Buckmister & Amber - 28

I I really must protest Buck's last blog.

First the rug thing:
I just happened to be sitting on a carpet sample when the rug-flipper was here.
Lou saw how it matched my coat which she, of course, thinks is beautiful. So she chose that sample for the house. It's true I did pounce on Bucks yesterday. He didn't see me coming! I'm going to get him again today!

As for the cage, female cats care more about their luggage. What I got is what I deserve. If he didn't eat so many cat snacks he would have more room in his!

Bucks had the purple flowers delivered to me for Valentines Day. He has his moments. I just hope Willie doesn't freak out when he gets the bill.

Buckminster & Amber 27

Buckminster & Amber – 27

Posted on February 15, 2013 by bldodson

I can’t believe this! Amber got another cage! It probably cost three times as much as mine! It’s red . . . and quilted ! Really. But I’m not surprised. It always goes this way. She’s such a flirt. You won’t believe this: Yesterday the houseman—his name’s Willie—gave her a whole smoked oyster. And what did I get? A cheap, dry over-the-counter cat snack.

And there’s the thing with this new carpet. Have you noticed how well it matches her coat? You can bet she had a heavy paw in its selection—makes a perfect camouflage background that helps her hide from me. There’s no way she can really hide from me, but sometimes I don’t see her coming. She’ll be lucky if one of the humans doesn’t step on her. I don’t really care about the carpet cause were leaving anyway. And that red cage is way too effeminate for a hip kat like me.

I just wanted you to know what’s going on.
Bucks

On Leaving America - Part 41

The First Good-Byes

Had my last dental visit yesterday. A damn good dentist, and expensive. He just stopped accepting my dental plan. I suppose I am leaving at a good time, but have been his patient over twenty years. He came into the small designer-cozy lobby where I waited for my final dental scrubbing by his hygienist. Don squatted by my chair and made polite conversation about when and where we were going . . . and why.

People invariably ask:  “Do you speak Swedish?”  No. “Isn’t it cold there? And dark so much of the time?” Either that or some version of, “Wow, you’ve really got guts!” Which in-between the words might also mean, “Wow! You’re really nuts!” Others mention the comparative sanity of Sweden. They’re in good shape financially, no massive debt, and wise enough to have refused the Euro. A world leader in recycling; little is wasted. The people are taken care of; education and health care are free. High taxes of course.

The hygienist gives me a polite hug. I have requested her from several others for the past ten years. She is the only one who keeps her mouth shut. I would rather not be in a conversation with someone who’s got their hand in my mouth—and tools. Some thirty visits, maybe twenty hours we’ve spent together. These good-byes are of a shallow level, but there are some feelings.

            Dentist's Office   Bangkok, Thailand. If you're over 60 this may bring back memories.

 *     *     *

I have also hit the baseline level, just two days ago when I had lunch with George, a friend for more than sixty years. The two of us grew up together, lived next door to one another and  our moms were best friends—bond of total trust with anything, and friends in need—whenever, with no questions in Wood River, Illinois. So many years and miles ago.

We had a four hour lunch together, talking non-stop. We have always had good conversations. He’s well read, an MIT grad—smarter than myself which makes him interesting, almost naively modest. Seemed as though we could have talked another four hours easy, and I didn’t even have a drink. It was surprising; off-the-wall thing from our past that we remembered, incidents from years ago. People we’d known— remembered adolescence . . . growing up together off and on.

We were both comfortably aware, as if ignoring this pivotal moment . . . the last time we would ever see each other in the flesh. So many years and pleasant dinners with our wives, their place or ours. Our spouses have became good friends and we share random e-mails . . . always kept in touch.

It was so nice, that four hour lunch, and one day later . . . kind of sad.

Buckmister & Amber - 26

Wow! She’s putting up a fight. She’s vicious with those nails, and wants no part of this.

“Merrooow,” she snares. She's fast and has a temper . . . and she’s out!

.

“Too small.” Lou looks at me but I ignore her and then I saunter off to see where Amber’s gone. She’s probably hiding underneath the bed find her right away. This nose of mine is just like radar, much more sensitive than any dog’s. 

“Are you okay,” I ask. We don’t use words, but Amber knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“No! They’re going to put us in those bloody cages.”

“Yes. I told you that two days ago. Not for a short time either. . . We could die.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” she sniffles. Amber has a sinus problem.

“We’ll, we could. We’re going on the silver bird. I overheard Lou making the arrangements. I thought we would go First Class, but no, we will be on the floor . . . Economy.”

“Economy? You’re kidding.”

“In economy” I tell her. “We change planes in Paris.”

“I’d like to see Paris again,” she meews.

“Right.” Amber is into the past lifetimes thing—reincarnation. I think she’s in for a rude unawakening.

On Leaving America - Part 40

Shipping the Volvo

Most of you have had the experience of selling a house, but you may never have shipped a car to Sweden. This is a good thing. It must seem odd for us to be shipping a Volvo to Sweden, but for some reason Volvos are more expensive there than they are here. Go figure.

This was my first and hopefully my last experience with overseas shipping. Port of Seattle is a labyrinth, an endless sprawling grid of containers, warehouses, box cars, railroad tracks, ships and cranes, bisected with a grid of bad roads in constant use by trucks bigger than Brazil. I’m following Lou who’s driving her car which we plan to sell before we leave.

We stop to ask for information twice and finally find the entrance to port offices. We park the cars next to the humongous ship at dock. My car will be on one like this.
We go inside. The offices are very nice. Good furniture and sculptures, photos . . . paintings—all first class. A receptionist asks for identification and we are given name tags that give us access the interior offices of the place. A customs lady greats us and asks us for our paperwork. We are drowning in paperwork but happily have brought what she needs.

“You’ll need an escort,” we are told. “You can’t go in alone, and only one of you will be permitted.”
“Do we have to pay for the escort?” I ask her.
“Yes. They charge $50 or $75 dollars and hour,” she says. “You have to pay in cash.”
The cash thing seems odd, but I don’t ask about it. I just want to get this done. “How long will it take for an escort to get here?” I esquire.
“Not long. I’ll make some calls.”

She brings us coffee to as we wait, but we do not have time to drink it. Escort has arrives in less than fifteen minutes. Seems like a nice enough guy, a good old boy in his work clothes and his sixties. We follow him out and form a short parade behind his huge pickup. Nothing here is small. Less then 2 minutes later we are stopped at a crossing by a passing train. A very long, very slow train.—all containers.

It goes forward for a little way, then backs up for about the same distance, waits and then goes forward again, and again, and again. Ten minutes pass—then twenty. Half an hour and I begin to imagine a $100 or more escort bill. More money than we have with us, but at last our escort comes back to my car.

“I think I know another way,” he says. “Follow me.” Lou is told to go on to the final customs office to wait for us and more paper work. In less than five minutes we are at the warehouse where I am to drop off the car. A Spartan office is occupied by three more good old boys in work clothes. One has his feet up on a metal desk. They all know each other by name and my escort complains about the train.
“Hey, that train’s making me money,” a man behind the counter tells him. “Had a ship roll over yesterday, he tells my escort. Forty-five degrees. Wheelhouse touched water but it righted itself. Destroyed everything inside . . . thirty million dollars damage— bulldozers and tractors . . . cars. They all came loose and smashed against the bulkhead.

The man with his feet up stands and goes out to check my car. “You’ll have to remove the license plates,” he says. Did you bring tools?”
Unfortunately I don’t have a crescent wrench in my pocket today, but they find a pair of pliers for me and I get the plates off. More papers get stamped and I ride back with the escort. We find Lou and go into the final customs office where my stamped papers are stamped again after my driver’s license has been copied. Then they are faxed to some other customs office and we are done . . . at last. Almost four hours have passed.

I’m thinking of the 120 foot wave as we drive back. “Is our car insured for damage?” I ask Lou. “Are the shippers responsible?”
“I don’t think so,” she says.

God how I want this to be over!

Buckmister & Amber - 25

The end is Near

Things have been going sideways fast. The atmosphere is thick with tension. They are making lists, never a good sign. Never good. Can you imagine living out of lists of things you have to do? At a certain times? Sleeping eight hours in a row and missing the best part of night? Some humans even work at night, sleep in the daytime . . . slavery, but they seem born to it. It’s what they do. Go figure. 

It’s been getting worse for kats. The female servant’s brought home two of those medieval cat cages. This is so not good. I’m curious of course, and sniff around the thing. Might as well know more about what’s going to happen. I knew this was coming up. I told Amber, but she acts as though she doesn’t care.  She’s more interested in getting her nails done. I’m a poet . . . an artist with deep feelings and great courage. Hemingway was very much like me.

Housewoman picks me up. Her name is Lou. It’s easier to type her name—less letters. I already know what’s going to happen and don’t struggle—pretty sure it’s just a test. But this does not bode well. She drops me down into a cage and zips it up. I’m in a prison barely big enough to turn around in.

Walls are made of thin black mesh. I can see out, but looking is the only thing I can do. There's no room for movement. I can barely turn around. This trip is going to be a bitch. Lou opens up the top, expecting me to jump out in a panic, but I don’t. I give her my, ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this’ stare. She’s gone looking for Amber now. I'll hang around and watch, see how she takes to this. There’s no escape. We’re doomed!

On Leaving America - Part 39

From Limbo Into High Anxiety & Chaos

The house is sold! We have to be out of here on 4 March. In the meantime, ship my car and to Gothenberg this Friday and somehow sell the wife’s ride the day before we leave, or before in which case we will have no means of transportation. Wife’s car, of course, has chosen this time to have problems . . . something with its computer chip which would cost more than the car is worth to replace. Still a million things to do with bank, SSI, insurance, Medicare, retirement papers, Wife closing her very successful business and office, bank things and hundreds of loose objects still not packed.

We thought we had the cat transportation worked out, but not. Can fly with 2 cats in cabin on Delta to Amsterdam. But from there we go KLM to Stockholm which only allows one cat in passenger cabin. This means we have to take separate flights from Amsterdam – one cat on each, and arrive in Sweden at different times. 

In the meantime we must go to Olympia to sign still more papers for cats. Olympia is about an hour drive from Seattle and I’m not sure car will make it. I’m not sure I will make it!

I’ve been having a few beers to help relieve the tension.

Photo © Lyle Bonge     From his:  The Sleep of Reason