Super-easy Easter eggs

Why deal with the hassle and mess of dyeing Easter eggs when you can purchase naturally colorful eggs?

Eggs purchased at the farmers market from Open A Bar 2 Ranch and Victory Hill Farm. The barely-blue egg at the top and the green eggs come from the Araucana chicken breed. Brown eggs come from hens with reddish or brownish feathers. The natural color of the egg has no effect on nutritional value - the hen's diet is what determines nutrient levels in the egg.

Happy Easter!

Copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw

Scenery it’s tough to be impervious to

This was the view of Scotts Bluff National Monument this morning from the large northwest window at the Farm And Ranch Museum:

Fog and longhorns.
What? ... Foghorn Leghorn?

It’s interesting how often the bluff has its own micro weather systems.

Alas, I was in a humdinger of a foul mood this morning (rotten week) and was unmoved by this lovely view.

My apologies to anyone I may have growled at today.

Copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw

Mother Nature’s April Fool’s Day gag

I took this photo today, April 1, 2012.

(Apologies for the poor photo quality. The dog – aka “Spawn of Satan” – that lives in the home south of me was barkbarkbarking at me through the fence, and I wanted to get back inside ASAP.)

Yes – those are peony buds. On April 1.

The temperature today at the airport maxed out at 87 degrees Fahrenheit. On my back deck, it hit 92 degrees.

We haven’t had any precipitation since February. (Rain, please!)

The climate, she is a changing.

In 20 years, most of Nebraska has gone from “hardiness zone 4″ to “hardiness zone 5.”

Image via "Weatherdem" from USDA and Arbor Day Foundation images.

Hahaha, Mother Nature. Very funny.

Uh . . . Mother Nature? You’re not laughing . . .

Copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw, except hardiness zone maps

The changeable WENE weather

Monday was a study in meteorological contrasts in western Nebraska.

I was inside working all day, so I have to rely on photos taken by other people to explain.

The first image comes from the staff at Scotts Bluff National Monument, via their Facebook page (Like them! The page has good info! They posted an album of photos from which I borrowed this one. The page is also how I learned about the awakening of the rattlesnakes this weekend.)

A still morning combined with a thick fog that settled down into the valley erased the towns and roads below and made Scotts Bluff look like an ocean coast. Ahhhhhh . . . .

The second image comes from my friend, Laura Leggottt.

Yes, this was the same day.

Same limited one-the-ground visibility, very different reason. While the morning fog would suggest otherwise, western Nebraska is in the midst of a very dry spring. The fine, dry soil, combined with afternoon winds sustained at 20-30 miles per hour and gusting to 50+ MPH developed a whopper of a dust storm. AAAAAAAHHH!!!!!

Here is a link to Laura’s blog, where she posted a series of photos of the dust storm at her home.

That’s western Nebraska for you – incredible natural beauty, oft-irritating weather.

UPDATE: I read in the paper this morning that a local man shot a hole in his attic because he through there was an intruder up there. Turned out to be the wind. Can’t say I blame him for the jumpiness. The wind apparently set off an alarm at the museum when I was there alone on Monday. I kept a caller on the phone with me while I went to investigate the dark, empty gallery. Winds like that do strange things to the mind.

Text copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw. Photo copyrights belong to the photographers.

Signs of spring

The wildflowers are peeping out at Scotts Bluff National Monument.

Nuttall's Violet

Narrow-leaved musineon

Hood's phlox

Too bad the show will likely be muted this year compared to last, on account of the dry weather.

****

The sunshine is strong, drying my laundry in minutes, and causing farmers market cupcakes to sprout protective parasols.

Oh yeah . . . and the rattlesnakes are waking up. Two were spotted on Saddle Rock Trail at the monument this evening.

Copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw

Foggy morning ride

Yesterday, I *had* to bike to work.

I’d been sitting for four days straight, at a museum conference and in the car getting to and from said conference. The conference hotel did not have a workout room.

I really needed the exercise of the bike commute.

When I got up, the morning light outside my windows seemed strange. I stepped outside to get the paper and realized that the sunrise was being filtered through a dense fog that was condensing on the trees and dripping down to provide some desperately-needed soil moisture.

Dense fog makes for an interesting bike ride.

You’re pedaling along in your own little world, oblivious to anything beyond a one-block radius. The experience is reminiscent of snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef.

The visibility disappears at a vague distance, and menacing creatures like sharks or sport utility vehicles could materialize at any moment. There’s tension in the contrast between a slightly cozy isolation and the possibility of lurking danger.

I mitigate the lurking SUV danger with hyper-alertness and an array of blinking LEDs.

This heightened attentiveness makes the beauty of a foggy day an extra treat.

Broadway / 10th Steet bridge over the North Platte River, southbound

Copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw

The story of a cat

This blog post is completely off my usual subject, but I have a story I need to tell, and this blog has become a vehicle for my voice.

. . .

Since I was a little girl, I have liked cats.

Me and my favorite stuffed animal, Meowie, circa 1977.

But I could not have a “real” cat when I was growing up.

I could only admire other people’s cats and obsess over Garfield comics, which my grandparents cut out for me every single day and saved in a shoebox for my next visit.

Me, my sister and a visiting cat in my grandparent's basement, circa 1979.

My dad did not like cats. He was allergic, he said.

I suspect there was another reason. He’s a model railroad geek who filled the basement of my childhood home with a miniature version of the Wisconsin Central. Can’t say I blame him on the “no cats” thing.

RAOWR! Catzilla! (Image stolen from the Interwebz.)

Fast forward to 1994. I’m soon to begin my junior year of college. I’m living in a crappy rental house with four friends.

The vehicle in front of said crappy house was my first vehicle - a family hand-me-down. 1983 Chevy van. Meemorieeees ...

Early one morning, I am awakened by the cacophony of a cat fight. I head downstairs to break it up.

As soon as I open the front door, a black furball comes streaking inside. One of the combatants decided to take refuge in the house!

I gingerly pick up the little cat. She does not protest. I put her down outside.

The cat follows me and my housemates – house to car, car to house – as we pack for a road trip.

When we return several days later, the little black cat is still hanging around. I start to feed her.

My housemates decide to adopt a dog.

I’m not too keen on having a dog around, but I acquiesce because my housemates agree to let me adopt the little black cat. (The dog turns out to be an awesome addition to the household. He and the cat get along just fine.)

The decision to bring the cat inside proves to be a good one. The crappy rental house has a rodent problem.

Mice.

And Rats.

“Bubonic plague!” my mom wails.

The little black cat comes to the rescue, playing with the rodents until they “break.”

She also plays with other things until they break, like my housemate’s Winnie-the-Pooh watch – the leather band, all chewed up.

We holler, “Get out of there, you little weasel!”

The name sticks.

Weasel’s personality emerges. She likes to climb inside things.

Cat in the sink

Cat in the drawer

Cat in the box

At a party one night, we watch with prankster glee as Weasel squeezes inside an empty beer case and, to the dismay of partiers who reach in thinking the weight in the box is beer, pops out like a wicked jack-in-the-box, all claws and teeth.

Weasel also likes to play fetch. The plastic rings from milk cartons are her favorite, but mouse toys do nicely, too. She is a talker. She meows with excitement when she hears a new milk ring being cracked off the carton.

meowMEOW?

When I graduate and move and start my first job, I take Weasel with me.

I know no one in this new town, far from friends and family. I am lonelier than I have ever been in my life.

Weasel is my friend and confidante. When I am scared or upset, she purrs and makes me feel better. When something is amiss, like when I leave the window open and the rain leaks in, she comes meowing to let me know.

When my college friend visits to show off her new baby, I jokingly hold my “baby” for the picture, too.

My mom laughs and refers to Weasel as her “grandkitty.”

Every Halloween she warns, “Make sure to keep Weasel inside. Somebody might do something to a black cat on Halloween.”

"'Do something' to me? Like put a dippy Halloween bandana around my neck?"

I meet a young man in a coffee shop. We begin dating. We get engaged. We marry.

Weasel takes to him immediately.

One of the reasons I love him is that he is OK with being the kind of person who includes the cat in the holiday family photo.

Weasel is a good study buddy for my husband. Her role lasts nine years while he works to become “Dr. Bugman.”

Weasel also provides comic relief during study breaks.

Tried to find her way out of a plastic bag. Thought the handle was the opening. Earns herself a plastic superhero cape.

Hey, diddle diddle, the cat IS a fiddle??

Engarde!

Whoop whoop whoop whoop!

One day, we notice that Weasel is drinking a lot of water. One day, she has an “accident” on the kitchen floor, right in front of us. We take her to the vet.

At six years old, Weasel is diabetic.

We wonder what to do. Is it worth treating her?

“My friend had a diabetic cat who lived to be 25,” my mom says.

We learn to give insulin injections, twice a day, every day. It’s simple because Weasel gets a treat when she gets an injection. She is a highly food-motivated cat. She meows when it’s time for her shot.

Weasel lounges on her blood glucose testing equipment. She is very cooperative, allowing her paw pads to be pricked for a drop of blood ... because she gets a treat.

The difficulty of finding a pet sitter who can give injections means Weasel becomes a well-traveled kitty. She tags along just about everywhere we go. After a few unhappy meows, she settles down in her carrier in the back of the car and falls asleep. When we arrive at our destination, she explores, then settles down into her cat bed.

It’s good that she’s used to travel. She moves with us six times in 12 years.

Weasel’s locale is changeable, but her feeding schedule is not, which leads to a new role: alarm clock.

Bugman is the kind of person who needs a brass band marching through the room to awaken him. Or a persistent cat.

Rather than continually having to poke at Bugman to wake him up every morning, I simply get up and don’t feed the cat. She learns that Bugman is the morning source of food, and she will do whatever it takes to get him up and moving. She earns the moniker “Pillowdancer.”

But naptime? Naptime is different. Naps are for sharing.

Weasel serves another purpose: deflection of awkward silence.

People often assume that a married woman of my age has children. To start a conversation, they ask, “Do you have children?”

I say, “No.”

Awkward silence.

I learn to preempt the silence: “No, but we have a very spoiled cat.”

Silly grin. Awkward silence averted.

Cat though she may be, Weasel trends doglike in her personality. She comes running to greet us when we come home from work. She is a people-oriented cat.

She even wins my dad over.

“Hi, Meow,” he says to her.

“Meeeeew!” she replies.

Weasel is happy to hang out and play with anyone. (Except other cats. She hates other cats. Hiss, spit, growl!)

Weasel plays with Bugman's sister.

Weasel plays with Bugman's nephew.

Further enhancing her touch-o’-canid personality, Weasel learns to walk on a leash.

Checking out the flowerbeds.

Pretty kitty amidst the greenery.

As she ages, Weasel’s whiskers turn from all-black to all-white. She slows down and doesn’t need to be on a leash anymore when she goes outside.

Stalking through the backyard.

Weasel and Bugman, watching the world go by.

Weasel has a sudden drooling-like-a-waterfall episode. The vet does an X-ray to check if anything is clogging her digestive tract. All clear, and the drooling quits as suddenly as it started.

But there’s a “mass” showing on the image. Maybe liver. Maybe pancreas. Nothing much that can (or should) be done for a geriatric cat.

Not that anything needs to be done. She is still her sassy, inquisitive self.

Laissez les bon temps rouler! Purrrrrr, purrrrrr.

"Chihuahua The Movie?" That's a dog, you say? I dunno. Kinda looks like a cat to me!

Time passes, and things change.

Weasel stops inhaling her food in 60 seconds flat. She takes longer and longer to empty her food dish until eventually, food from the morning feeding is still there in the evening. Around Christmastime, her decline can no longer be overlooked.

Weasel wouldn't play with the streamers at New Year's.

I take Weasel to the vet in January. The “mass” has grown and is pressing on the digestive tract. Not much to do but try some highly palatable foods. Kitty hospice. She’ll last through spring.

Accustomed to “nasty dry crap,” Weasel thinks the new highly palatable foods are … ahem … the cat’s meow.

She purrs, continues her daily job of waking Bugman up, and mostly cleans her plate.

The weather warms, and she lolls in the sunshine, rolls in the grass.

“MeowMEOW?” she says.

Bugman and I laugh.

Weasel’s bottle of insulin runs out. I get another one at the pharmacy. $160 with tax.

“Wow, that must be a special cat,” the pharmacy clerk says.

Ashamed to be spending so much on a cat when plenty of people can’t afford such pricey medicine, I say, “The bottle lasts a year.”

Except this time, it doesn’t.

Weasel stops getting excited about her highly palatable food. She even turns up her nose at tuna, which has always been a go-to treat.

A time before she turned up her nose at tuna, when she got tuna on her nose.

Weasel’s food is untouched, and Bugman and I spend a tearful Friday night pondering an awful question. “The vet is open on Saturday morning. Should we …?”

We don’t, and Weasel eats her food.

She has a great Saturday, pawing at my leg to distract me from the computer so I will pick her up onto my lap. She purrs and purrs. She spends time in the warm March sunshine, chasing a butterfly out in the yard while Bugman works on digging our garden.

 

That day was her gift to us.

 

On Sunday, she barely moved from her cat bed, would only take a few half-hearted laps of tuna water. Sunday night, she could not get comfortable. She kept changing positions and smacking her lips.

Monday morning, food still untouched, she was continuing to do her job.

“MeowMEOW?” Purrrrr. Time to get up!

She lapped up a little tuna water and climbed up into her normal place on the people bed. When the sun strengthened, she moved to her favorite spot on the plant stand in a sunny window.

A few hours later, the veterinarian came. Thank goodness the good doctor does house calls for things like this. I would hate to have taken Weasel away from her sunny windows.

Death brings a blessed end to suffering, but it’s so hard to have to choose it for a friend, even in the name of mercy.

Goodbye, my kitty friend. Thank you for 18 years of companionship and laughter. The house is going to be awfully quiet without you.

Weasel "Cat" Bradshaw
1994 - 2012

Copyright 2012 by Katie Bradshaw