Wendy, contemplating the many ways we might Cause Her to Die.
Yesterday marked the 65th anniversary of the death of Dr. Jane Sabine in this house, in her 87th year. I've been eager to write more about her here but I'm still waiting to find out how much I am permitted to say and reproduce from my findings in the Sophia Smith Archives at Smith College. I will nag them again tomorrow.
And the cookware saga will be finishing up soon, I promise. After much trepidation and procrastination, I made a pretty successful second omelet in my new "stick" skillet tonight so I'm finally ready to dish, so to speak.
In other news, this afternoon, my favorite brown merino wool socks unilaterally decided they wanted nothing further to do with my feet and refused to touch them. I was heading downtown when I felt them working their way down my ankles and then my heels; it began when I was just far enough from home to make it annoying to go back. I kept yanking them back up from deep down in my boots, which was awkward and difficult, and I must have looked strange to passersby.... but the socks persisted in bunching up under my arches and were determined to take refuge in the toes of my boots. I tried pulling them up over my jeans, and under my jeans, and even over the tops of my low boots, but nothing persuaded them to do their job. I actually surrendered and took the T because walking in rebellious socks was so uncomfortable.
I pulled them up on the train, and while sitting on practically every bench, fence, stone wall, and chair I passed. I considered going into a UPS store to ask for some packing tape to bind them to my jeans.
They are currently in the wastebasket and we are not on speaking terms.
On the other hand, Wendy and I seem to be on speaking terms for a change. My husband and I decided that even if we can't make her totally comfortable around us, we need to get her used to being handled, in case she ever needs medication. So one of us tries to pick her up every day. We stalk her, speaking quietly and moving slowly after her around the house, and she has begun protesting in her sweet little voice. We keep this up until she freezes in surrender. Then we pick her up gently and praise her as she curls herself into a headless, footless ball of fur, flinching sharply at nothing. Then we gently put her down after a few seconds and watch as she Flees From Certain Death.
Here's hoping it gets easier.