There haven't been enough posts here to keep up with changes in my life, even though the changes come about slowly.  In fact, taking the long view is the only way to observe life here or a person might make the mistake of thinking that there aren't any changes at all.  I'm going to play the film of life around here at fast forward so that the changes are more noticeable.

Jean's in her third year of college, so being the sole woman in the household is no news at all.  What is newer is that The Guys now number four:  the sons and their father have been joined by my nephew.  I certainly know women who have only sons and they all seem perfectly fine to me, but I think I missed something about them up until this point.  Those women--Joan and Janet and Barb--all are very resolute about maintaining friendships.   Their love for their all-male family members is obvious, both in its strength and in their easy go with the flow approaches, but they never miss an opportunity to socialize with women friends.  A woman can only take so much masculinity in the atmosphere around her.  I'm finding it hard to connect with my good friends who are both the mothers of daughters.  We've been busy with those girls and have gotten out of social habits.

My nephew will be here until he goes to college next fall, assuming that I successfully nag him to complete college applications and we find that a leprechaun is hiding a pot of gold in the backyard so that his tuition can be paid.  His sisters are still with their saintly foster mother and their mother is in treatment sixty miles north of here.  Her mother wants to have the girls live with her and is making a place for them 170 miles north of here.  If the Powers in the Social Services Department approve, the girls will move there in January.  My nephew has not been invited.  He seldom hears from anyone in his family and he wants to finish this last year in the high school he started in.

Parker has been more generous than anyone could expect a person to be, sharing his room, household resources, his friends, and my time with his cousin.  His grades are still pretty awful, but the good news is that his social life is quite good. 

Eric visits every several months, never often enough, but he has cultivated the good habit of calling nearly every week.  He works too hard.  And why is it that mothers always say one of two things?  Either their child works too hard or isn't working hard enough at all.  It's tough being a kid, even when you're an adult.

So that's the briefest update about who's here and who's elsewhere.  As for what I'm doing to keep busy, that will give me something to write about tomorrow.

I'd planned a post about the things I've been interested in lately and it was quite an interesting subject--to me, if not to anyone else and that was fine with me.  The problem famously with plans is that life doesn't follow them and true to that, today's post is about something unplanned.

Oh, Edgar Allan was definitely part of the post about things I've been enjoying, but he has put himself in the starring role here because he died today.  I believe I wrote about his joining our household--how I was home recovering after unexpected and thorough surgery and Parker and his father chose to introduce the subject when I was paralyzed with fatigue and would have agreed to ANYTHING in order to get some quiet in the house.

"Go ahead.  Get him a rat.  I just need to sleep.  Please!" I  begged and off they went and brought back that thing with that tail.  I couldn't bring myself to do more than give the thing a ever-so-brief glance, and that just to be polite.  I had bargained for the right to name the rat and an embarrassing lack of imagination led me to dub him Edgar Allen, though in time he was Edgar Ratt and needed no famous literary sponsor in our home.   Edgar was good enough on his own and he was a clean and dainty enough to be a welcome tenant in the diningroom, just next to the table.

I maintained my polite distance until the day that Edgar got goofy.  He looked sideways at the world, his head cocked in a position of curiosity so persistant that it couldn't possibly be genuine.  There had to be another reason for his leaning against things--he had never been tense, but he'd never been slack before.  As happens at my house, the sick are left to my tender care, so it was I, who'd never picked up the fluffy white critter, who packed him into a shoebox and carried him to keep the appointment I'd made with the RatVet. His office is shared with DogVets and CatVets and their patients get delighted cries of welcome from the assistants who staff the front desk.  I felt lucky that my description of Edgar's symptoms got attentive and unhurried attention and that we were put in an examining room quickly, before Edgar was Lunch for the other patients.

Once in the room, I couldn't keep poor boxed Edgar trapped in that dark box and so I had to take him out.   I put him on the examining table and he was all rat--he left a puddle of urine just to show he owned the place along with a couple of droppings to prove that he was suitably nervous to be there.  Dr. W. came in and answered my apology for Edgar's lapse in manners with an agreeable, "Yes, he's acting just like a rat" and I knew that I was talking to a rat person.  I didn't have to convince him that Edgar was a good fellow or that he was a good pet.  He already knew and didn't need me to plead my case.  We went home with two prescriptions, tiny eyedroppers, and the doctor's request that I call in to tell him how Edgar was doing.

That was the first of a half dozen visits with Dr. W.  Edgar and I would go in, we'd come home with meds and in a few days Edgar would be back charming me into being his biggest fan.  I've never had a pet who liked people so much.  He would be out on the couch, where he had his out-of-cage time for exercise and I'd sit on one end and knit or read.  He would come over and beg for petting, nudging my hand like a devoted dog.  Sometimes he'd climb up on my arm, sometimes he'd sit on my lap while I stitched. 

He'd gotten sick again in the last couple of months and we've been back to Dr. W, whose magic meds would bring Edgar's energy and balance back.  The last couple of times, the meds haven't done the trick and Friday afternoon I decided that Edgar wasn't likely to regain his health again.  He stayed in his hammock all of the time.  He wouldn't take his medicine and never fail treats like banana and graham crackers couldn't get him interested in eating.  Saturday he not only barrell rolled when he lost his balance, but he did a forward sommersalt, too.  He wasn't in charge of his life, wasn't enjoying anything anymore.  Saturday night I was able to get medicine in him, hoping that it would work, but I talked to Parker and to Mack about letting him go.  I planned to take him to Dr. W. tomorrow and to ask him to give Edgar a little gas so he wouldn't feel the needle go in him.  This morning I went over to his cage with the two little eyedroppers and a little piece of pizza for a chaser.  I didn't need to find a bribe; Edgar had died during the night.

Now he's buried under the tree in the back yard, cushioned by a towel, closed up in a camera box.  There's a little note I wrote closed in there with him.  I know it is silly to bury a creature like that and to put a note for no one to read with him.  I just wanted to tell him one more time what he meant to me.  Many days he was the only Guy in the house who was happy I was here with him. 

On the note, I wrote in my best ceremonial-type handwriting:

Edgar Allen Ratt

You couldn't ask for a better companion.