Love, Actually

At first, Clyde was not very impressed with Bishrito.

We couldn't really blame her.

 Hello! My name is...

 BISHRITO!

For his first few years of life, Bishrito was a very busy guy. He really wanted to play with Clyde. And (in case you missed it) he has always been the kind of cat who would do anything for attention, especially in front of a camera.

 Hey baby...

Does this couch make my butt look big?

Clyde did not think he was funny.

She didn't want to play his kitten games.

She thought he was a disgrace to the noble name of Cat.

OMG. I don't know him. I do NOT know him.

And of course, poor Bishrito was (and always has been) completely in awe of Clyde.

We thought she might never love him back.

I'll take the worms.

 With a side of worms.

But after a few years, Clyde began to thaw.

At first, they seemed to be just tolerating each other.

Good fences. Good neighbors.

Then, one day, after contractors jack-hammered up our bathroom floor, I found them in our bed, under the comforter, huddled together in terror.

Bish looked terrified.

Clyde looked mortified.

They didn't hang around long enough for me to get photographic proof...

But the cats 

(so to speak) 

were out of the bag. 

Bishrito and Clyde still don't lay around licking each other's ears (at least not out in the open where the humans can see).  

Bish still pesters Clyde sometimes, and she still swats him upside the head.

But they are friends.

They sniff and nuzzle in passing. They look out for each other.

 Maybe that's the best part of love, after all.

An Aside About Clyde

Although I didn't make it obvious in earlier postings, we actually have two cats in residence at The Beet Ranch.  Bishrito and...

Clyde.

In case you can't tell by looking at her, Clyde is a girl. We call her Clydiebunny when she is feeling girlie, but most of the time (and especially when she is in big trouble), we call her Clyde. 

That's Clyde E. Bunny to you, human.

Clyde has a very important job at The Beet Ranch. 

Chief Writing Muse...

Motivator...

And Supreme Guardian of the Writing Spot.

She is always on duty for love and creative support. 

Even when the writing is BAD.

Vigilando!

Clyde has been in my life longer than my husband. She was 10 years old when we got Bishrito and enjoying being an only cat. We were planning to let her stay that way. But, sometimes... counter to the best laid plans...

Kittens happen.

Clyde is an extremely sweet cat. She's the kind of cat that melts in your arms when you pick her up; the kind that has fits of drooling ecstasy when petted. We thought she'd welcome the kitten eventually. We thought she might like a friend. We even thought the kitten might kindle her latent maternal instincts.

Nope.

When we introduced Clyde to little Bishrito, she sniffed his nose. Aw! 

Then, she ROARED. 

I have never heard Clyde make a sound like that before or since.

Bish thought she was going to eat him. 

I thought she was going to eat him. 

We all jumped about two feet and Bish pooped in my lap.

Since that day, Bishrito has had a very healthy respect for Clyde. 

Today, at five years old, Bish outweighs Clyde by about ten pounds. He has big sharp claws and womps on me and Grady at least three times a day.

Clyde turned fifteen this year. She is extremely skinny. She has cataracts. She has arthritis in her hips and paws. She doesn't have her front claws.

Bishrito still defers to her at the food bowl.

I still defer to her at the desk.

Clyde E. Bunny, musing hard.

The Bish BOB

Some cats don't mind being trussed up a little.

Bishrito isn't one of them.

Ask yourself: Do you feel lucky, Human?

Maybe it's not too surprising that we found him completely resistant to wearing a halter and walking on a leash, even as a small kitten.

Still, we didn't want to deprive him of the outdoors altogether.

So, I bought Bishrito a stroller.

The Bish BOB.
Click here for purchase information.

 Yes, that's right. At one low point along my infertility journey, I did indeed buy my cat a jogging stroller.

I blame targeted advertising.

From the BOB website.

BOB Sport Utility Stroller

**Kid not included.

Well, I blame targeted advertising and the fact that, for me, being middle-aged without the kids feels something like this:

Bishrito is as much a baby as we will ever have. So, he got a stroller, and a spendy one at that.

On a somewhat less crazy level, a pet stroller did seem like the perfect solution for us. I would have a reason to go jog and Bish would get his outside fix. Everyone would be happy! Bish and I could tour the neighborhood! Mission Bay! The beach!

I was so excited.

At first, the Bish BOB seemed a success. My husband took him on mad bombing runs around the house.

Too close for missiles, switching to guns.

He loved it. (Bish also loves to be borne around the house in a laundry basket like he's Cleopatra Queen of the Nile, but that's a story for another day.)

Trips outside in the BOB were another story entirely. I started by taking him on short trips around the block. As soon as we journeyed out of sight of The Beet Ranch, Bishrito the Badass would abandon all pretense of machismo. For most of the walk, he'd run back and forth in the stroller looking distressed and making little-lost-kitten alarm mews. I thought he just needed a little time to get used to the idea, but, turns out, he didn't.

Bishrito got over the Bish BOB the day we met a pitbull in a pick-up truck who looked Bish over like he was a little kitten bon-bon in a $200 wrapper.

I got over the Bish BOB the day an older neighbor came up to see what was in the stroller, and, on seeing it was a cat (not a baby), backed away slowly and went back in his house. At this point, it began to dawn on me that Bish and I might never be wholly welcome at Stroller Striders.

When Bishrito began to seem less than interested in getting in the stroller, we gave it up altogether.

For awhile, I kept the Bish BOB in the spare bedroom with our disaster preparedness kit, justifying its presence as a handy way to evacuate our cats in an emergency. Eventually, I realized it was making me sad. A lot of people our age have actual BOBs in their spare bedrooms. And they have legos, and story books, and hamster wheels, and skate boards, and bunk beds with Disney-themed sheets. In our spare room, we had a zombie attack survival kit, assorted busted stuff, and one extremely dusty, high-quality jogging stroller for our cat.

We sold the Bish BOB for $40 on Craigslist to a great couple, who wanted it for their bulldog with a broken leg. The man seemed a little embarrassed, but the woman was clearly overjoyed to have found a way to help her injured pup enjoy some walks. And the bulldog, in his doggy way, seemed happy that the woman was happy.

And, in the end, that made me happy too.

So Long and Thanks for the Hives

So, about that doomed Mexican Feather Grass...

It all started when we got rid of our lawn.

I've lived on the East Coast, where lawns just happen and people spend their summers blithely mowing their entire property.  But here in SoCal, lawns are not in the natural order of things. You might not be able to tell by looking, but San Diego is more coastal desert than tropical paradise. We get only around 12 inches of rain per year. A lush lawn here usually indicates major irrigation efforts (with water mostly piped in from the Colorado River or Central California) and lots of chemicals. Here's a link about where San Diego gets its water. Interesting and scary!

When we started work on the Beet Ranch in earnest, my primary gardening principle was: Grow what wants to grow where it's planted.

Lawns do not want to grow here. We ripped out our lawn.

Our next door neighbor happened to be a landscape designer, and he helped us plan a low water front yard including (you guessed it) a big swath of Mexican Feather Grass.

Since we don't have Feather Grass now, here are some pictures of my dream Feather Grass from just up the road in Solana Beach.

I love this little strip of landscaping down the HWY 1.  In fact, I got in a car accident a few years back, right about...

 here.

I was temporarily distracted by the sea of golden waving fronds. No kidding. Actually, I think my exact thought was... How doooo they get their grass to look like that? And then I rear ended a Volvo. 

I loved our Feather Grass when first it was new.

Feather Grass at its most feather lovely.

It fulfilled my then primary gardening principle.  It wanted to grow in my yard, big time. We started out with about six plants, but I really wanted to go for the river o' grass look (see above in Solana Beach). I fretted about getting more little grass plants to fill in the gaps between my big grass plants.  Then the grass feathered, and we discovered we didn't have to buy more Feather Grass, because the Feather Grass was making more Feather Grass.

Tribble of the plant kingdom, tribbling.

Soon every square inch of bare soil in our front yard was covered in a soft mat of clingy Feather Grass seeds and shooting up adorable green baby grasslets.

 Oh! Look! Like little baby kittens!

And we encouraged them. I transplanted baby grasses from crowded spots to bare spots. I watered them. I talked to them.

Unfortunately, before he moved, our neighbor neglected to tell us that Feather Grass needs to be lopped off every winter, like this:

So we didn't lop our grass.  And in the course of one season, it went from garden of the flowing savannah to yard of the natty dread.

Like this, only worse.

All that Fall, I went out and spent hours meticulously snipping off the dreads with clippers. (This was a couple years before I embraced the butt-kicking gratification of the power hedge trimmer.) Still, I was too blinded by love to see that, armed with clippers, I was fighting a losing battle with the Feather Grass.

I noticed that romping around in the grass for a few hours left me all kinds of itchy. I thought I was just getting the seeds and feathers stuck in my clothes and they were tickling me. But then, one day, my mom came out to help me snip, and she had an asthma attack. Bish was enthusiastically barfing wicker furniture. And one morning, walking the neighborhood, I noticed little baby Feather Grasslets sprouting in all the sidewalk strips up and down my block on both sides of the street.

Slowly I realized my beloved grass was a) trying to kill us all and b) take over the world.

My mother-in-law (who is amazing) helped us enormously by ripping the feathergrass out. Then she promptly broke out in hives.

When we planted and subsequently ripped out the grass, I could not find any information about the invasive nature of Mexican Feather Grass. Now, however, there is some discussion about the aggressive propagation of Feather Grass (AKA Nassella tenuissima) in the California agricultural community.  Click here for an article from the Division of Agriculture and Natural Resources at the University of California about new invasive grasses in California.

My new primary gardening tenet?

Don't negotiate with any plant seeking world domination.

Tempting, but no.

Ode to Feather Grass Departed

If Bishrito could write a poem, it would be about Feather Grass.

Mexican Feather Grass. Nassella tenuissima.



Oh baby.

I had a brief love affair with this plant too. But, Bish, oh, he had it bad.

For a long time, we thought his motivation to escape was purely about Feather Grass. At every opportunity he would zoom out the front door, go straight to it and start gobbling it, wallowing and purring like a maniac.

At first, we thought this routine was kind of cute and harmless. Aw! Bish WANT Feather Grass! Awwwww!

WANT is the understatement of the century when it came to the way Bish felt about the Feather Grass. Whenever the front door opened, he would morph instantly from a batcat-shaped bed lump into a 15 lb Feather Grass seeking missile. There were incidents. I dropped a cup of coffee down my uniform and into my nursing bag trying to hold him back with my foot. My husband accidentally shut his head in the door. (This did not remotely slow his grassward trajectory.) He bowled my mom over backwards, clean off the front step.

I worried (because that is what I do), but I couldn't find any real evidence to support my concerns that Bish's Mexican Feather Grass intake might be problematic. Feather Grass doesn't appear on ASPCA's list of plants toxic to cats.  Bish didn't seem any worse off for the amount of the stuff he was consuming. And, my husband pointed out, it did keep him from running up the street when he managed to escape the house. I worried anyway. Feather Grass blades are stiff, faintly barbed, and look entirely indigestible. Every once in awhile, Bish would barf up something vaguely resembling a wicker basket. I'd find long Feather Grass poop trains in the litterbox. And well, like any good nurse, I can't abide disordered poop.

So, I tried to distract Bish from the Feather Grass. I brought home a plastic tub of cat grass. He was not remotely interested. I grew a cat-level pot of cat grass and set it directly in his sight-line to the Feather Grass. He jumped over it. I replaced the cat grass with catnip. Every cat in a three block radius started loitering in our front yard. Over a period of several days, the nip began to look more and more badly used, until one morning I found the plant, dug up completely and laying in the middle of the street. (I mention this as testament to the quality of the nip in question.) But, alas, even homegrown Beet Ranch nip could not divert Bishrito from his devotion to his beloved Feather Grass.

So, finally, I ripped the Feather Grass out.

More about that next time.

The Quest of the Mighty Bishrito

Bishrito has spent most of his life as an indoor cat.

Bishrito's view of the Beet Ranch front door.

The ASPCA and the Humane Society of the United States both recommend domestic cats be kept as indoor pets. (For articles, click the links.) They cite multiple rationales for this recommendation, such as the increased lifespan of indoor cats compared to outdoor cats (10-12 years indoor vs. 2 years outdoor).

Here are my top three very good (I think) personal reasons for keeping our cats indoors:

1) We live on a street, with cars.
2) Coyotes are native to San Diego. Coyotes eat cats.
3) I like birds.

As much as we love Bish, we have no illusions about his natural instincts as a predator.

 Take me to your birdies.

Click the sparrow or Bishrito the Birdinator for a scary article from the American Bird Conservancy about how many birds are killed by domestic cats every year.

 Friends not food!

Unlike many catrearing decisions we've made over the years, I feel like our decision to keep Bish inside has a strong evidence basis.

But, that argument is lost on Bishrito.

We thought it wouldn't be difficult to make Bish an indoor cat. Our other cat, Clyde (an older female tabby), certainly never cared. Bishrito has a good life here at the Beet Ranch. He has a cat tree, regular meals, TREATS, great healthcare, a big basket of cat toys, and humans who love him. We thought Bish wouldn't remember his first two weeks of life in the wild. If he did, we thought he wouldn't remember them fondly. We were wrong.

He longs for the wild.

This picture always breaks my heart.

Who could fail to relate to the yearning to get out? To seek the wild in a place where the wild has been denied?

Bishrito's quest is our quest too.  

Going Batty

In case you haven't noticed, here at the Beet Ranch, we have a little bit of a thing for bats.

(Okay, okay, this one's a cat pretending to be a bat.)

Bishrito and I would love it if you would take a moment to check out this video series from the National Park Service about White Nose Syndrome, a disease that has been decimating bat populations in the U.S. 

White Nose Syndrome Video Series

And we're hoping, after seeing all those adorable bats, that you'll also check out Bat Conservation International, to learn more about bats and how to protect them.

Bishrito: The Early Days

If you have never been, Point Loma and specifically, Cabrillo National Monument, is a pocket of wilderness in the urban landscape of San Diego.

The 660 acres of protected habitat on the Point Loma peninsula are home to 346 species of birds, plus Pacific rattlesnakes, lizards, shrews, rabbits, coyotes, foxes, Mexican long-tounged bats, tarantulas and loads of other plants, animals and bugs. The coastal sage scrub habitat preserved here is one of the most endangered ecosystems in the world. Only 10-15% of this habitat remains worldwide.

Bishrito's story begins in this last little piece of wild San Diego. He was born here, on Naval Base Point Loma, under a bush.

When he was two weeks old, his mom disappeared. Bishrito and his six little black siblings were left to fend for themselves.

Fortunately, these kittens had already wormed their way into the soft hearts of an office full of Navy engineers. When it became clear the kittens had been abandoned, my husband and several of his coworkers captured the kittens and took them home.

My husband said he picked Bishrito, out of all the kittens, because he put up the biggest fight.

 Gnar!

Thus, Bishrito made his big entrance into our lives.

The Mighty Bishrito

This is Bishrito. 

He may be the only aspiring Jamaican Fruit Bat in San Diego County. 

Bishrito.

Jamaican Fruit Bat.

Awesome Jamaican Fruit Bat photo courtesy of George Bareham (Photo Copyright 2010 George Bareham)
Click here to see full article about Jamaican Fruit Bats on www.FaunaForever.org.

 
Admittedly, Bishrito does have a bit of a grass problem.

And, rest assured, whatever your gender or sexual orientation,

He would love to get in your pants.

He leads a life of adventure and intrigue, but,

as far as we know...

Bishrito has never eaten a beet.