A turn for the better

The kitties are becoming friends!

They fight a lot less than they used to … they groom (i.e., they lick) each other … they sit peaceably together in the tub.

Here Jasper cools himself in the fridge, as is his way. Ziva sits as close to him as she can get. See how she looks up to her older brother.

I hope that we will be able to keep them both.

The kitties

Not only has Ziva been climbing out over the barricade; yesterday, Jasper knocked the whole thing down. So, again, we’re confining them – one at a time, and mostly Ziva – to the bathroom. They’re behaving better. Now, when they’re both out, they take as long as ten minutes to start fighting one another to the death.

This morning, Karin sprayed cheese on two crackers and put the crackers next to each other on the floor, and the kitties peacefully licked the cheese off of their respective crackers; only afterward did they fight.

Karin talks to a vet who says to give them more time to get used to one another. So we’ll see. Maybe we’ll end up keeping Ziva.

Yesterday I went to my high school job, and then I briskly walked for 40 minutes to Bethel and taught two consecutive classes of Spanish, and then I walked to my IUSB job. This will be my routine for much of the semester. It’s been three years since I last taught. I’d forgotten what it’s like to stand in front of a room and command attention from everyone. And I wasn’t even saying anything interesting: I was just going over the syllabus. It went to my head a little bit. I think I now project more authority than I used to, because I’m older and fatter and I have a professorial mustache. Also, I was very sweaty from the brisk walking, and I wore baggy, brown, corduroy pants and a tight, yellow, soccer shirt. I don’t think the students were bored.

The (self-)defenestrations of Ziva

Ziva and Jasper are still together in the apartment, though we’ve been keeping them in different rooms. For a while we kept Ziva in the bathroom. We’d take her out sometimes, and she and Jasper would fight, and then we’d return Ziva to her confinement. At first she didn’t seem to mind, but eventually she started meowing in protest.

Last night I felt so sorry for her that I insisted she be kept in our nice bedroom. Easier said than done – the bedroom hasn’t got a door.

We solved this problem by blocking the doorway with a bookcase. The space at the top of the doorway remained exposed, so we stacked things above the bookcase. Although a small window of space was left open, we figured Ziva couldn’t jump high enough to reach it; the barricade seemed formidable.

We also stacked books on top of a nearby dresser so that Ziva couldn’t jump onto it and then jump out over the barricade.

Alas, these book stacks proved not to be high enough. Here’s a video of Ziva getting out:

Karin & I had to tear down the barricade, go out into the livingroom, catch Ziva (who again was fighting with Jasper), and bring her back into the bedroom. After several rounds of trial and error, we made the book stacks high enough that Ziva couldn’t escape.

(We shot more video of Ziva leaping onto – and bouncing off of – the book stacks. But I’m not going to post any of that. It would be cruel.)

We were crawled upon by Ziva all during the night. Worse was when we had to wake up to use the toilet. (We’d drunk a lot of water before bed-time; constructing the barricade made us thirsty.) We had to dismantle the barricade and build it up again … and again, in the morning, when I got up for work … and again when Karin did.

Since then, we’ve been making Jasper and Ziva take turns being confined inside of the bedroom. It hasn’t helped their relations. They still hiss and swat at each other through a crack in the barricade.

Karin & I have agreed that although Ziva and Jasper are both very nice kitties, they’ll never get along. We’ve begun looking for somebody else to adopt Ziva.

Ziva, pt. 2

Again Ziva is visiting. Jasper is still wary of her – and she of him – but while she explores the premises, he plays with his toys, not minding too much that she’s in the apartment. This is a good sign.

Hmm … Jasper just cornered Ziva under a chair … now, under a bookcase.

If we do adopt this second child, I won’t have an unworried moment until they truly get along.

It’s been decided that Ziva will spend the night in our bathroom. She and Jasper will be able to smell each other under the door, without harming one another. (We really should’ve kept them separated like this since the beginning: we’ve been doing this all wrong.)

Please pray for us to decide wisely about keeping Ziva, and for Ziva and Jasper to love each other.

Ziva

To prepare to teach Spanish at Bethel, I’m listening to “Banano’s Bar” and “Monster Truck” by Plastilina Mosh. I might teach the whole course upon the topic of Plastilina Mosh. (I might design the other, more advanced, course around the topic of Los Tigres del Norte.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Ziva, a kitten, has been brought for a visit to our apartment. Karin & I wish to see how Ziva and Jasper get along. If they do well enough, we might adopt Ziva to be Jasper’s little sister.

So far they’ve been stalking each other and growling, and Jasper’s hair has been standing on end. This is the best he’s gotten along with another cat.

Does anyone know, how good are their chances? How likely is it that two strange cats will become friends?

Jasper has just swatted at Ziva’s head. Not a good sign.

Here is a photo of Ziva.

Here is a photo of Sadie, a very mean, grown-up cat whom Karin & I like to visit at the Humane Society.

The Humane Society put up this photo to advertise Sadie to the people who might wish to adopt a cat. Sadie looks angry pretty much all of the time. She is so mean, she has her own room, away from the other cats. It took weeks before she warmed up to us. Then, one day, she allowed Karin to stroke her.

“Sadie,” I said, “would you like to come home with us to be Jasper’s wife?”

Sadie clawed Karin and ran away.

Ziva has better adoptive prospects. We may arrange another visit between her and Jasper, and then decide whether to bring her into our family.

Wayde van Niekerk

I said I wouldn’t follow the Olympics, but this news did catch my eye: Wayde van Niekerk smashing the 400m world record, running in Lane 8.

This video will likely be taken down.

Our age-gap; no rest for me; the spot

I go with Karin to Constantine, MI, to help her to pack up her grandparents’ belongings so that they can move to a different house. Karin allows me to choose the music for the car ride.

I choose songs from when I was a youth.

“What’s this?” says Karin, who is ten years younger than I am.

“This is ‘Miami’ by Will Smith.”

“Oh, yes. The early Will Smith.”

“I guess so.”

“What’s this?” says Karin.

“These are the Goo Goo Dolls. This song [‘Iris’] was very popular when I was in high school.”

“Oh, yes.”

The next song, she doesn’t ask about. I headbang to it and play the air guitar. After a while, I ask: “Do you like this song, Sweetie?”

“It’s fine. What is it?”

“It’s ‘Self Esteem’ by the Offspring.”

“Yes, it’s good. It’s like Nirvana.”

“Yes. But much funnier.”

“Oh, yes.”

Next is “Lucky Denver Mint” by Jimmy Eat World, whom I never listened to until I moved to the United States.

“I feel like this music was popular in the 2000s,” says Karin.

“Actually, this song is from the late ’90s.”

“I think I like the Smashing Pumpkins. They’re from the ’90s, right? Are they the ones who sing, I used to be a little boy …?”

“Yes. David and I refer to that song as ‘The Killer in Me Is the Killer in You.’ It’s very good.”

“What is it really called?”

“‘Disarm.’”

“Oh, yes.”

We listen to “Disarm.” I wail along with it: The killer in me is the killer in you …

“I like songs like this one,” says Karin. “The ones that are a little gloomy.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

IUSB’s summer term will end on Monday. I’d been looking forward to having a few days off. But, last night, Martin told me that work will begin again at the high school on Tuesday morning.

On the one hand, it’s a bit of a shock.

On the other, being oblivious to the calendar has spared me from dreading about going back to my high school job.

I have a strange spot on my back, near to my right shoulder. I made an appointment for a doctor to check it out (September 7). Right now, I feel all right about it, just a little uneasy, but for a couple of days this week Karin & I were very conscious of our mortality. Which is a fine thing, up to a point. The ideal amount of consciousness of mortality is somewhere in between what I have now and what I had a few days ago.

Mary isn’t very worried. Without having seen it, she thinks that the spot is a regular mole that was stretched out when I got too fat.

A promising return

This afternoon, in contrariety to my recent tendencies, I played pick-up soccer. (I hadn’t expected to play again until next year, due to my fatness.) It didn’t go very badly. I lasted a little longer than an hour. I ran exactly two sprints. The first sprint, I fell on my face with no one near to me. The second sprint, my timing was perfect, and I provoked a defender into conceding a throw-in (though if he’d just left the ball alone, I would’ve been too tired to do anything with it). My throw-in led to a corner-kick. My corner-kick was … uninspired.

Nominally I was a defender, but in reality I just walked up and down the sideline and received and gave passes. I didn’t chase down any through-balls. I didn’t try to clog any dribbling or passing lanes. I didn’t shove anyone off of the ball. I avoided pretty much all contact. Defensively, I was a non-factor.

Offensively, my teammates granted me lots of touches, because I was always in the empty spaces. All five of my shots were on target. I gave passes that should have been converted into goals (one particularly brilliant one was so converted). Toward the end I played center-forward. I ghosted into empty space in front of the goal, received a pass, turned with lots of time, and shot low and away from the goalie’s body for an easy-peasy score. On the sideline, Karin didn’t see the goal because she was reading Harry Potter. I yelled across the field – “Sweeeeeettttiiieee” – and the other people told her about the goal, and so she looked up from her book. Then I quickly made another goal (a mirror-image of the first one) so that she could see it. Shortly thereafter I bowed out.

Gracias a Dios, my performance was in line with what I had prayed for and expected.

Parade

Karin is briefly out of town. Martin & Mary and I watch the Parade of Nations, which takes place in the Maracanã.

“This is your favorite thing to watch, John-Paul,” Mary says.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. The female athletes.” She is referring to the manner in which I admired the Sochi 2014 Parade of Nations. (I was single then.)

I observe that these athletes aren’t as beautiful as those of the winter olympiad.

“Well, of course not,” says Mary. “The summer athletes aren’t as rich.”

Countries large and small parade their delegates. The TV commentators are absolute d-bags. Of Djibouti they say, “Once every four years, someone is forced to pronounce this country’s name.” Mary and I loudly boo this remark. The commentators read from their notes: “The U.S. has a military base in Djibouti.” Really? This is all they can think to say about Djibouti? Booooo! Booooo!

Of Eritrea they say, “We bet you don’t know where this country is.”

“It’s right next to Djibouti, you d-bags!” we yell at the TV.

Mary is worried that the Ecuadorians won’t be shown; the commercial breaks are too frequent. But the Ecuadorians are shown. The commentators make some respectful remarks about the great speed-walker of 1996, Jéfferson Pérez.

Mary complains: “That’s exactly what they talked about in the London Olympics.”

I don’t mind. I’d be relieved if they only talked about Jéfferson Pérez until kingdom come.

The alphabetization is in Portuguese, and so the athletes of the Federated States (estados) of Micronesia are paraded out right before those of the United States (estados) of America.

“Need we talk about this country?” the commentators say of Micronesia. They chuckle. “Well, all right. This is the country that comes right before you-know-who” (i.e., the USA).

Again Mary and I are indignant.

Martin mutes the TV while the 500 U.S. athletes come into the stadium. It takes so long for them to march in, the TV goes to a commercial break.

“What!” I say. “They cut out the athletes of their own country!”

“Business commitments are very important to them,” says Mary.

And that’s all I wish to see of these Olympics. If anything occurs that’s worth watching, I’ll find it later on YouTube.

The end of camp-time

Brianna is quite the little Queen Bee. She has so many friends at Brown City Camp that they have to compete for her attention. Sometimes she and just one or two of her friends come into our cabin; but then the others locate her, and our cabin is filled with teen-aged girls (the boys are too polite, or too shy, to join us).

Inevitably, feelings get hurt. There’s only so much of Brianna to go around, and she doesn’t always distribute herself most equitably and lovingly.

This is a difficult thing to manage. It’s difficult for adults. It’s even harder for the young. They’re only beginning to grasp that personal relationships come with duties as well as benefits – that more is expected than a spontaneous reaction of the heart. It’s painful to watch Brianna charm people but not fully embrace all who are charmed.

Still, her uninhibitedness serves her well during a Q&A session about creation vs. evolution.

“Good Christians disagree about this subject,” begins the pastor, and then he spends the rest of his time explaining why Young Earth creationism is clearly the right – the righteous – option.

Brianna is his sole dissenter.

“My name is Brianna,” she says, “and my grandparents are _____ and _____, who have been coming to this camp for many years” (there is a murmur of approval). “And I just want to say that I don’t believe in Young Earth. But when I get to heaven and see Jesus, if he says, ‘The world was created in six days,’ I’ll say, ‘Praise God!’ And if he says, ‘The world was created through evolution,’ I’ll say, ‘Praise God!’” (The pastor glares.)

Her mother and Karin & I are very pleased. I’m reminded of myself, of my own youthful outspokenness. (Whether I was equitable and loving, I don’t recall.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The next day, Karin & I return to South Bend. We listen to the Twin Peaks soundtrack, to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and to my playlist-in-progress, “Stalker Songs,” which has melodic, soft music and vaguely unsettling lyrics. (And not all of its songs are about stalking: some are about mugging, or about being mugged.)

When we go into our house, Jasper is very happy to see us. He meows and meows and eats half of Karin’s sandwich and dashes around the house for about an hour.

Karin goes to the Social Security office and changes her last name. It’s her decision. I’m glad she’s doing what she wants, not what I want.

I love Karin better all the time. It’s a delight to wake up next to her.

And I love Jasper, who this morning did the waking up.