Cato's Republic

Pants are optional

After watching commericals for all the candidates for California Governor, Cato has decided to run on a write-in basis. He figures he's more appealing. He's not a developer, actor or entrepreneur. Instead he's a little more relaxed and perhaps more representative of California itself. He's Asian. He's got stripes. He has blue eyes. He speaks Spanish fluently. He's in business school, but he's focusing on not-for-profits. He's got all his bases covered.

After watching the elections in Iraq (he doesn't give a crap about Iraq), he's decided to call his party the Feline Party of God. He feels the name will strike the right chord in his campaign. "It will go down well with the religious right, Islamic extremists and cats who are in to NASCAR." He knows California is the proving ground for a national campaign, so he is busy looking presidential. "Ruling California and the United States would be fun!"

His platform:

Dogs and Fundamentalist Christians -- should be locked on the back porch. That is where they belong.

The environment -- there should be more small animals to eat. He would support anything that would make that happen.

Same sex marriage -- he's fixed, so he doesn't care as long as there are plenty of small animals to eat. "Because I am fixed, I will never cause a scandal."

Sex education in schools -- "Instead of abstinence, everyone should be fixed."

Defense spending -- "No one should be declawed."

His Republican opponent -- "Hasta la vista baby!"

His Democratic opponents -- "Oh, please don't bore me with that!"

George Bush -- "I don't have time for his idiocy. Bush is not a small animal, so I won't eat him." He would lock him up on the back porch, though.

His platform -- I am running for the Governor of California because I am more interesting, more intelligent and craftier than any of the announced candidates. I even look better!

Pants -- His opponents wear them. He doesn't. Because of his potbelly he can't find anything to fit. His campaign manager has suggested a workout program, but he doesn't see the need. So, pants are optional.

Sleep week

Cato sleeps most of the day. More the the regulation 16 hours. Most nights he wants in at 9 pm, climbs in bed next to me and sleeps until 5 am. He gets up and eats and then sleeps again. This is a very deep sleep. I have to shake him to wake him. He snores loudly. I have thought of taking him in for a sleep study to find out if he has apnea, but my insurance won't cover it. I have talked with my doctor about a positive air flow mask to solve the snoring. Apparently there is a size to fit him. I wonder if the sound of the machine would keep me awake as much as the snoring. This is National Sleep Awareness Week -- Sweet Dreams!

Portrait of a Loser -- Part 1

Where do all the losers go in the end? Is there a separate heaven for them where they can sit down and cry for eternity? Is there a place in heaven for horse sports enthusiasts who, try as they might, always lose on the back of a horse, no matter what discipline? Am I going there?

For years, I have been competing at training level dressage. It's embarrassing to say this. All my fellow riders, several of which I've been riding with for 10 years, have all moved up at least a level and then there is me.

I lack many qualities that would make a good rider and horsewoman. I have an explosive personality. If I cannot get my horse to do what I want, I yell. I swear. I kick. I thrash around in the saddle like an electric top. My trainer believes I have Tourettes Syndrome of the horse.

Finally, after struggling for six years with a lovely, but suspension-less (without the required gaits for dressage) Arabian horse, I gave in and acquired a warmblood that could do it all. He was suited to my personality too. Seemingly he could ignore my outbursts with out a flicker of an ear. This terrific quality also turned out to be a handicap. He could also ignore everything I did and carry on with his own agenda.

So, once I had what I thought was a wonderful and competitive horse, I decided to make a simple goal for my dressage career -- to qualify for the state championships. But it didn't stop there; the idea of winning something began to grow in my head like a tumor. The state show is near my parent's house. They had never seen me compete. There was something in me that wanted to impress them in a way they had never been impressed before. Not one member of my family understands why I ride or why I am constantly broke. I wanted to show them why, by winning something big.

My goal then became a nightmare. There was so much screaming and thrashing that my trainer threatened to disown me if I got into the warm-up arena and behaved badly. My horse, decided he didn't like my legs and hated my spurs (rollers). He began to rear and buck every time I asked him to do something. "He hates you," my trainer said. "Watch out."

Photo by Ruth Lake

Potrait of a loser -- Part 2

"Bad to the Bone" became my theme song. My friends shunned me. My own horse would not turn around when I came to his stable door. He wouldn't open his mouth for the bit. He sneered at me when I climbed into the saddle. I quickly went into a mental decline. I was a haunted dressage rider.

Fortunately, I work with mental health professionals who saw the problem and intervened. There was a way out. I could try relaxation therapies (something used by many athletes) and learn the latest techniques in biofeedback. I was hooked to a machine that monitored my heart. I learned to breath deep and visualize my heart glowing. I felt better. I felt like a Californian. I knew there was a rainbow at the end of my story.

I went to my first show relaxed and happy. I breathed deeply as I climbed into the saddle. I knew my tests. My horse smiled as we trotted into the arena. And then the disaster struck. My horse recognized someone on the rail. He went over to socialize taking me with him. I asked for the canter at the same time. He ignored me.

My trainer called out a ringside: "Working canter right lead at A."

Nothing, zip, zero happened. The judges score was "0". She wrote: Ignores rider's aides.

"At A, circle right 20 meters," my trainer called out.

"1" was the judge's score. She wrote: Not achieving canter (an understatement).

On we trotted.

"At C, working canter left lead" – nothing.

"Circle 20 meters" – nothing.

Finally, I threw a fit. I kicked him hard. He cantered.

"E to B half circle (at canter) 20 meters, near center line working trot."

We achieved a 7 (hallelujah!). The judge wrote: Nice canter, but more energy.(Should I feed him methamphetamine?)

The judge's comments at the bottom of the test: A nice horse which has not yet learned to understand the rider's aides for canter.

As soon as I stopped my Tourettes Syndrome, he couldn't understand me.

I got the worst score (48.333 percent) I have ever achieved, yet I was relaxed and happy -- so was my horse. He walked from the arena, towel over his shoulder headed for the showers. I breathed deeply and thought about jumping. There, maybe there was something I could win at.

Photo by Ruth Lake

My neighborhood

Spring is almost here.

Rain on the vines makes them shimmer.

Fog in the St. Helena Valley.

Night music

It was early when I woke. Cato was sleeping next to me. I hear the barn owl nearby, streaking past the windows, but I couldn't see anything through the skylight. The full moon was hidden by clouds. It had been raining when I went to sleep, but now it was silent outside. I dozed and then came to consciousness and realized there was something scrabbling on the ceiling. No, it was scratching at the wall. No, ceiling, no wall, then – I stood up to get a fix on the sound. The cat didn't moved, instead he snored in the congested way he does. A 'huff, huff', and then a long draw in breath, like he's going to suck the whole room into his lungs.

As I walked around my house to get a fix on the sound, it began to pour. The rain smacked loud on the skylights above where Cato slept. He woke and gave me a half-shadowed yawn. The scrabbling stopped suddenly. So did the rain. Then I heard it; the barn owl. This time the owl was closer; now on the roof. The rain beat again and then there was a loud happy cry as the owl, talons open, swooped in for the kill. Cato smiled……..

The political opinions of animals

George Galloway in TO,
originally uploaded by mjemirzian.

I walked into Cato's (my Siamese cat) room last week to find a poster of the Respect Party MP for Bethnal Green and Bow, George Galloway, plastered on his wall.

I was thrilled to think that he was going to turn out to have the same politics as his mother, one with a sense of humor and anger, combined with a Molotov cocktail. I imagined hearing my son cry "Just kill him!" rather than the usual meow of disgust when George Bush appears on TV.

Imagine my disappointment when he said, instead: "Any member of parliament who tries to emulate a cat will get my vote anytime." The photo was, of course, of Galloway imitating a cat on the UK version of Celebrity Big Brother, an appearance that definitely jeopardized Galloway's standings in his own district.

Any discussion of Galloway's appearance in front of the U.S. Senate's Homeland Security and Government Affairs Committee, where Galloway sought to defend himself against accusations of selling oil for food, goes right over Cato's head. As do the epithets Galloway lobbed at Republicans who control the committee, calling them "crazed, pro-war, lickspittles of the president."

To Cato the political views of politicians are obscure. "Who cares what they think? I don't care if the President deceived everyone about Iraq. I don't even know where Iraq is. I am much more interested in knowing whether Galloway will grow his own tail or use a prosthesis."

Turkey in the morning

03112006-172951.1,
originally uploaded by T Hall.

I tried to get a good shot of the tom turkey that I see every morning. This is not my photo, but it is of a fellow about the same size as the male I see in the vineyards in the morning. He stands as tall as a child and has about 12-15 females traveling with him. He is quite the sight!

Wild turkeys have been considered a non-native species in California, although there were prehistoric turkeys roaming the state. Turkey hunting season opens March 26, and according to ESPNOutdoors, turkeys are plentiful in all areas of Northern California.

Many times wild turkeys have been accused of eating and damaging grape crops in the vineyards. But in a study conducted by the National Wild Turkey Federation in 2002, cameras were placed in vineyards of Napa, Sonoma and Mendocino counties to capture wildlife activity during the night and day. The result? While wild turkeys made up to 45 percent of the wildlife observed in vineyards, only 7 percent were seen eating wine grapes.

Tooth, results so far

Teeth and more teeth,
originally uploaded by Dermal Denticles.

Well it wasn't expected to turn out like this, but sometimes stuff gets out of hand.