Toby

The summer of 1998 found me living alone in my first own house with two little kittens.  Growing up, we'd always had cats and for years I'd wanted my own, but I was living the life of a young person: moving regularly for college, working abroad, and renting apartments.  I felt it wasn't a stable enough life to bring little ones into (and trust me, by that I mean the feline - not human - kind).  Months after buying the house, litter mates Dodger and Daphne joined me.  My home was complete. And then one month later, I bought the wrong box of cereal and it changed all our lives. 

Actually, the box of cereal I bought was the one I wanted, it's just that the wrong cereal was inside the box, and it was the kind I didn't like.  No, I'd never had this happen before either, not in cereal or canned fruit or anything for that matter, and to top it off - it had dried dates in it which I didn't like as they annoyed me by getting stuck in my teeth.  Miffed, I decided to exchange the box at the grocery store on my way home from work that evening.

I was working as a riding instructor in those days and it was common to head home from the barn about 9 pm after the last student left and the horses were cared for and put away.  Cereal box night was no exception.  Being the Pacific Northwest in summer, even that late it was still light out.  Walking through the store's automatic doors, I noticed a teenage girl sitting near the entrance with a box on her lap.  I don't recall if she called out to me, or was talking to someone else, but somehow I heard the word "kittens" and turned on my heels - just to have a look.  Inside the box were two teenie kittens: one black and gray tabby with a white nose and tuxedo and an even tinier white one with gray patches.  They were each smaller than my hand.  She explained that they belonged to her neighbor who had already drowned their mother in a bucket and was planning to do the same with the kittens. The girl saved them from this vile man and took them to the grocery store to hopefully find them homes.  But now it was after 9 pm, she had to get home and there were two left. Her parents forbade her from keeping them.  I explained that I already had two little kittens and I certainly couldn't keep four.  Thankfully she was persistent and convinced me that if I just took them that night, tomorrow I could take them to a pet store where she was sure they'd be happy to have free kittens to sell, but she just couldn't bring them back anywhere near that horrible neighbor.  

I think you know what happened.  Minutes later with a new box of cereal in hand, I took the box o' kittens and drove home.  

Toby and brother Froggy soon after we met.

Not knowing if they were sick or how Dodger and Daphne would react to the newcomers, I set them up in a spare bedroom for the night.  I estimated they were about one month younger than my two, but they seemed to be eating and drinking on their own just fine. 

The next morning I began to call local pet stores who let me know politely, but firmly, that it just doesn't work that way.  They'd be over run with kittens if they simply took in litters that people couldn't give away.  Call a shelter. Or hey, adopt them out yourself.  
Knowing they were still too young to be separated, I decided to foster them until I could find them proper homes.  With a schedule full of riding students - there had to be someone who would take one or two darling kittens.  I can't remember how long it took me to name them, but the little white and gray became Froggy because he was kind of bullfrog shaped with itty-bitty bowed legs and a bigger body. The fluffy tuxedo with his anime eyes became Toby as he was so sweet and I'd had fond memories of two horses I'd known over the years named Toby.  But anyway, they were just a placeholder names until their new families were found.  It only took about a week to see they weren't sick, and the little two were incorporated into the pride and instantly accepted by the "big cats." 

Shortly thereafter, I found a future home for Toby.  The grandmotherly baby sitter of two of my riding students decided she'd adopt him when he was just a bit bigger and I agreed to keep him a few more weeks. She said he'd be called Sylvester and I was happy to know that the little girls I'd see each week in lesson would also be with him each day and be able to give me reports. 

Just try to tell me that's not the cutest kitten you've ever seen. I dare you.

Then suddenly Froggy went from frisky and boldly exploring the garden with the others, to puny and not eating.  I took him to the vet who told me he couldn't even draw blood from him because at his size - it would have been too great a loss to his little system.  In a very short time, and despite our desperate efforts to save him, he died on his own.  The vet simply said that some kittens were "poor doers" and there was nothing that could have been done.  It was crushing to lose the little guy after he had been doing so well. I buried him in the garden under the plum tree in a pretty little box and decided right then that there was no way I was losing Toby, too.  I told the babysitter lady that I was afraid she'd have to find another Sylvester and Toby became a permanent member of the family. 

His personality grew along with his unusually large paws and his luxurious coat.  Soon, there was no size difference between the three of them and they got along marvelously.  Toby's penchant for sleeping in what I called "kitty porn" poses resulted in a series of centerfold photos spanning his whole life:

Toby the Kitten Pin-up Boy

Have some shame man, really!

Teen Toby and his magnificent stripey belly

Even as a geriatric kitty - he couldn't resist.

Although he was shy and headed under the nearest bed when company came, with family he was all about the on-contact purr as he melted into a boneless bundle in my arms or on our laps. 

Post-Thanksgiving dinner? I don't remember him quite this... fluffy.

Let me tell ya' 'bout my best friend...

As each of the other Tabbies did, Toby also collected a list of nicknames. For a while he was "Tub-pee" for self-explanatory reasons. My husband figured if he was going to "think outside the box," the tub was the best place to do it and we just rinsed out the shower before stepping in.  Later he was Tobias T. Cat, Toblerone, Hoss or Big Beef (because of his big boots), Buddy and T-Bone after a particular Seinfeld episode. Over the years, he and Dodger became the best of buddies.  In fact, the whole clan got along famously; Daphne mothering the boys and each one taking turns cleaning the others' hard to reach spots. 

The three of them were already 13 years old when we signed up for a Foreign Service life and packed them off first to FSI (just the boys with me, and Daphne stayed behind with my husband for six months), then to Bogota, FSI again, Juarez, FSI again and finally Bucharest.  By their teen years they were no longer shy, no more hiding under beds when company came and while I can't say they liked it - they traveled very well and adapted to their new environments quite quickly.

But last Christmas, around the same time we lost Dodger, Toby's health changed.  It started with occasional incontinence, then regular incontinence.  We removed the apartment rugs and invested a king's ransom in doggy pee pads, paper towels and Nature's Miracle.  In June, around his 19th birthday, my husband gave Toby his last nickname -  Captain Underpants - and he became a true Pampered elderly gentleman.

Captain Underpants in his de-luxe bed. 

Diapers? Why not! Toby never ever complained and just pulled his rabbit-thumper paws up to his ears when it was diaper-changing time. 

 It was about this time, as our Romanian adventure was winding down, that he was also diagnosed with mesenteric cancer. There was a mass in his abdomen, perhaps in his bladder and lymph nodes. Even with this diagnosis, outwardly he looked great: maintaining his usual personality and strong appetite.  At his age, full exploration to treat the cancer was simply not something we wanted to put him through. My husband and I decided that he'd have palliative care for any symptoms that came along and we'd just love and nurse him at home, as he'd known all his life.  

Late this summer, the cancer progressed and he began exhibiting visible signs of the disease.  Despite a strong appetite, underneath his still-luxurious coat his muscles were wasting away.  Then the seizures started.  My husband was home with him for each one and comforted him through the fits and the single yowl that punctuated each episode. We tried anti-seizure medications, but they made him too groggy and wobbly to walk well and unwilling to eat, so we stopped them.  Two Fridays ago and sleeping in our bedroom, he had three seizures in the course of one night.  By morning, my husband and I knew that it was time.  

Two buddies hanging out on the balcony, October 2017. 

We'd been referred to a service called Lap of Love that has veterinarians who will come to patients' homes to help pets through their last moments.  We made an appointment for 3:00 that afternoon and spent the day with him.  It was a perfect fall day so we took him out to the grass on the grounds of our apartment building and let him sniff around, feeling the sunny breeze in his fur.  He plunked down on his side and just hung out with us instead. After a bit, we gathered him back up and returned to the apartment for his appointment. The vet was delayed 15 minutes, and at 3:00 exactly, Toby had one last, bad seizure which erased any lingering doubt we may have harbored as to whether or not this was the right time.  Dr. Stephanie was exceptionally kind and patient, and talked us through the peaceful procedure as Toby stretched out on the couch between my husband and me.  We pet him and talked to him until his last breath.  The vet let us take our time in saying goodbye, then wrapped him sweetly in a blanket, put him in a basket and took him to be cremated.  His ashes arrived a week later. 

Toby's last day on my lap, as relaxed and beautiful as ever. 

The pain of having to put a beloved fur-family member to sleep has two sharp edges: the grief of their loss from our lives and the horrible second-guessing, guilt and doubt that comes with wondering if we made the right decision that he wouldn't be with us anymore.  With all three Tabbies, the sharp deterioration in their health helped ease this second part as we saw how their lives had become more about the disease than life.  (However, having said that, I still feel a stabbing "what if" about Daphne and guilt that her last week was spent at the vet instead of home with us.)  With the last one gone, what remains is the emptiness of not having their little furry selves at home.  For the first time in 19 years, I woke up the next morning, walked into the living room and kitchen, and simply didn't know what to do with myself.  There was nobody to feed, nobody to greet me entering the room, nothing to scoop or wipe up, no one to scoop into my arms and step onto the balcony to greet the day - nothing; it was just our furniture and a stack of unpacked cardboard boxes.  I walked aimlessly from room to room a bit, put the kettle on, and took a shower. That was it. 19 years as the Cats' Mother was over. 

So much of my adult identity had revolved around these three - heck, look at the name of this blog. I've always been that cat lover. Picking a cat-themed gift for me has been a sure bet for two decades. I still hear myself saying, "Oh, we have cats, too!" in conversations, and at home catch movement out of the corner of my eye when it's actually just slippers. 

I do know that we gave them the best lives they could have had in terms of love, care and attention. I am proud of that. And I know we'll have cats again; I can guarantee that.  
But not now. Not for a while.  My husband and I need time to just be able to walk out the door, get in the car and go away for the night without planning for their care and fretting over how they're doing the whole time we're away.  I feel a little sad for the next kitties that come into our lives, frankly.  They'll have huge shoes to fill and I can't imagine they'll ever be as funny, sweet, loving, cuddleable as Dodger, Daphne and Toby.  

As for the title of the blog? We remain Tabbies in Tow; these three will never leave us. 

Dodger

Just days before Christmas, we lost our Dodger. 

He was 18.5 years old and a member of the family since I brought him (and his nearly identical sister Daphne) home in a basket at six weeks old.  In re-reading my post from last year (read here) when Daphne died, I see that I can't explain any differently the pain of such a loss nor the additional difficulty of having it happen while living abroad. Therefore I'd simply like to write about my buddy. 

Dodger and I had grown very close over the past few years. Partly due to his age and partly because since joining the State Department, he settled into the life of an indoor cat with far less independent time outside. I've seen him successfully through radioactive iodine treatment for hyperthyroidism, kidney disease, and in Bogota five years ago, during a routine vet visit, he had an anaphylactic reaction to an injection and I watched what I feared were his last yowl and gasp for breath. Clearly they weren't, thanks to the fast actions of my vet and a veterinary ICU hospital just minutes away. (Trust me, I still relive those "what-if" horrors in my mind.)  Then last September he suffered a blood clot that reduced his control over his hindquarters greatly. Fortunately, he was able to re-gain a lot of strength and mobility over time and moved around the apartment as "Wobbles the Cat," even getting up onto the bed and couch, first with help of steps and then a ramp of cushions. However, he began to depend on us more and more. 

On Halloween, he had another set-back, reducing his mobility even more. Finally, on December 23rd, I came into the living room in the morning to feed the boys and start the day only to find Dodgy on his couch crying and crying.  He was unable to sit or stand on his own and for the first time - he seemed to be in pain. The vet came into the clinic an hour before opening hours to see him and after her exam, gave us various options for tests, possible MRIs or ultrasounds of his heart, and various medications we could try to keep him going through Christmas. Only when pushed to be brutally honest did she acknowledge that the very best result we could hope for would be that he returned to how he was the night before. And that chance was slim. Her best guess was that he had a stroke, perhaps caused by another clot. 

I remembered a time about seven or eight years ago when my beautiful black mare "Babe" was worsening with a chronic disease.  I'd be caring for her through her decline for over two years and in a conversation with my husband about when it might be "time" for her, I defended her by noting that she still had a few good days each week.  When my husband asked me if I wanted to wait until she only had bad days, I realized that she would never become a new blossom again. I was only watering a brown plant. She was never going to GET BETTER, and instead of preserving her life, I was only prolonging her inevitable death out of my own reluctance to say goodbye, out of guilt, and out of fear of my own pain and sadness.  These weren't the right reasons.

So instead of exploring all the options and their accompanying false hopes - I remembered Babe's lesson. The vet gave Dodger a pain reliever and sedative to help him feel more comfortable, told us to take him home and just be with him and then come back mid-day with our decision.  He spent his last hours on our bed with us and with Toby, the sun streaming through the window from a blue-sky winter day to warm his fur and old bones. I talked to him, we looked each other straight in the eyes and I just petted him and petted him and petted him. He was relaxed and breathing easily, but the pain reliever had only slightly muted his cries. With that, we knew our decision.

It seemed impossible to know when to stand up, when to put him in his carrier, when to point the car back towards the clinic. It just seemed easier to sit there and stroke him for one last minute. But eventually we did move. My husband and step-daughter were there with me as the vet talked us through the procedure. When he took his last breath, he was already in a deep sleep and felt nothing. The people he knew, loved and trusted were right with him until the end, which is the most any of us can hope for. For the second time in just over a year, I said goodbye and asked for the forgiveness from someone I loved as much as any human family member.  

I will leave you with pictures spanning nearly two decades of memories. He was our Dodger, Dodgy, D-Man, Dodger-Gee (after we watched "Slumdog Millionaire"), Heavy-D, and briefly for an unexplained reason after watching the History Channel, Robert E. Lee. The man in the gray striped pajamas. 
Our friend. 

With Nutmeg in his favorite spot.

Always the mom-cat of the family, Daphne seeing to Dodger's hard to reach spots.

Dodger (left) and Daphne learning how to heat the house.

The only kind of mouse he ever caught. 

Cool-cat at Christmas years ago with his luxurious ruff. 

Spring time under our blooming plum tree. We sprinkled Daphne's ashes in this garden this summer.  

After a good BBQ, the grill-licking and napping commenced. 

All an old guy needs is a basket and a sunny spot in Mexico. 

I never thought Toby would be the last one standing. The tiny kitten adopted from a teenage girl with a box in front of the grocery store late one night on the way home from work. The one I was "Just going to foster until I find the right owner because, well, I already have two kittens."  

Toby

Signing off for now,

Tabby in Tow

Loss and Difficult Times in a Foreign Service Life

Every life, no matter where it is lived, will have its truly difficult and painful times. I'm talking about the big ones: health crises and death.  Foreign Service life obviously is no different in that respect, and some could even argue that it's riskier for both. However, when living abroad there is the additional factor of distance from home, family and familiarity - where we usually turn for solace in these times - that makes such bleak periods all the bleaker. There is also a separate layer, a lens or filter perhaps, that often alters the way we view these events.  It is the guilt that perhaps something could have been different were it not for the fact that we were living wherever we were living when said event took place. 

"But what if we hadn't been here, would this still have happened? What if we were living closer to "home"? What if we didn't have the stress of the move? What if there were better health care here? What if..." 

This is not a healthy internal loop, but it is an inevitable one. Unfortunately, I'm speaking from experience instead of conjecture this time. In my last post, I wrote about the stresses of moving and starting a new assignment.  I wasn't ready yet to discuss what was also going on during that move, but now it's time.  

Daphne in Bucharest on her easy chair.

I mentioned in my last post that Daphne, our only she-Tabby, had suddenly stopped eating about four days before our move. Even after multiple vet visits, they weren't sure what was wrong and the vet gave me basically a bag full of different medications that I could use to help get her to Bucharest comfortably where she could then seek longer-term treatment. The vet knew she wasn't contagious (i.e. a health risk to others to travel), but she also knew what we knew: the plane was leaving and we all had to get on it.  There was no family nearby to care for her and no other great option but to do our best and pack her up.  

I syringe-fed her baby food for about five days and she actually managed the trip quite well.  She even did her best to settle into the new house, exploring it as she always did and sleeping on our bed. But she still wouldn't eat.  On our first Saturday, we took her to her first vet visit. And on Sunday we went back. And on Monday, we made the decision to check her in so that she could be monitored and receive treatment during the day while we were at work and learning our new jobs.  Throughout the day, between meetings, between pleasant conversations with new co-workers, between visa interviews, at lunch as I tried to enjoy the lovely summer weather, immediately when I woke up in the morning and as I tried to get to sleep at night - her situation came back to me like a big, wet, black blanket: ... but Daphne's still sick.

I suppose I knew the inevitable, and by our second Saturday here, the vet called as we were in the cab to see her.  She had a "respiratory incident" that morning, her condition was deteriorating and she felt we should now make a decision for her.  This was a change from the report we got the night before, when she said, "No, it's not time yet. She still wants to be petted, she still has a chance to improve."  But now her systems seemed to be shutting down, and for the first time the vet believed her to be uncomfortable. And she still hadn't eaten.  

My husband and I held her on our laps in the lovely courtyard of the vet clinic on that quiet, sunny Saturday morning.  We talked to her and petted her for a long time and I told her everything I wanted to tell her.  She was very calm and seemed relieved to be with us and not in the cage nor on the treatment table hooked to an IV, which was where she'd been each day that week.  But her eyes were not bright as they always are. She was tired and it was time.  

We have her ashes at home now, next to a photo of the Daphne we all knew: in the garden, tail straight up in the air as she was always happy and excited to see the day, her surroundings and us.  I'd like to bring her back to that garden of the house we still own where she spent her first 13 years, but it may take some time for me to say goodbye again.

Our little Daphne memorial

Intellectually, I understand that she was a 17 yr. old cat and this is what eventually happens. But in my heart were all those questions I posed above, and the worse one: What if we didn't have to move while she was sick?  

I wish I could tell you the story ends there and we have had the past month to grieve and begin feeling better.  However, we were given just one week mental respite where we took off on Labor Day Monday and went down to Constanta on the Black Sea shore.  A day of seeing new sights and beginning to look towards the horizon again.  

And then the very next Friday we came home from work and found Dodger (Daphne's full brother) spread out in the hallway on the hardwood floor where he'd usually only stay a moment, and it was clear that he wasn't there by choice.  Off to the vet again, and the next morning to the radiologist and then the cardiologist (yes, the pet cardiologist), each office located in a different part of this sprawling city. 

Dodger had what is called a "saddle thrombus" - basically a blood clot lodged just in front of his hindquarters. Frequently a death sentence for cats, if not now - than sooner or later.  His hind limbs were partially without blood for many hours while we were at work and the damage to the muscles and nerves had been done.  He could still feel them and move them, they were just uncontrollable, rubbery limbs frustratingly attached to a very alert, motivated, active kitty.  He wasn't in pain, he ate, he drank and all that comes after that. That first week was a series of vet visits and treatments nearly every day, each involving cab rides at rush hour, early weekend mornings, bike rides (on the part of my husband) to pharmacies all over town to find blood thinners and special amino acid tonics that aren't stock products in the vet clinics.  

Dodger on his bedroll and favorite horsey pillow. 

We're now at week three.  Dodger is getting stronger as his uncooperative limbs gain strength.  He got to the point where he could go where he needed to go about 80% of the time, even if it meant flopping over every third step.  But then he suffered a set-back last week (I think another smaller clot), and his progress has stalled a bit, but we still have the same bright-eyed, hungry, loving kitty that is not ready to give up.  It just means patience, a lot of attention, and waking up each middle-of-the-night to take him to the litter box.  

Back to my main thesis: if I were in a "regular" job and living situation, I'd be using some of the loads of sick and vacation leave I have saved up to ease this period. I'd be going in my own car, through my own familiar city, to the regular vet.  I'd be doing all this in English (I've been fortunate in that respect here, I must add), and I wouldn't have all this on top of the brand new job/country/language/culture/home pressures and responsibilities. It might not feel quite so difficult. 

On the other, more practical, hand - all of this treatment in the US would have easily cost multiple thousands of dollars.  Perhaps I would have had the sickening experience of choosing between what I could afford vs. what was the right thing to do. Being in Romania has, ironically, been the best of both worlds: a well-educated society that cares for and understands pets with a very affordable cost of living.  All of Daphne's and (to date) Dodger's treatment has barely crested the $500 mark.  Just the initial cardiologist appointment we had when we were in the diagnosis period would have been $600 in Virginia, and would certainly NOT have come with a follow-up ultrasound scan wherein the vet said, "No charge; it was a nice conversation."

Obviously all that I've described also happens with human family. And when it does, the real-world difficulty of traveling half-way around the world to be at someone's bedside, or the associated guilt and anxiety of leaving others to care for aging parents, is not to be underestimated.  The fact is that life, with all its beauty and ugliness, happiness and sorrow, moves on regardless of where we are.  I don't have an answer or suggestion for how to best handle these hard times and decisions. It's simply a fact that when we choose a life that takes us far away, we will eventually face situations where the bad stuff happens while we're nowhere near home. And it's a lot harder. 

Next time: Something cheerier, I hope. 

T Minus Six Months

It was just Friday that our transfer schedule was approved, giving us our official last day in Juarez as January 21, 2015.  Which means that tomorrow will make exactly six months until we pack everything into the car again, Tabbies included, and make the return drive north to the mothership (FSI).  We will stop en route at a house we've rented for a month in Florida for our Congressionally-mandated twenty business days of home leave in which we're supposed to reacquaint ourselves with American life.

This opening paragraph states some basic facts upon which I feel compelled to expand. Not only because it's my nature to explain (just ask my husband), but also because it could lead people to some great misunderstandings.  Where to start?  

With the "housekeeping" basics:  The cycle of an Entry-Level Officer is such that our first two tours are directed.  We received our second posting late last year and a few months ago submitted to our Career Development Officer and Assignments Officer what we'd like as our transfer schedule.  There is a bit of horse-trading that goes on to make this schedule because it involves contacting our onward assignment (US Embassy Bucharest) and asking them when they want us to arrive.  Their decision is based on factors such as when my predecessor will leave, when a house will be available, when a physical work space will be available or whether or not there's a large event going on at that time that would make a newcomer's arrival a hassle (i.e. my friend was told not to arrive in Brazil until either well before or after the World Cup, and not during).  Keep in mind that I was asking them this information 18 months in advance, with a good chance that the people answering will not even BE in Bucharest when we get there.  They responded by giving me a date, Aug 20, 2015.  I also had to consider the start time of my language training using the FSI course calendar and work backwards from that date to make sure we have 20 business days (not to include federal holidays!) of home leave, and sufficient driving days to our home leave destination.  Being on the border, most of us drive to our home leave, whereas the rest of the world flies, naturally. (Side note: our current Consul General and his family, including multiple cats and dogs DROVE from their assignment in Honduras to home leave in the US many years back. Naturally with today's security situation this adventure would never be approved, but it certainly endeared me to him and his wife when I heard this story.)  We're told that we must leave post in the same month in which we arrived, and any deviation would require a fine-tooth-comb examination of the reasons for such an extension or curtailment.  In our case, we requested a 10-day curtailment in order to have those 20 days of home leave before language training starts on February 23rd.  Fortunately, it was approved, but that is by no means always the case.  

Okay, so now we have a fixed departure date.  Unfortunately, the transfer schedule that was returned to me wants us to arrive in Bucharest on August 16, not August 20 as post wanted, all because a short course at FSI that I proposed taking has been cancelled, meaning we have to get out of Dodge as soon as Romanian training is over.  Now I have to recontact Bucharest and horse-trade again for those extra four days.  Arriving on a Sunday, which August 16th will be, is no fun for anyone.  It means that my sponsor and an Embassy driver have to work on a Sunday to meet us, and that my first day of work will now be a Monday with a full work week ahead of me when I'm exhausted from travelling overnight with three cats.  (See why we all want to arrive on a Thursday now?)  Therefore Bucharest just might not approve the August 16th arrival and the bargaining will begin again.  

Now back to my opening paragraph:
When I state that we are now "T minus six months from departure" it should be understood that I am not excited about leaving Juarez, but I am excited about moving on to our next adventure.  

Just the other night, my husband and I were watching the show "The Bridge" which is set in El Paso/Juarez and is all about two detectives with very different personalities: one Mexican and one American, working together to solve a murder/many murders. Unfortunately the show is set in Juarez's bad ole' days and its plot capitalizes on the danger of the city, whereas today's truth is vastly different. Just so you all know - it's not like that now.  My husband rolled his eyes and teased me about exclaiming, "Look - there's that road/building/highway!  Look, it's border the crossing! Awww... the El Paso star!" in fondness as if I were seeing footage of a place long missed.  I'm really glad I'm watching this here and now where I have it all just outside the door and can still be living and enjoying this quirky neither-here-nor-there slice of our continent.  I have great fondness for our dusty, beaten-down city and I am NOT looking forward to leaving.  

The Tabbies love it here.  The heat is great for old bones and they love their garden and all the roaming room our two-story house offers.  I love our vet just over the border for these old bones and the ease in which I can buy their 30-pound boxes of cat litter. I love the fact that my husband has a great job and with a salary where he can save a bit for the minimum and unavoidable eight months of unemployment he'll face next year when we move.  I love my six minute walk to work.  I love that it takes two short flights to visit anyone in my family and the time zone difference requires adding or subtracting ONE HOUR to call them.  I love that I have been given free rein (pun intended) to ride lovely horses nearby and good friends to share this with. I love the challenges of the complexity of my work, even the stress that comes along with it.  (I don't LOVE that part, but I know I'm learning from it.) 

And I love our local coworkers.  As we're in the height of transfer season now, our despedidas (going away parties) are now for four to six people each time, instead of just one.  During these despedidas, the leaving officer generally makes a goodbye speech in front of the whole Consulate crew and invariably it ends with a, "...and more than anything, I'm so thankful for our awesome local staff who have taught me so much, been so kind, patient, welcoming, hard-working etc..."  And they're right.  I can't relish the day when we cross northbound for the last time simply due to the friendships that I've made here. We Americans will cross paths again in this giant salad-spinner that is the Foreign Service, but the local staff will stay here and continue to be themselves in their lives for wave after wave of new officers.  Pretty soon it will be, "Remember that officer so-and-so?" and maybe they will, or maybe they won't.  I'm doing my best to be one of those officers who they actually DO remember, and do so with a smile. Is that because besides always wanting to explain, I also always want to be liked? Sure. But also because it's important that I am that person people want to work with who is knowledgeable and does good work as a leader and manager - which is where all officers end up in short time. Juarez is teaching me all of that.  

In a very big nutshell, having our end date now fixed is very bittersweet.  I still have so much to learn here.  While the excitement of the new adventure is ever-so-savory, we have a good life here now and should never forget to recognize that by only looking forward to the next big thing.  

A coworker who just left Juarez wrote this post about her time here, the good and the not-so-good parts. 

Scorching in the Southland

It is June 1st which in the borderlands, which means that triple-digit temps for weeks on end are fair game.  Last year I missed spending the entire month of June in Juarez as I was in Monterrey (where it was only 98 and humid), so this will be a first.  But when I came home, I witnessed what 30 days of 100+ degrees can do to one's garden, parching the life out of even my flowering desert succulents and sending them to a place from where they never returned.  This year I've tried a different variety of flowering succulents so we'll see if I have a different result.  I hope so, because they're quite charming. (I was planning on inserting a picture of them here, so I just went out into the garden to snap the photo and found their little blossoms shut tight for business. Hurrumph.)
But at least the bougainvillea are happy and willing to show off (there are two more pots with three different colors, if I may brag). 

Here is our work-week forecast:

A picture is worth a thousand "DAMN but it's HOT!"s

Please also notice that even though we have some cloud cover coming in, the chance of rain remains at, oh, zero percent. 

What do you do when it's this hot? Adapt.

We do the laundry a little differently now:

By the time we finish hanging a line's worth, the first items are already dry.  Something to do with the less-than-30% humidity perhaps?  I couldn't fathom turning on the dryer at a time like this. Please also note our camping tarp and tent poles my husband put together to make a nice shady spot.  (No, it's not the southern screened porch I've always wanted to be sittin' and sippin' under, but it works great and we don't have kudzu to contend with, so there.)

The Tabbies have adapted too. Toby, who is definitely from Scandinavian stock and has a double coat, goes outside for less than two minutes, just enough time to do the sniffing rounds of the garden and then safely retreat to his air conditioned 74 degree living room couch.  Dodger and Daphne, obviously born in damp and mild Washington state by accident, stretch out under the bushes FOR HOURS at a time.  Now before anyone starts firing off a cat mistreatment complaint, let me assure you that it's THEIR idea. Dodger especially begs to go out there; they are never left unattended, and there's a bowl of water right next to them.  They just soak the warmth up into their 16 year old bones and couldn't be happier. 

Last night my husband and I went to the schmancy mall near our house for dinner and a movie.  It was the type of movie I'd usually wait to see on DVD, but the excuse to get into a climate-controlled comfortable environment other than our own living room was too enticing.  We found about ten thousand other Juarenses had the same idea and we had to circle the parking lot looking for a spot like it was Christmas.  In my eagerness to find a movie that wasn't Godzilla, I didn't notice that the one I picked was dubbed in Spanish.  We usually go to the subtitled movies, and when the nice movie theater cashier heard our choice, she quickly warned us, "You know this is in Spanish, right? They'll be talking only Spanish in this movie and not English.  Do you want to pick something else instead?"  Okay, I shouldn't be surprised that she deftly figured out we weren't from around here when we walked up to the counter, but heck chica, I was ordering the tickets IN SPANISH.  But she had a point, as it would be our first no-handrail movie.  I'm pleased to say that we understood at least 80%, even if my husband admitted to reading the actors' lips and any other confusion was cleared up by context clues.  Besides, it wasn't a really dialog-driven movie, if you know what I mean.  All in all, we had a good evening and when we pulled out of the mall parking lot at 9:30 pm, it was still in the 90s.

So that's how we pass the time and survive the scorch in the desert. It's not so bad, really. Come back in a few weeks and see if I've changed my opinion.

Spring In!

Warning: If you have found this blog looking for lots of Foreign Service how-tos, you may be better off reading earlier entries. If you like gardening, pets, and general career musings? Read on.

Spring has returned to the borderlands, our second time through. We're no longer surprised to feel the hot, strong winds in their hyper-allergenic glory, carrying bits of the northern Chihuahua desert to the sneezing, sniffling residents of Juarez and El Paso.  Not so much fun for those of us with any type of allergy, but great if you're a cat who likes to bask in the not-yet-too-hot sunshine and feel the breeze in your fur as you prowl the garden.  Sometimes the wind can get downright ridiculous, whistling and howling through window and door cracks to keep us awake at night, taking down tree limbs throughout the neighborhood.  Other times it just rustles the palm fronds around our house and dries our laundry on the line in about ten minutes. 

But spring also means longer days and more sunshine for the garden.  Our dormant plants have burst back to life, naive of the scorching that their delicate leaves will have to endure in just two months.  For now, however, my garden looks lovely.  Yeah, the lawn is still a bit patchy 'round the edges because the sun doesn't quite reach all the corners yet, but with the rains of June - it'll be lush again.  I'm so excited to see the rose bushes are flourishing and loaded with buds. Even the jasmine vine has gone wonkers setting new buds.  Just take a look at it all:

Star Jasmine vine with tons of little buds

Happy geranium that was inherited from friends leaving  post

Cream rose edged in bright, dark pink

Count 'em seven white rose buds!

We also have five large pots of bougainvillea, three of which were inherited from some friends leaving post for Vienna, where they're now ensconced in a metropolitan flat, no space for the literal carloads of gardening goodies they left with us.  That's another thing that's fun about this lifestyle if one is gardening-inclined: the chance to play with bringing things to life in tropical, urban, desert or mountainous climates for two years each.  I've never had jasmine this happy before, and since the 1990s, I've cursed the black spot that plagued my favorite rose bushes in the Pacific Northwest - but not here! (Something to do with the 24% humidity, perhaps?)

Besides flora, we're also happy with the fauna this little yard has attracted.  Hummingbirds last summer, doves year-round, and a darling bachelor cardinal all winter. Toby has taken umbrage with the doves who land in HIS yard, even when HE'S on patrol! He gets in the low, pounce-and-destroy position, ears flattened and tail twitching and, and... well, that's all.  But trust me - he LOOKS really scary. Except to the doves who know better and are truly in no danger. 

"The menace, the silly fool! Who does this dove think she is? This is MY yard!"

Dodger and Daphne, on the other hand, gave up such charades years ago and are satisfied resting under the rose bushes, or rolling in the dusty patches of the lawn.  That's the best way they've found to carry the dirt, grass clippings and dried leaves into the house to spread the lovely outside all over the couches, beds and tile floor.  

Cat Napping: A still life

Meanwhile, in the world outside the stone wall, the work life is still equal parts challenging and interesting.  Since my arrival, I've hoped to move through the three consular sections of the Consulate: non-immigrant visas (NIV), immigrant visas (IV) and American Citizen Services (ACS).  I've hit two of the three, but have yet to be assigned to one of the few ACS spots we have.  I wanted the consular trifecta so that when I get to my next post, which has a consular section that is just the fraction the size of the Juarez operation, I want to be as well-rounded and prepared as possible.  But it appears that this hope will not come to fruition as just recently I was offered one of two positions to train the incoming IV officers for my remaining time here (nearly a year).  I'm of the mind that an unexpected opportunity will lead to an unexpected result, and therefore I'm excited to take on this challenge and I trust that it will lead to a greater depth of understanding of the complexities of IV work, along with the satisfaction of being able to train a new generation of fresh officers. 

We have a tradition of putting a toro pinata on the desk of the newest officer, and lately he's been quite actively bouncing from desk to desk. The new generation is starting to trickle in, and in the past two weeks we've welcomed four new officers already.  But newcomers means that the veterans are moving out, and it's also the sad despedida (going away party) season, too.  We send off our friends and colleagues, most likely to see them again at FSI or years down the road in some other post where we'll have to pause to remember exactly from where we knew them. It's nothing personal, more like a professionally-induced tic. When the new officers arrive, besides the typical getting-to-know-ya' questions, I generally ask them "Whose house did you get?", a little mnemonic for helping me keep straight who lives where. "Ahhh... you're in THAT house? Wow, you're going to have to live up to a long tradition of garden parties living there!" I warn them. 

So that's the seasonal update.  Soon we're off to our first vacation together since 2012 that involves an airplane.  The Tabbies will be left in the care of our housekeeper's daily visits.  But that's a story for another day, and it will be entitled, "Spanish 201: How to teach someone to pill a cat." 

Cresting One Year in Juarez and Three Years in the Foreign Service

I think the title says it all: we've recently hit our one-year mark here in the northern Chihuahua desert and are now, as my friend called it, on the back nine.  For me it was an important moment because even though I've been in the Foreign Service for three years now (this month!), I haven't been at any post for more than one year.  We curtailed from Bogota just weeks before hitting the exact one year mark to join A-100, so in a way I feel I haven't been able to see an assignment all the way through to completion.  

Time has so many ways of passing, depending on what's going on in one's life.  This is one of the reasons why my husband and I decided to take on a life of continual change, actually.  I find that when someone is in a routine, any routine, time truly flies.  Each Wednesday begins to feel like the last, each weekend blurs into the next one until you realize that one, three, seven years have gone by.  But when placed into new environments, where our senses must be active to adapt and survive, time passes far more slowly.  Each day brings a new sight, smell, taste, fear, joy - something, anything - that makes us feel more alive instead of simply living on muscle memory.  

In some ways it feels as though the next year will take forever to pass. We still have one heck of a summer to get through, which in early March is already teasing us with days as warm as Seattle in late July.  We'll have another rainy, road-flooding season, another Christmas, another tiresome annual employee evaluation to write (just turned mine in yesterday, thank you) etc...  However, given the theory I proposed in the paragraph above, I believe the year will pass quickly as we have definitely settled into a comfortable routine.  I'm really enjoying my work and have reached a level of confidence that each day doesn't feel like I'm a fish on the carpet anymore.  The Tabbies certainly have their days mapped out: breakfast, quick tour of the garden to "read" who shinnied down the tree to invade their turf the night before, grab a few winks on the couch, then up to the bedroom to catch the mid-day sunny spots, then we're home for dinner and some more time in the garden before bed.  It's a nice way to pass a life when you're 15.5 years old (or about 80 in human years). 

But for those of us who are not 80 in human years, I feel that this is my young life and I don't want it to pass so quickly!  My husband and I have started making lists of places we need to see and things we need to do before the buzzer goes off and we have to leave Mexico.  I've recently applied (again) for a rotation into the American Citizen Services section at the Consulate which would mean learning a whole new set of consular skills.  If I'm not selected for that spot, I'll raise my hand for a TDY to another other post in Mission Mexico this summer, like I did last June in Monterrey. Anything to make the most of our time here, both personally and professionally, and milk every drop out of life.  Otherwise it's just too easy to let the years march on and before I know it, I'm 80 and just looking for a sunny spot to rest in.  

To add some color to this contemplative entry, I'm going to close with some photos of our most recent weekend escapes. First to Guadalupe National Park in Texas for a day hike. Later we visited Silver City, NM and finally we had a great camping trip to Aguirre Spring National Recreation Area near Las Cruces, NM.  These little trips are all ways of trying to brighten up our otherwise regular, suburban existence.  (Speaking of which, please notice that I've started to add a list of blogs from and about Juarez, in case any of you are reading this due to being assigned here in the near future.  I understand that there was a recent A-100 flag day wherein NINE new Juarez-bound Consular Officers received their tiny Mexican flags.  Bienvenidos todos!)

Homestead in Guadalupe Mountains National Park, TX

Canyon view from Devil's Hall Trail in Guadalupe Nat'l Park

Is that standing water? View from the highway towards Guadalupe Nat'l Park and the highest peak in Texas

Lovely campsite in Aguirre Spring Nat'l Recreation Area, NM

Bad moon on the rise - looking east from Aguirre Spring

New day dawning with a huge horizon, Aguirre Spring

Organ Mountains, eastside view from Aguirre Spring

Gila Cliff Dwellings Nat'l Monument, near Silver City, NM

Living room view for Gila Cliff dwellers

Some little friends near our kitchen window in Silver City, NM. I saw 16 different bird species here!

Funky downtown Silver City, NM

How the Tabbies pass the day

An older gentleman loves his basket