The Blog of our Discontent.

I looked out the window this morning and saw snow. That did not bode well for the rest of the day. Both Ann and I had appointments to keep with doctors, so out we all went. Ann’s doc is concerned about her weight, which is on the low side, and asked us to feed her more formula, which we will. Also, Ann got her first vaccinations today. Some other time I might rant against fool parents who opt out of vaccinations for their children. I don’t have the energy at the moment.

Did I mention that it snowed last night? Snow in April. And some ice. My arch-enemy, sidewalk ice, was waiting for me. Since the morning temps were a little above freezing, it was mushy, slushy ice, not the vicious, hard-as-diamond ice that put me in a cast. Still, it represents an interruption of that critical friction between the bottom of my feet and the ground. So I went very carefully to the car.

I could have phoned in my doctor’s visit, for all the doctor did for me today. But at least I was promised an end to cast-wearing, in two weeks.

My old friend Michael J., who attended university with me all those years ago, surprised me with an e-mail recently. Back when he studied engineering at Vanderbilt, he was the chief engineer of the isolation tank five of us lads built in the spring of 1982 (but that’s another blog); these days he runs his own engineering business in Nashville.

Mike said, “I have been reading your blog faithfully [Wow! A reader.], as have I rejoiced in the announcements and pictures of your daughters.

“A note on the headline. Dees the cat is alive and kicking still. Will be 21 in September. He is a shadow of his former self, weighing in at a scant seven pounds. He has become somewhat sweet and affectionate in his dotage, and needs a step-stool to get into the bed.”

There’s another Dees in the world, besides me and my nephew. Sometime in the summer after I graduated from VU, while I was poking around western Europe, Mike acquired an orange cat and named him Dees. It was a little surprising, but I didn’t mind. I’ve met Dees many times over the years, though it’s been a while since I last saw him. I haven’t been to Nashville to visit since before Lilly was born.

If I had had to guess, I would have guessed that he passed on some time ago. But no — a 20-year-old cat. Don’t cats like that get letters from the White House for longevity?