, to find a piece of furniture, a corner of the home, not saturated with cigarette smoke. I never found it because this was just part of the drill, the price paid for good food and a soon-robust family that often overwhelmed me with its wide-ranging personalities and issues.

Sue was the anchor, and Zach, by default after his father's death, was second in line. Yet I sensed that the family had suffered an unbreakable kink in the chain when Sue's husband died, that their most solid member had fallen away, leaving them all slightly adrift. To this day, I wish I'd have known the family that existed in the days before his death.

I suffered my miscarriage in Sue Allen's bathroom. Shocked by blood while my ex-husband and I were shopping in Denver that day now almost 14 years distant, we retreated to her home. I heard her voice and Zach's rise and fall from the living room and smelled cigarette smoke as cramps rippled through my abdomen, as I passed what was distinctly a tiny and vague but wholly human form. I called them in to see it, then flushed it away from sight.

She wanted to be in the delivery room for Robby's birth, having missed that opportunity with her own daughter, but I refused. I was not her daughter. It was not my duty. Sometimes I still wonder if I did the right thing.

It was with a shock, almost 10 years later, to hear that she planned to testify against me in the custody battle her son and I waged years after our divorce, when I moved two hours away from the mountains to the city. According to the docket, she was prepared to testify about my frequent vacations, a handful of long weekends I had taken in the two years previous to visit what was, by that point, an ex-boyfriend.

I was furious at the idea these few days could be so blown out of proportion. Even more so, I felt betrayed that she planned to say damning words about me in a courtroom when she and I had never exchanged a harsh word. Whether or not she truly intended to testify I will never know. The decision came with shocking speed and minimal testimony, granting her son primary custody.

In the chaos immediately following, she tried to approach me. I stood in the hallway, conferring with the court advocate about the wisdom of an appeal, too stunned and outraged to cry.

I heard Sue's voice from a small knot of people at my left shoulder. She was talking to someone else, perhaps to Zach, but she intended her words to reach my ears.

"I hope Jane isn't mad at me," she said. "Why, Jane has some qualities I wish I had."

At that moment, I could not turn to acknowledge her. My pain was too raw, my anger all-consuming. I thought I might hit her if she came any closer. Yet all these years later, the words and not the anger I felt, stay with me.

I could divorce her son. But I could not divorce my son's grandmother. He loved her, and she spoiled him rotten. I could not keep them apart. So as families often do, we put the past behind us, never spoke of it again, and moved on with our relationship.

When I moved to Denver, and Zach and his wife moved farther away, it was me who ensured she saw her grandson, who came to dinner in her apartment, whom she hugged and called sweetheart and over whom she sometimes worried. I felt like a surrogate daughter, stepping in where Robby's father could not. At first, I thought Sue was treating me so well because she knew it was in her best interest, that she knew very well I was the bridge to her grandson, and the unrelated parent who lived closest to her.

That changed on a snowy December night, on my way home from her house. I had brought Robby there for an overnight stay. In spite of her protestations, I left for home, driving slowly but steadily down snow-thickened and silent Denver streets. Shortly after my return home, the phone rang. It was Sue, saying she'd wanted to be sure I made it home safe. "I've been worried about you since you left," she said.

A feeling of warmth spread through me at the tender and genuine care and concern in her voice.

"OK, well I'm glad you're safe," she said. "I love you. Goodnight."

Though she had the time, the personality and the looks to easily do so, Sue Allen never remarried. I never even knew her to date. She moved several times in the years I knew her, each time to a smaller place, each time leaving behind furniture and other pieces of a life receding ever further into the past. I never heard her complain about these changes, or speak with bitterness or sorrow about the direction her life had taken. In fact, I never heard her speak of it at all.

In those last couple of years, she worked in the front office of her apartment building in exchange for rent and Zach's two siblings moved into her small apartment with her, each for different reasons, each with financial challenges of their own. While it was not the life any of them would have chosen, it most certainly was not the life Sue Allen had envisioned for herself. On the phone or in person, she revealed none of this, her voice always bright and cheerful, her manner always welcoming and warm.

Earlier this summer, a routine surgery ended with a myriad of complications. And after only a few weeks home, Sue Allen was rushed back to the hospital with a blockage in her small intestine. More complications, including pneumonia, ensued. We visited her on a Sunday that last time, three days before she died.

She was aware of our presence for only a few moments, but even then, strapped to an army of instruments monitoring every flutter of life within her, she put on a cheerful face for Robby, her cheeks somehow rising in a smile around the tubes and straps.

"Did you have a nice birthday party?" she asked Robby, who'd celebrated his 13th birthday the day before.

And then, only seconds later, "Is the coffee ready yet?"

I thought she was out of it for good then, so we said goodbye and turned to go, stripping off the latex gloves we'd been required to wear in the ICU.

But then we heard her voice again, muffled and impossible to understand. We both turned and stepped closer to the bed.

"What did you say, Grandma?" Robby asked.

"Kiss me on the cheek?" she said distinctly.

The last time I saw Sue Allen, my son was touching his lips to her cheek, somehow finding an open patch of skin among all the tubes and bands lashed across her face. She smiled slightly and murmured something that might have been, "You're a good boy, Robby."