Tag Archives: foster cats

Beth and That Nice Boy got Married

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beth hoodOur foster kittens’ pediatrician is a sweetheart of a woman named Beth (that’s her on the left, channeling an inner fairy tale character). Beth got married this past Saturday, her wedding a welcome respite for Jack and me amidst three intense days of hard labor setting up the bookstore cafe.

Likely it seemed less relaxing to Beth than to us, but she looked pretty happy, so we figure she enjoyed it all the same.

beth happyBeth provides a lot of freebie and reduced cost care for our bookstore fosters. She saved staff cat Owen Meany’s life when he had a virus we didn’t notice, and she made house calls for Hazel, the 20-year-old cat who landed in the shelter amid cries of outrage. (Queen Hazel is now living a life of luxury in North Carolina; Clan Hazel is her facebook page, if you want to see how Her Majesty is doing.)

beth hair and dressbeths dressSpeaking of majesty, check out Beth’s gorgeous hairdo and dress. The dress is one of the nicest stories from her wedding. Beth was engaged once, several years ago, and bought her dress before discovering the guy wasn’t worth wearing it for. So she ditched him but kept it–Beth is a sensible girl–until she found someone worthy of her.

“It’s a redemption dress,” she told me over lunch in the bookstore. “Been returned to its rightful purpose in life, just like us.” (Beth and I share Christian beliefs in the redemptive power of Jesus.)

beth sabersSo Beth married That Nice Boy, and an opera singer gave a heartfelt rendition of “Someday my Prince will Come” at the ceremony. Beth’s dog was one of the groomsmen, and he approved this match. You could tell Maverick thought Brandon smelled reliable.

Brandon is a prince of a guy, and we admit we’re bad friends for not trying harder, but we call him “That Nice Boy.” It used to be “That Nice Boy Beth’s Marrying” but that got too long. We actually referred to him, as we walked to the church three blocks away, as “TNB,” which came out “Tenbee.”

It’s all over once you get a nickname in a small town.

“Dr. Brandon Tester, Chiropractor” has set up business in Wise with a brand new office. We’ll just try not to call him Tenbee in professional settings. We can’t call him Brandon because I have a friend who is married to Brett, and her brother is Brent, and she’s best friends with another friend of mine, married to a guy named Brad. And I have a friend named Brian married to a lady named Beth. So sorry, Beth and Tenbee, but we just can’t.

beth glam shots

But we do love you both, and wish you well! It was a grand wedding, and we have high hopes for your mixed marriage. (The cakes and flowers were bright orange for the bride’s University of Tennessee background and deep blue in honor of the groom’s University of Kentucky roots. That’s pretty much Capulet/Montague around here.)

beth dragBut there’s only that one wedding photo in which it looks like TNB is dragging Beth around against her will, so it’s all good. In fact, it’s great. A quote in Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd  sums up a good marriage: “And at home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be – and whenever I look up, there will be you.”

beth and brandonYep.

A Cat Walks into a Bar Exam….

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Shortly after 9 a.m. this morning, our staff cat Owen Meany crossed the wee lane between us and the gym and lawyer’s office. He climbed the attorney’s steps, and although my view was obstructed at that point, I’m pretty sure he knocked and was admitted.

So I would just like to say to Greg Kallen, the lead attorney (who shops at our bookstore) that unless Owen was there to start his career as a paralegal, whatever he told you should be taken with a grain of catnip.

We  don’t want to violate attorney-client privilege, but we can imagine the stories. Please know that we feed him well. He gets treats. He has his own bed. We understand that the demands of being a bookstore cat can be hefty – the fur maintenance for maximum customer effect, the constant purring as a store representative – so we try to provide regular massages and ear rubs. We know it’s a taxing life.

Sure, sometimes breakfast is late. Sometimes we run out of wet cat food. I did once forget that he prefers chicken cat treats to the tuna flavor. I have apologized for these lapses and will correct my behavior–except for that late breakfast thing. Please, Greg, see if you can explain the concept of “weekends” to him?

The reason he doesn’t get goat milk like the rest of the cats is not cruelty on our part, but allergies on his. Is this my fault? Believe me, I’ve tried all the substitutes but he doesn’t like them.

And please remind Mr. Meany that he, who now weighs 9.8 pounds and is the size of two bread boxes despite the fact that he told you we never feed him, was once a wee sick foster kitten, too. Yes, kittens bop about the place in never-ending packs, but they have nowhere else to live unless we find them homes. It’s not like he’s suffering. He has a special heavy cat flap and can go where the kittens can’t, anytime their whapping his nose, chewing his ears, and running toward him with mewls of “Unca Owen, Unca Owen, let’s play horsey!” get too much.

In closing, I hope that we will have the opportunity to settle any issues Owen has cited out of court. We feel sure that Owen will listen to reason, or at least to the sound of a can opener. Thanks, Greg.