|I wondered why the plastic bucket held such fascination for him.|
|Oh, that's why!|
Talk about fresh cat food! Somehow Screech's container must have gotten tipped over and the lid was open just enough for Mighty Mouse here to squeeze in at some point to help himself. I'm not a fan of rodents at all, but for some reason, this poor mouse with the big, black eyes just looked so pitiful; racing around and around in the bucket, frantically searching for an exit. Finally he sat still and just quivered, realizing his fate was sealed-- this was the end.
But I couldn't do it. I could sympathize. I've been racing around here in circles too, and not getting anywhere either and time is running out. I've been reduced to a quivering pile, too.
So, what did I do with the captive?
I let him go.
And no, not so the cat could catch him either, not that there's much chance of it, since Screech isn't particularly interested in mice.
I just felt so sorry for the varmint for some reason. Maybe it's menopause. Can I blame it on that? Why not, what else is it good for? Maybe it's the close call with the river thing the other day, maybe it's because I realize time is slipping away faster than ever, maybe it's because of loved ones lost along the way, I don't know.
I am so 'emo' at times (gotta love today's kids lingo even though the slang for emotional is probably out of vogue already, but it sure sums me up). 'Emo Karen'....almost as catchy as 'Tickle Me Elmo'...well, ok, not quite.
We were on another garden tour yesterday with our garden group. Two of the ladies who were our hosts had lost their husbands in the last several years. These are big gardens, very close in size to our own disaster here, and both of the ladies were still carrying on with the gardens they started with their spouses. They are both thinking of downsizing and have taken some steps in that direction, though one was apologetic about her perceived lack of progress. Oh, if I had their courage. I applauded the fact they could take any steps in any direction for without Carl, oh.......without Carl.....what would I do? I don't want to know.
I had a talk with Karen, one of the garden tour hosts, whose late husband was very much like Carl when it came to 'collecting' things. She also has two adult sons who at times were just as frustrated with their Dad's compulsion to keep junk as our two are. Now that some time has passed and she feels up to it, she has been attempting to get rid of some of the stuff, but was surprised by her son's reactions.. now that it's possible to get rid of it all, they feel reluctant to part with any of it. Oh, I know....it's the letting go, so many mixed-up emotions.
If Carl were gone and I could deal with his junk without interference, I don't know what reactions I would have either. But I suspect I would be sitting in a pile of used left-handed leather gloves marked 'Steve' and 'Mike' and 'John' and bawling my eyes out because I couldn't get rid of them. (Side note here: the guys at Carl's work are provided with gloves, and for the most part they are all right-handed, and sometimes the left handed gloves aren't too badly worn out--- so when his coworkers throw a pair away, he brings the left handed ones home so we can use them for stonework, sigh (I know, what is wrong with me?!)
I've been treated for depression for years, but I don't think it's just depression driving these emotions, I think it's just who I am. I feel too much, always have. Gardening is my therapy, my exercise and my nightmare at times, all rolled into one. I have a film crew for Wisconsin Public Television coming here in exactly one week to do a little five minute interview with me and look over the gardens....and I have WAY more to do than will ever get done (Including not losing the 100 pounds I wanted to!!!) so why am I sitting here writing about it instead of doing it? Because writing is therapy to me, too.
Mom always says don't borrow trouble, it will come soon enough. She's right. As always. What would I do without her? (Oh, no, don't go there, Tear Alert!)
Sniff, sniff, pass the tissues!
Emo Karen, signing off.