I was going through a box of cache goodies tonight -- stuff I've accumulated to trade, stuff I picked up at other caches that I may keep or may trade again, etc. After 157 caches, my three favorite items are...
- a ceramic walnut made by the cache placer's mother.
- a wooden domino from a set with a "traffic sign" theme. This one is a double "duck crossing."
- a clear glass cat paperweight, with a little orange fish in its belly.
Caches, by and large, are full of junk. And still, every single time I find one, I'm eager to open it, because I don't know what's inside. The find itself is the best part; if there's anything fun in the cache, that's just icing. But I'm already plotting to put cool glow-in-the-dark things in our night cache, if we ever place one. Light sticks, glow frogs, glow silly putty, glow stars, some mini-flashlights I found for 99 cents... I want a cache where if you shine your light in and then turn it off, the whole box will glow :). The best we can do is place a cache we'd like to find, right?
My mood is much improved over the last couple of days. Really, yesterday was just a brief rut of frustration. I'm definitely calling off next Tuesday's dental appointment, and perhaps I'll even take a vacation day so I can work on apartment things. I get paid tomorrow, which is always a mood-lifter, and for at least a day I will feel financially comfortable. (Then I'll transfer most of it -- to Ken for rent, and to my savings account for the dental work, and then I'll decide whether there's enough left both for groceries and for some new books from Amazon. They're discounted and the shipping is free...)
May 1st is the Universal Cat Birthday, at least in my family. Three of the four kittens I got growing up were acquired on Father's Day, through one means or another. They were roughly six weeks old at the time, though we only know the birthday of one -- May 1. For convenience's sake, we simply made it the birthday of all the cats -- it was surely as close to being true as any other random day in early May that we might choose. Tomorrow, then, Spanky will be 17, and Harry will be ten. Heather, if she were still alive, would be 21. We always called her "Grandma Heather," and in my mind she's still the oldest, even though Spanky has now lived longer than Heather did. So has Misty, who's nearly 18, but couldn't possibly have had a May birthday and thus never really receives any acknowledgment. Harry still seems like a kitten to me -- we found her on Father's Day, when she tried to follow my brother home. It was the summer after my first year in college. That was a decade ago?
All the geriatric cats still live with my parents; here in San Diego, Moly's five and Toeffe is not quite three. Kittens, both of 'em. Actually, we adopted them both as adults, so it sometimes feels like they have these long unknown histories behind them, and that they're older than they really are. Moly was with her original owners (the idiots who let her have kittens, named her "Brownie," and then gave her up when they moved) for only a year and a half; I've had her for more than twice that. And yet, it feels like a different sort of relationship than one where she grew up with me. We met as adults, both of us, and that was a first in my human-cat relationships. She is dearer to my heart than almost anything on Earth (yes, of course, Ken notwithstanding -- I think it's okay to have a different kind of love for your cat than for your boyfriend), and yet she sometimes seems ageless, eternal, as though she'd never been a fuzzy little kitten. Sometimes I take her for granted because I've never really seen her age, and it seems as though she never will. Though she has, uh, filled out considerably since her spaying.
Anyway. Happy birthday, to all the cats who need one.