As with most people, my earliest memories are of my parents, especially my father. He was a dominating figure in my life and those early years were no exception. An army officer, he waited until he was into his thirties before taking a wife. For his bride he chose the eighteen year old cousin of his twin brother's wife. My mother was the daughter of a tall, Cherokee woman and an extremely short British man whose close resemblance to a leprechaun made me wonder about his true heritage. My instincts shouted Irish when I grew old enough to realize that red hair and green eyes are very Celtic traits. My father's parents shared similar ancestries. His mother was a tiny Cherokee woman and his father was a tall, muscular Englishman with blonde hair and crystal blue eyes. These myriad traits watered down into some unusual genetic characteristics for the grandchildren. I inherited the red hair and green eyes, but the brown of my grandmothers would not be outdone. My green eyes are littered with brown flecks, giving me an unusual hazel shade that changes hues with my attire. I have the porcelain skin and multitudinous freckles of a red-head with the high cheekbones, small eyes, and oily skin of my Native American grandmothers.

My father hoped desperately to have a daughter and when I was born he was the happiest man alive. I was 'Daddy's Little Girl' and 'The Apple of His Eye' and every other cliche concerning a father's devotion to his daughter. Whenever possible, he would take me camping or fishing or hiking or hunting. I was too young to realize this was not a normal routine for raising a little girl. I was thoroughly delighted with the toy cars and trucks and pistols and cowboy boots I received as I was growing up. With the help of the little boy living just down the road from my house, I came to the realization that I was a girl instead of a boy. I was not happy! I wanted to be like my father and that would never happen if I was a girl.

One spring morning in my third year my mom dressed me in my bright red cowgirl outfit with the white fringe. She fixed my strawberry blonde hair into wavy curls, placed my white cowboy boots on my feet, and drove me to the nearest photographer to have my picture taken. Years later my dad would show me the one remaining shot from that day and brag about his "little angel in her cowgirl clothes doing what she does best...talking." In the picture I was holding a red telephone and smiling for the camera. It was a happy omen of the years ahead.

After the photo shoot, which I remember absolutely nothing about, my mom decided to stop by a friend's house to 'show me off.' As they were sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee and discussing the world in general, I wandered through the house looking for something to get into. It was my nature to be curious. On one of the end tables in the living room I found a pair of bright, shiny scissors. Such an object is simply begging to be used. I picked them up and did what I had seen my mom do on numerous occasions to herself....I began to cut my hair. Not having the talent or knowledge of a cosmetologist, I did the very best I could, which, from my mother's description, was a "heck of a job."

When my mom finally decided to search for me, she was horrified to find me sitting in the living room floor with strands and strands of strawberry blonde hair around me. There were patches of bristly stubble and other patches of complete baldness on my head. All told, there was very little left of my hair except what lay on the floor around my legs.

In stricken tears, my mom took me to a friend who was a hairdresser. After a thorough examination, she handed down the judgement....the only way to even the mess on my head was to buzz cut it as if I were a boy. She took a pair of clippers in hand and set to work. My mom has told me that when the chair swiveled around so I could view the finished product, my face broke out in the widest smile and I actually laughed with joy. Staring at me from the mirror was the perfect image of a little red-headed boy. It was probably the happiest moment in my three years of life.

Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. With the Yule season coming up I would like to wish everyone a happy and joyous season (as Hallmark would say) with lots of family, food, and fun.

You know the old saying about the best laid plans of mice and elderly hotel employees, right? Sheesh, what a week or so. Lots of troops returning from Iraq I'm happy to say. Very large youth group in the hotel last weekend and military parents, wives, and girlfriends here to see their sons, daughters, husbands, boyfriends home all week. Hectic, hectic, hectic....but that's how I like it.

On a more personal note, I did it again. There was a small kitten running around the hotel that looked very much like a siamese. My supervisor caught her and presented her to me since, at least as far as cats go, I'm just a girl who can't say no. She is very beautiful, a seal point siamese with bright blue eyes, but she has some major issues that need addressing at the vet. For one thing, she has a horrible eye infection that I can't seem to get rid of with the ophthamalic ointment I've been using, and her breath is incredibly rank. Did anyone see the movie Dragonheart? If so, remember the scene where the knight is inside the dragon's mouth holding it open with his sword, and he tells the dragon that his breath is rank? The dragon (voice of Sean Connery, btw) replies that "if you had the bodies of knights rotting between your teeth for years, your breath would be pretty bad as well," or something to that effect. That's all I can think about when she gets in my face. I can well imagine the tiny bones and rotting flesh of some field mouse stuck between her teeth.

But wait...let me start at the beginning. A guest had said that there was a kitten running around in the parking lot, but there is always a kitten running around in the parking lot so I figured they were talking about the little black one I had seen a couple of weeks before and couldn't get near. I won't take a very feral cat home with me because of my other cats. Not safe for them. However, one night as I was working late, I was checking in a guest and my manager was standing in the lobby talking to this guest when he said, "Barb, there's someone out there to see you." I looked out the door, saw no one, walked around the counter, and there at the front door was this tiny siamese kitten. I opened the door, but she ran under the cars and, try as I might, I could never catch up to her. For the next week I tried on several occasions to catch her, even going as far as across the street where she ran into someone's yard and under their car. I could just see the resident calling the police because of a prowler and having to explain to them as they carted me away in handcuffs, "I was only trying to catch their cat."

Finally, after a week or so, I came to work and my supervisor called me into her office. Beneath her chair sat the kitten. I snatched her up, cuddled her to my chest, and gagged over her smell. So much for THAT tender moment. I ended up taking her home, giving her a bath, deworming her, cleaning her ears with earmite meds, attempting to take care of her eye (which has improved drastically but is still in need of medication that works), and eventually trying to rinse her mouth out with Listerine (I used an eyedropper and squirted it along her gum line while holding her over the sink, figuring that it would at least kill some germs). Trust me, all of this was NOT a one-time thing. The earmites took a week or so, she received two baths in two weeks, and the eye care is a daily chore. The Listerine thing was done daily for about a week and I've only done it once this past week. At this time her eye still needs something, most likely an antibiotic for an infection, and her breath, while much better, still says there is something going on in there that needs a vet. I have tried three times, in vain, to get an appointment. Usually they have openings when I have to work or they aren't open when I can take her. Finally I have one this Wednesday in the early morning. I hope she doesn't end up losing her eye because I couldn't get her in sooner.

Just to give you an idea of what I am willing to go through for a cat, let me tell you what happened with this precious little bundle of joy just a couple of days ago. I have a couple of cats who tend to inhale their food and then barf it back up. I have been told by an animal behaviourist that this is common in rescue animals because they never quite get over that instinct to scarf down food whenever it is available, not knowing where their next meal is coming from. Of course, one of my cats who does this was a bottle baby and he has never had to wonder where his next meal is coming from. I think he's just a pig. His name is, after all, Porky. I had just fed the cats (I free feed, but they require fresh food even if there is food in their bowls...no, they aren't TOO spoiled) and I heard the familiar sound of food on its way back up. I looked in the dining room and saw Porky leaning over my shoe, preparing to fill it with his most recent meal. Oh Hell No!! I ran into the dining room, threw open the back door, and chased Porky outside. Unbeknownst to me, the new kitty (still unnamed) was under the table and, apparently, thought I was chasing her. Perhaps she thought that her welcome had worn out and I was trying to tell her in no uncertain terms. As Porky flew out the door, just behind him sailed the kitten.

I tried in vain to retrieve her, but it was so dark out I couldn't find her. I searched for several hours. When Jess got home I enlisted his help, We found her in the azalea bushes at one end of the house, but she ran away and we lost her again. I finally gave up and felt that she would be ok for one night. It was 4:30 in the morning by this time anyway, so the worst of the night was already over. Jess had to be at work at noon, and as I returned from taking him, I saw the kitten on the front deck. Yay, at least I knew she was alive. I called to her and tried to get her to come to me, but she jumped off the deck and ran around to the back of the house. Good. I hoped that if I opened the back door she would come in on her own. I ran in the house, opened the back door, stepped into the dining room, and called to her. Of course, that brought all the cats at a dead run thinking I was going to feed them (food bowls were still over half full). I saw the kitten trying to decide if she wanted to run up the back steps and into the house, or under the cherry trees along the fence. Suddenly Sebastian, my 18 pound long-haired tabby who has been told by numerous people that he looks like a lion, sailed out the back door to enjoy the sunshine. To the kitten, however, this must have looked like a giant coming to eat her. She bolted. I ran after her trying to catch up to her, but since I was calling, "kitty, kitty, kitty," with each step, the rest of the cats figured this was some neat, new game I had thunk up and ran after me. There we were, kitten, me, six cats, running round and round the house in parade fashion. Good lord!

I had to get ready for work, so I ushered what cats I could back into the house. When I got home after work (around 11:30 pm), I searched for her again. There is a small opening beneath Jess' window that goes under the house. I sat on the cold, wet ground with a flashlight aimed at that spot for hours. I kept calling to her, but after two hours on the ground, my butt became numb, so I went back in the house and waited for Jess to come home. When he did, I explained to him that if we didn't get her, in my opinion, she wouldn't live through another night. She had gone for two days without food by this time, plus she has that infection that really wasn't being helped by sleeping on the cold ground. We went back to the opening, but this time with a bowl of food. I set the bowl down, lay on the ground (no I don't have pneumonia but I can't for the life of me explain why), and waited. After a very short time her head appeared in the opening. I tried to touch her but she kept going back under the house. Finally I let her eat a small amount and put my hand in the food bowl, wiggling my fingers. She kept purring and getting closer, as if she remembered my fingers being a GOOD thing. After what seemed like hours but was most likely only a few minutes, she attempted to eat the food next to my fingers. I snatched her up as fast as possible, wrapped her in my sweater, and took her shivering, purring body into the house. She doesn't seem to be too traumatized by her experience, but she doesn't stray too far from the food bowls. Last night, when I got home from work and had managed to settle onto the sofa to watch a movie, she crawled into my lap without hesitation and snuggled, purring, into a tiny kitten ball and fell asleep.

I think I'll keep her.