Victorian Lady

While our other cat, Max had already been a character of several emotionally charged posts of mine, Masia seems to never evoke any commotion and, consequently, gives no reason to rejoice when a dramatic event is over. 

She is more like a quiet, steady glow that brings you warmth so reliably - you start expecting it and, to be honest, take it for granted.   

In this respect Masia reminds me of a Victorian-era lady, who was supposed to be talked about only twice in her life: when she was getting married and when she died.  

And like a Victorian lady, Masia is essentially feminine – practical, cautious and eloquently verbal for a cat.

She smartly spreads our attentions through the day – sitting on my husband’s lap through most of his working hours and sleeping at my shoulder at night. She jumps on my side of the bed in the middle of the night, smelling of fresh outdoor air, fir tree needles and grass (or snow in winter). And if this did not wake me up, she produces a short assertive ‘murk’-like sound to let me know that she has arrived and is ready for being hugged and stroked.  

As much as I do not like to be abruptly wakened up, I am never irritated by her maneuvers, as the very next moment my face is immersed in soft and fuzzy roundness of her belly. It purrs and vibrates, and I have a completely scientifically-unfounded feeling that listening to a cat’s purr through its belly is particularly therapeutic.

Another lovely trick of hers – to place the pads of her front paws on my face. They feel like tiny leather cushions. My husband saw us many times fast asleep together, with two little paws neatly pressed against my cheeks.  And though I am well aware of the sharp claws hiding inside those cute cushions, which she might unleash in panic (and panicky she gets easily from any abrupt or unfamiliar sound), I take the risk. A couple of scratches could hardly  damage much a 57-year-old face.

It is in Masia’s nature to trust no one, and I mean - NO ONE. Each and every situation she must explore herself and make her own conclusions, as to how safe the things are.

Only selected few of our family and friends have actually seen her.

When an outsider enters our house she is already in deep hiding. But we have noticed that through the years she made a huge progress toward accepting new people. For example, lately she started appearing in front of certain guests, if they were fairly quiet and after they have been in our house for couple of hours.

Each time this happens we feel proud that in our care she became so brave and worldly (from a wild and scared kitten she had been). We usually rush to explain to the lucky guest, what a transformation is witnessed here, though not always our excitement is shared.

We also shower the particular guest with sincere complements on his/her goodness, because we believe that Masia would never show herself to a person of questionable qualities.

 I suspect, though, that some of our visitors think of us as little-bit cat-crazy.  

As I said, Masia is remarkably vocal. To us she speaks in practically every other way but words. According to her shelter record Masia is a mud described as ‘black DLH’, where LH – probably stand for ’long hair’ and D – I have no idea for. But my theory is that she resembles Angora cats, which are renowned communicators.

Anyway, Angora or not, her intonations are so unmistakably clear that made me thinking of words as slightly overrated. We also noticed that Max who had used to silently tap on the window when wanted us to open it, eventually started supporting his demand with a meow.  Apparently this more efficient way of grabbing our attention  he learned from Masia.

There are skeptics who say that pets are easy to love, because they are primitive and we do not have high expectations of them.

Well yes, they teach us to be more accepting and less judgmental.

But the longer I observe my cats, the more I am convinced that in a stride to perfection they are way ahead of us: they have better sense of balance and danger, they see in the dark, they do not need to cloth themselves and their saliva is antibacterial. The list can be continued.   

Still we love them not for their perfections but rather for their vulnerabilities. It grants us the privilege of being their protectors.

Maybe God loves us the same way - simply because we are fragile.

Vitamix

Hurray, we've received the Vitamix blender!

Victoria Boutenko recommended us for the company promotion.

That's my  new blender

For those who do not know what Vitamix is, I will just say that it is a powerful blender which can do not only very creamy smoothies but much, much more. You can also check it on the Internet if you never heard of it.

And to understand why we are so lucky see “Dismissal, Introduction…”

With my old blender (the one that I kept in the garage because  of its noise) I made the same recipe again and again – put in some greens (usually one or two varieties) and two bananas for taste.  It was not bad - banana makes the drink thicker and sweeter (actually a little-bit too sweet).  My husband tried once to use oranges instead of bananas – the mixture came out watery and quite acidic.

We got discouraged and decided not to experiment with other fruits - just stick with bananas.

But no matter how I like smoothies and the way they make me feel, after a while, I’ve gotten bored with their sweet taste. On the other hand I really love creamy soups but don't have them too often, because they are usually over-processed. Chefs like to roast or bake ingredients, then cool them, then blend them together and after that heat the mixture again.

Double-cooking leaves hardly any nutrients in the final product, besides there is an opinion that it makes food carcinogenic (see “Paul Bragg and Other Gurus“). So I’ve been thinking about something raw and nutritious, yet yummy (but not sweet for a change!) 

Actually I had an idea in mind for quite a while. In S. and V. Boutenkos’ book “Fresh” I found the recipe of the raw beets soup called “borscht”. Needless to say that I made traditional borsch (that is my spelling of it!) a zillion times in my life. But since in America we somehow stopped eating soups at dinner. 
OK, I became lazy! 

Still you cannot make such a dish in a low-speed blender, for which reason my plans had to be postponed. But when the Vitamix arrived I immediately made my proud announcement.

My husband unfortunately did not share my enthusiasm:

-          Let’s first do our usual smoothie and see how the thing works.

-          But don’t you like something different now when we’ve got the means?

It turned out, he did not. In fact he liked almost nothing I suggested – no spinach soup, no humus, not even salsa. Of spinach, he was particularly apprehensive. It reminded him of something dull and dreadful from his early childhood. 

After bargaining for a while we met each other in the middle - that is, on a simpler recipe of the cream of celery soup. Here it is:

1 medium bunch celery, chopped

3 cups of water

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup lemon juice

1 tablespoon honey

Spicy pepper to taste

1 teaspoon sea salt

1 avocado, sliced

1 small sweet red pepper, chopped

The first 6 ingredients are blended until creamy; others are added to the ready soup. It serves 5.

I made it on Thursday and here is my report on the experience:

The soup was ready in 10 min. This time included washing of the blender before its first use as it is recommended by the instruction, and actual  preparation. It also included: opening and closing the door for cats who first wanted out (one after another), and the next moment, and in the same order – in.

My version  of  raw cream of celery soup - with a dash of dill

What is important - we both liked it!

I expected significant noise from this much larger and heavier appliance  but it was actually quieter than my old blender and even easy to clean.

So, raw borsch is definitely on the menu!

Max in Winter

In summer our cats Max and Masia are pretty much look-alikes. Though they are not blood-related, there is a reason why they resemble each other (see “Our Furry Stress Busters - 2” for explanation). 

But somewhere around Thanksgiving Max starts to expand. While Masia seems not to be impacted by dropping temperatures (she remains sleek and elegant), Max becomes more and more furry.

“Look at me, just look at me! What am I supposed to do with all this fur?”

He is not happy about it and about things in general.

The first time he saw snow he was very enthusiastic. He lifted up his little flat face so that it was practically parallel to the sky and tried to figure out where these white things were falling from. He also chased them around the deck.

But then he realized that green grass was gone and with it – chipmunks, and baby moles, and mice, and rabbits. He had no one to play with and to chase after. He was disappointed.  

And I got a strong impression that he blamed me for all these unfortunate changes.

I guess his logic was the following: as I was, in his opinion, the person responsible for all important things in our house (such as, food and comfort) then, I also should have been the one who controlled weather. He was incapable of preventing me from spoiling it, but at least, he could show me his uncompromised disapproval.

I did what all the arrogant adults do around unhappy minors – pretended that I was unaware of his feelings. I joined everyone in patting him and telling him how cute he was, because he was awfully cute in spite of his attitude.

When he entered the room as a scowled furry cloud on short paws people usually reacted “Whoa-a!” and rushed to touch and pull at him. 

In the early February his fur turned to felt. Once rubbing his belly I noticed an egg-size spot of bare skin. The spot was accurately oval and had a pink tint that seemed inappropriate. I rushed to my computer to make a quick research on feline skin problems.

First of all, I must warn everyone – never do any research in panic. But if you did (I probably would anyway) please, do not trust your conclusions. Because in such state of mind all  scary conditions look exactly like the one you are researching. 

I was convinced that Max got ringworm. When (and where) I grew up this condition was considered extremely contagious and impacted cats were not even treated. They were…

In the vet hospital my husband and I were reassured that it was not the case anymore. Max was promised doctor’s attention even though he had no prior appointment.

Waiting for the doctor in the lobby with Max in the carrier on my lap, I was  watching  very well-behaved big dogs with their owners passing by. Dogs looked like they did not mind it, even the one with front paw in cast and in plastic bag wrapped around it.  Its owner was deservingly relaxed and smiling.

I was neither. I worried that Max was scared and tried to cover the carrier with my puffy parka sleeves so that he could not see the dogs. But he did not need to see them to know - they were there. Max also sensed my anxiety (cats can do this). From time to time he screamed and tried to get out. This added to my neurosis which added to his…

When finally we got into the doctor’s office we both were shaken and Max did not want to behave. He lashed his claws at anyone approaching him. The doctor offered a sedative shot for Max and I asked one for me. Everyone (except Max) laughed.

It was not ringworm – just fur peeled away by excessive self-grooming. The doctor trimmed it a little and we took Max home enormously relieved. I mean my husband and me, because Max was still very upset.

So much so, that he peed in the car on our way home. He was still in the carrier on my knees when it happened. I remember being surprised that the smell of his urine was actually much lighter than the one coming from the litter box.

But with regard to the cause of the accident my husband and I  disagree completely. I think, it was Max’s reaction to stress, while my husband is adamant that Max had just to hold it for too long being  away from his litter through the ordeal.

I guess, he can not admit such a weakness in a male member of our family.

Falling for Yoga

Several years ago we joined the new health club freshly built in the neighborhood. Temptations were many: the palatial-type building; sparkling new furniture and equipment; grandiose indoor and outdoor pools; cheerful music in the lobby and the last but not least - a reasonable membership fee.

In summer we particularly enjoyed the outdoor pool: a huge spa-like area where three times a week I practiced my lap routine followed by ten minutes of sun bathing. It felt like mini-vacations.  

The indoor pool, no less impressive (see the post “Two Sides of the Bargain”) presented a bit of an issue – the high chlorine content in its water.

It is most likely that both pools were treated equally, but in confined space chlorine evaporates less actively than outside. The chemical penetrated my skin deeply and the following shower did not remove it. Even the next day I could still smell chlorine on me. And within a month or so of indoor swimming my skin became extremely dry, no lotion could help it.  

With better awareness of various contaminants in our environment and of their possible cumulative effect I became more concerned about regular chlorine absorption. I could easily envision my swimming body acting like a pump sucking chlorine through its countless pores and inhaling it with every vigorous breath.

It just could not be good.

So I started looking for winter alternatives to lap swimming. This is how I turned to yoga.

Why not to cardio kickboxing, or Pilates?

Well, from various books and friendly references I just had an impression that yoga was superior to other fitness routines by addressing both body and mind. Thousands years of its history also appealed to me.

Being totally indifferent to the bohemian aura of yoga (all that chanting-and–incense paraphernalia), in the back of my mind I always meant to try it one day. I did not start earlier thinking that one needed extraordinary flexibility for its pretzel-like positions.

At that moment it looked like a really good idea: instead of using indoor pool in winter I would take a yoga class and my summers were already perfect! 

Surprisingly, my husband joined me without any hesitation. He, however, came to this decision from a completely different prospective. Exactly what kept me away for years - the mysterious side of yoga, its promise of extraordinary flexibility or meditative powers - were his drivers. Unlike me he had no doubts that with time he would bend like Linda Blair.

I entered the yoga class feeling very shy. All people around  seemed younger than me and more athletic. For some reasons I had a strong presumption that yoga group was a sort of  exclusive club where everyone knew everyone, and each member must've been an experienced practitioner.

The obvious logic that other people also started one time or another (and probably felt as vulnerable) somehow slipped my mind.

My first gains from yoga were almost immediate though totally superficial. For years I was helplessly observing my once perky behind gradually “going south” while my tummy – increasingly protruding. Catching sometimes my side reflection in the mirror I was thinking that eventually I would need to wear pants back to front.

After two weeks of yoga I noticed a slight but quite incouraging reverse in this  process. My body also started feeling more resilient to touch and looked as if carefully peeled quarter-an-inch all over.

Then the real journey began.

With all my previous fitness experiences it was always about achievement. As a teenager involved in sports in the former Soviet Union I was always focused on performance. Only gifted kids were accepted in the state supported sport programs and “no pain – no gain” was our ultimate mantra.

Even with my adult swimming experience I tried to measure everything in goals: to do four laps, then - eight laps; to breathe quieter; to obtain better endurance…

Yoga offered an entirely different philosophy.

First of all, it was specifically focused on present sensation: in each position you find your personal physical edge and stay there for five deep breaths. You do not fidget, and do not try to go further – just let your body adjust and eventually, relax.  

And it does not really matter, what exactly your edge is: a basic forward bend with hardly touching your toes, or a perfectly deep folded position. In both cases this period of quite breathing is the very time of gain.

On a physical level slow breathing in intense position activates blood and lymph circulation that stretches and strengthens your muscles while flashing away toxins from your body.

On a chemical level (or may be, it is emotional?) endorphins are released making you feel calm and protected.

Our natural yogi - Masia

A good instructor will tell you that yoga is not an exercise but a practice.

You start in whatever physical condition you are and slowly move toward better health and stress resistance. Important is the process itself because there it all happens. Fitness comes along as a free bonus for diligence.

Though every physical activity can bring benefits, yoga is unique in its ability of healing various physical ails. The more you stretch and breathe, the more nooks and crannies in your body are washed by healing fluids, the more inflammation nuclei are disrupted.

There are also special positions believed to improve particular functions, or address particular conditions. Their effectiveness is still to be confirmed by the mainstream medical science, but at least one thing is certain – they do not cause side effects of profound nature as many chemical drugs do.

With different systems and schools in yoga, the healing properties are usually attributed to Hatha Yoga – “the basic preparatory stage of physical purification” according to Wikipedia.

Though advanced yogi gravitate to its higher stages, like Raga, the most modest promises of Hatha are impressive enough for me. 

My Furry Stress Busters - 2

One a hot July night our Masia disappeared.

In the morning I came down to discover the door screen on the deck pushed open and her – gone. At first we hoped, she would come back in the evening, but she did not. We were devastated. We printed fliers with her best picture and put one in every mail box in our neighborhood. In some houses people came out and asked us what happened. They gave us advices and shared their stories of similar kind. One lady said: “When a cat runs away, it ether shows up the same day or never.” And then she added: “There are coyotes in the area”.

I started crying.

We made an Internet research and learned about all the organizations in vicinity that gather stray cats. To one of them - the regional Animal Control - we would go twice a week, because they had new animals often. It was a 45 min. drive but also - our last hope. They had a long corridor stuffed with cages. We would pass through looking at cats even slightly resembling our Masia. Some of them were kittens meowing and leaning to the rods in hope of being taken out. Others were older, they showed us no interest and their faces said: “no one is rescuing me in this life”. We felt strongly for them and wished we could just take all of them.

One kitten in particular grabbed my attention. She was black as Masia and she raised the hell of noise when saw us. She was determined to attract our attention, and it worked. I could not take her out of my mind. When a week passed without Masia I told my husband that I wanted that little manipulator and he agreed.

It was a total delight from the first moment. As soon as she was taken from the cage and placed into my arms she started purring loudly. It was the happiest kitten on earth, perfect for adoption on all accounts, and I had a feeling she was totally aware of it. During the paperwork process it came up that, in fact, it was a “he”, not “she” and had a herpes-like feline virus but these details could not change anything: we were taking it home.

My husband suggested naming him Max. I liked it right away, because it reminded us of our darling Masia and was easy to pronounce for both our American and Russian friends.

From the very first moments Max impressed us with his relentless positive attitude, so very different from Masia’s. He would roam the house, following my husband and me in turn, sniffing everything with enthusiasm: “What have we here...and there?” He was eager to play, run and jump at slight invitation and purred like a tireless little engine.

 
He also appeared to be a very adventurous eater. He demanded to try each and every food he saw: a broccoli floret, scrambled egg with ketchup (had stolen it from my husband’s plate and immediately devoured), cottage cheese (licked from my spoon). Once he even tried to expropriate a plum from my hand and to run away with it, but was chased down and told that cats did not eat plums.


When in the evening we carried him to our bed he started circulating between us not knowing which of us to choose. He finally decided to go with me. “Ladies’ pleaser” said my husband not even trying to hide his jealousy.

The next night I noticed that Max was sick. He was lying near me hot as iron, his little head trembling against my neck. I was hugging him and planning vet appointment. In the early morning I had a dream. I heard rambling cats howling as they would in March in our native parts... Then I realized it was not March and we did not have homeless cats in the neighborhood. I woke up my husband and asked him to come down and find what was going on. In fact, I already knew what it was. Next, I heard my husband’s happy voice on the porch: “Masia dear, come, come my girl!”

I grabbed sickly Max and went down to greet her. She glanced at me with apparent displeasure: “Look at them! I only was absent for 9 days, and they already brought another one.” I gently put Max down on the floor to free my hands and pat her. She did not let me. I noticed though, that she looked strong and healthy, her eyes - clear and her fur - silkier and shinier than ever. Freedom definitely agreed with her.

Meanwhile, Max on his shaking little paws rounded up his back and with all his might demonstrated that he was big and afraid of no girls. And since that morning he stands his grounds as a dominant male figure, in spite the fact that he is almost a year younger than Masia.

That is how we ended up with two cats. Since outdoors proved being so beneficial for Masia, the ban on it was lifted for both of them. Now they freely enjoy it and in winter, when they prefer to stay inside, we have almost no fur around the house although they are both furry types (Masia is Angora-like and Max is apparent Persian). They are strong and agile.

Their relations were not the friendliest right away. It took years to teach them share things and us. Now we live in an almost perfect household, with two happy souls that amaze and delight us every day. They love my husband more (somehow, all children and pets end up this way), but I also get abundance of love and affection.

The positive impact Masia and Max provide on our physical and mental health is undeniable. I can only imagine all that serotonin and other good hormones they induce in our bodies by purring, stretching, playing or sleeping with no care in the world – i.e., by just being themselves. They also inspire us to move more while bending to pet one or kiss the other or when chasing the one coming from outside with dirty wet paws and prickly seedpods all over.

As I mentioned in the beginning there is scientific data supporting pet’s healing ability. According to recent study published in the Psychosomatic Medicine, loving touches — and the resulting gush of good feelings — can cut the level of stress hormones coursing through your body by 7 percent. Amazingly enough these benefits can even accumulate:

The 20th hug or kiss works just as well as the first; and 20 hugs generate 20 times as much stress relief, as a single snuggle.
http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/articlematch.aspx?cp-documentid=17858326>1=32003

So, how about a cat purr instead of an antidepressant?

And one thing more!

From our good friend and author of the “Green for Life” Victoria Boutenko we heard recently that having a cat in childhood could actually protect a person against allergies later in life. I started looking for the backing information on the Internet. At first I almost drowned in the flood of recommendations to avoid cats entirely.

And then I found the following:

Dr. Marty Becker, the "Good Morning America" veterinary contributor, said [that]… a new study on pet allergies found that using a new compound made from the allergy-producing protein in cat saliva might help end cat allergies -- almost like a cat-allergy vaccine.

He also said that new research found that being exposed to pets early in life often could lead to fewer allergies and instances of asthma in the long run.
http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/AllergyAndAsthmaResourceCenter/story?id=1728413&page=1


Next time I will write about our first impressions of America, my mother and "amazing chicken".

My Furry Stress Busters

I was born and raised in Russia and then came to US about 15 years ago. Anyone who made a move like this would agree that it puts you through a dramatic transformation on many levels. You change language, culture, things you do and what you eat. And not all the changes might be as beneficent as you have expected. The exposure to abundance of food, appeal of processed food, and comforts of individual transportation besides their apparent blessings brought questions and concerns. Since then I am on a permanent journey in search of a healthy life style that could be reasonable and joyful for my family and me.

As time goes by, I have learned something that helped me or mine and made a few observations that I would like to share. I have no intentions to give cook-book advices simply because I do not believe that the same thing works for everyone and every time. But how cool it could be to receive a feedback and maybe learn more!


It is a well known fact that pets in nursing homes and hospitals prolong lives and promote faster healing. Keeping this in mind, I decided to start this blog with a story that puts a smile on my face just as I am typing these words – about my two furry stress busters - my cats.


When my husband heard about the idea he said “Yes, go for it! I wish we had adopted them sooner – how many more happy hours and serotonin surges we missed!” So, here it is:


Our cats are Masia and Max, both black and furry but in a different way.

Masia sleeps at my side of the bed, almost every night and almost the whole night. When I hug her she tucks her forehead into the palm of my hand, her paws – around my wrist, and she purrs. It feels like therapy. Whatever cortisol or other bad stuff I have accumulated through the day, she diligently dissolves at night.

In other aspects she is my husband’s cat. When all three of our daughters, one after another, left us to start on their own, my husband announced that he wanted to adopt a cat. I was not enthusiastic about cleaning litter and fur all over the house. I also was concerned that it would be difficult for us to travel, leaving cat alone. But my husband was determined and eventually we went to the pet store.

Specialists recommend adopting a happy, sociable animal, with which you can easily establish a bond. My husband picked up a tiny black kitten that was shivering and tried to hide in the far corner of the cage. There she was stepped on and over by her 2 light and jolly brothers. Her behavior indicated exactly a cat not suitable for adoption. We had no competition.

Later my husband explained his counter-professional choice this way: “She was scared of everyone and nobody wanted her, so, I thought, she would love only me”. And eventually she did, but not right away.


In adoption papers there was a question “do you plan to let the cat outside”. I checked the “Yes” box, thinking it would be a good idea in our green and peaceful neighborhood. The shelter lady was very unhappy with this answer. “If you intend to do this, we will not give you the kitten”, she said and handed us a printout with long list of outdoor threats for cats. We said “OK”, and sincerely promised to never let her out.


We brought her home and opened the carrier in the middle of the kitchen. It was a mistake.

She ran for hide and first tried to do it behind the long lagged flower stand, then – in the coat closet. There she stayed for quite a while, then started whining drearily. We took her to the bedroom to show her a cozy cradle we had bought for her, but she did not like its smell and rushed under the bed. We placed all sorts of tempting things beside bed skirt: cat food, milk, litter box, but she was not interested. In the middle of the night she started crying again. We threw ourselves on the carpet at both sides of the bed, looking under it and trying to spot a little black knobble in the dark. We asked her in English and in Russian to come out. We promised to love her very much and that she would be all right. She was not convinced.

The very first thing she came out for was a bow made of paper towel on a blue shoe string. My husband spent hours near the bed encouraging her to show up. First, out came her paws, next - curious little face; then she dared to rush out and back and finally chased the bow in ecstasy. This bow, disheveled and dirty became her beloved toy, her guide around the house. Later she would come into our bedroom in the middle of the night with this blue shoestring in mouth, dragging the bow along, screaming “R-r-a-a-h, r-r-a-a-h!” that we interpreted as “let’s play” (“igrat” in Russian).

She became our darling, endlessly photographed by my husband, fed all-natural food, spoiled in every imaginable way. My daughter would have been shocked to know that Masia was allowed to freely walk on dinner table and countertops. She remembers me being a pretty strict mother in her childhood.

But all these excesses were not known outside our household. Besides me and my husband Masia trusted no one. As soon as she heard a stranger on the porch, she rushed to hide.


And then, in the middle of summer she disappeared. We were devastated but then things started happening in a totally unexpected way.