I Think "Spoiled" Is Such An Unfair Word

One might say that the pets in the Schneider household are spoiled. I personally think that's a bit harsh though. What's spoiled?

I mean, ok, besides the furniture, our cats have about three beds in every room to choose from. One of them is my former laundry basket. I say former because Samson fell in love with it, and I bought a new one so he could have the old one. And it has a towel inside so he has a soft place to sleep.

Then there's the kitty apartment, Casa de Amy, birthday palace, The Great Wall of China, the two window perches, and loads and loads of blankets on various flat surfaces (including one on each dining table in the house). Don't get me started on the three cardboard scratching toys or the piles of cat toys strewn about the house.

Then we have the dogs. While Indy and Isis generally choose to sleep either on the bed or on the floor, Indiana does in fact have two "dog" beds. (Isis will never touch one--she's weird that way). One is a super-duper-expensive memory foam affair that we bought her for Christmas. She eschews that one for the super-duper-old one that is actually one dog bed stuffed inside another to fill up the dog-shaped hole in it.

The dogs too have their insane pile of toys. One toy box used to be enough, but Boommaw and Boompaw bought a new basket for them, which is of course now full, so Boommaw and Boompaw bought them a cute duck-shaped laundry basket for overflow toys, which was promptly taken over instead by Gus for a rasslin' ring. Sam uses it to murder rodents. Great fun.

The animal insanity isn't just contained indoors, oh no. Within the 550 feet of escape-proof cat fencing you'll find a custom built playhouse, complete with stairs, ramps, and a sleeping loft for the cats. Of course. Who doesn't have one of those?

While chewing this blog topic around in my head, I consulted Jim for the crazier things we have around the house. He very astutely reminded me that spoiling isn't just about things, but it's also about the way we treat our animals. Bah. Don't spoil my fun! I'm doing a light-hearted blog post for once, for heaven's sake. Don't expect me to get all deep.

The thing I love about spoiling our pets vs. spoiling our children is that we can spoil the critters 'til the cows come home and it won't make a bit of difference to their behavior. They either appreciate it or they don't, but they don't demand more from us. Our pets have all of these crazy houses and loads of toys, but essentially because they make us as parents happy. It makes me happy to give my cats a 4 foot long Great Wall of China and affix pictures of "Chairman Meow" to it. It makes me feel like a good Mom to buy Indiana the best possible bed, even if she never uses it.

Life isn't about stuff, I know. We're fortunate to be able to afford it, but our pets don't need it. It makes me happy to be surrounded by cat and dog paraphernalia though, and nothing brings a smile to my face like a cat ACTUALLY USING SOMETHING YOU BUY THEM. And life is all about happiness, for our pets AND for us.

'A Traveling We Will Go

A few weeks ago, Jim and I went out of town for 5 days, the first time we've traveled since Mr. Squiggles went missing while on vacation in Paris. After Indiana was diagnosed with kidney disease back in October, we thought our days of vacationing were over. Daily kidney fluids and shots multiple times a week were too much to foist on my parents, our usual dog-sitters. Plus, a fiasco with our (now-ex) cat sitter a few months ago left us without someone to watch our cats. Getting away for more than a night seemed impossible.

But, alas, Jim and I were both born with a ferocious desire to experience the world, and going too long without traveling makes us cranky and unsettled. Back B.C. (Before Cancer, as we refer to life now), we went on 4-5 trips a year. After Cancer, we thought we'd never travel again, but the travel bug bit us, and we eventually settled into a routine of 2 big trips and a couple of weekend getaways a year. So when disease struck again, it was natural to vow to stop traveling, but also completely unrealistic.

Jim had the opportunity to represent the United States at the World Sudoku Championship in Philadelphia, the third time he's earned this honor. The competition is really important to him, so of course we'd find a way for him to go. But selfishly, I wanted to go along too. I knew I'd be a nervous wreck staying at home, wondering how it was going, whether he was doing well, whether he was frustrated. We knew we had to find a way to make it work. We'd see.

Everything needed to fall into place simultaneously. We needed sitters for the animals, we needed someone to do Indiana's kidney fluids, and I needed to make sure I could get the weekend off from work (but still make it back in time for a Sunday afternoon concert--yes, I am crazy.) A flash of genius made us ask Jim's parents, who are very busy but retired, to come stay with all four pets at our house. Being the wonderful people they are, they agreed. Yay! One big hurdle overcome. Next up was fluids. Our only option, really, was the vet tech at our vet's office, Amanda. She's amazing and kind, and we were hoping she'd be willing to help us out. Allelujia! She was! Last on the list was work, and since my choir director is one of the nicest, most understanding people on the planet, he was fine with my plan to fit both travel and work into one weekend. Gosh! I have the best people in my life!

Jim and I were astonished that everything fit together so easily for us. Perhaps it was meant to be? Were our fates changing? Meticulous planning let us leave for the trip knowing our kids were in good hands, and we had finished our escape-proof cat fencing about a month prior, so we knew our feline babies were safe from harm. We left for the trip confident that all would be well, and though we checked on our clan every day, I was amazingly able to relax and not worry every moment. We returned home from a fantastic weekend with great memories, new friends, and proof that good things actually do happen sometimes. We can leave for a vacation, and our world won't always fall apart.

Our 10th wedding anniversary is approaching in August, and we had always planned on returning to Hawaii to celebrate. (Our wedding was Hawaiian-themed and we spent our honeymoon in Oahu). While our successful trip to Philadelphia taught us that it's probably safe to go away, we still aren't comfortable being an 8+ hour flight away from home. Should (God forbid) something happening with Indiana, we're more comfortable sticking to the continental United States, where we could fly home lickity-split. So the plan is Disney World, but we'll stay at the Polynesian Resort to satisfy our Hawaiian craving.

We still have things to figure out--cat sitter and fluid-giver, but we're confident we can make it work. And when we go, we'll know that the babies are in good hands. I'll still call home every day though--let's not get ridiculous.

Happy Anniversary?

It seems like this time of year is filled with painful anniversaries. Many of the friends I have made through a pet cancer support group lost pets in the spring, and of course anniversaries, or more precisely, holidays, have been on my mind this year.

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and I was really dreading it in many ways. While my own Mom is still alive, young, and healthy, as is my Mother-in-Law, my aunt Carole passed away just 4 months ago. She was a huge figure in my life, like a mother to me. To have her missing on a day when we honor the mother figures in our lives was going to be difficult. I know this because several important days, including Carole's birthday, have already passed this year. I approach each one with a sense of dread, and of loss. I still carry a lot of pain and anger from the loss of Carole. Even the smallest things can hit me and remind me of my loss--something as simple as a Psalm at church, or an item at the store I know she'd like.

Mother's Day was doubly difficult because Mr. Squiggles is still missing. I'm a mother missing a child. My family is incomplete. I think of Mr. Squiggles every single day, but slap a label on a Sunday, and it makes it all that much harder.

I had something of an epiphany this weekend. I was so dreading Mother's Day (even though I wanted to make it special for my own Mom), but it's not the first holiday or event this year that I approached with the same dread. Carole's Birthday, Easter, Mr. Squiggles' Birthday. I feared all of these. But you know what? Those days came and went. I made the best of them, maybe even had some fun with my family. I woke up the next day, and life went on.

Life went on. I realized that I too would survive Mother's Day. I might even have fun. And I did. When watching all of the families at church yesterday morning threatened to remind me of Carole, I remembered this new epiphany and strengthened myself with the knowledge that I would survive today. It doesn't take away the pain, but it makes it more bearable.

So to all of my friends and readers out there facing a tough anniversary of holiday, remember this: you too will survive. The day may be tough, but you'll wake up the following day and carry on. I know there are more rough days ahead for me as I face many more firsts without Carole and Mr. Squiggles. And I will dread them. But I'll get myself through by remembering that I've already survived so much, and I don't intend to stop.


Happy Mother's Day to all of my readers out there who are Moms to both humans and pets alike. Happy Mother's Day as well to my own wonderful mothers, both the one I was born to and the one I married in to! I love you both.

Too much to hope for?

Hope is your friend. I think.

Hope is what has gotten me through the last (nearly) four years with Indiana. It is the official tag phrase of our cancer organization, The Great Good Heart Animal Cancer Foundation. "Never Lose Hope." If I had given up hope on Indiana back on June 30, 2006, my life (and hers) would be decidedly different right now.

When our cat, Mr. Squiggles, went missing back in September of 2009, seven long months ago, hope was all we had. In the beginning, though we were devastated and confused, lost and aching with every fiber of our being, we still had hope that he'd return. It was just a matter of time! If we just looked hard enough, walked enough miles through the corn fields, knocked on enough doors, put up enough posters, answered enough false leads, let the ad in the paper run for enough weeks, consulted enough experts, checked Animal Control enough times, spent enough money, cried enough tears.

Eight months later, what is enough? My cat still hasn't been returned to me.

Just over a month ago, we thought we had found out what happened to our boy. For about 18 hours, our world crashed in on us. Our hope was gone. We felt like we couldn't breathe, like the world was so dark, so cold, and nothing could ever be right again. Then our "lead" turned out to be not so true. We had hope again.

Throughout this ordeal, we've said (and others have said to us) that if he's gone--dead--it's better at least to know. So there's no question. As it turns out, no, it's not better to know. The only acceptable resolution is to get our cat back. If he's dead, we don't want to know. Because having that hope, even if it's just a sliver, a tiny, tiny, sliver, it's still hope. And it's all we've got.