Feeling good

Bill stopped reading the paper and looked up, puzzled at the extended loud rumbling he'd just heard. It was not snow tumbling off the roof. That has all been completed after the last dump of white stuff from the sky. It was not an avalanche blast up at Schweitzer. We usually have to be outside to hear those as the crew readies the ski hill each morning.

"That's my stomach," I announced. "It hasn't had much to eat, and it's hungry." Granted, the living room was pretty quiet as we both read our Sunday papers, but I'll be the first to admit that the gastrointestinal roar put out some decibels.

I'll also announce that in spite of its tumultuous protest, the ol' tummy's doing a lot better today than it was yesterday. Whether it was flu, a touch of food poisoning or drastic disagreement with whatever I fed it the night before, something put me under the weather on one of the most beautiful winter days of this year.

I spent the day, mostly inside, looking outside at that glorious sunshine and sparkly snow, lamenting that it was all going to waste. My mind wanted desperately to be out there tromping around on snowshoes or going for a brisk walk down the road. In the morning, I had to call in sick for a luncheon date at Bonners Ferry's Chic 'n Chop with my sisters, my mother and some horse friends from Libby.

Nearly every year toward the end of January, when there's need to get out and see some different scenery and some different faces, Dolly calls from Libby and sets up the time for us to meet in Bonners Ferry. The talking goes on for two or three hours; at least ninety percent has to do with horses. I was excited about this year's gathering because I had some significant horse news of my own and was planning to take along some pictures of Miss Lily.

That will have to wait until another meeting, maybe in the summer when Dolly comes over for a horse show. There was no way that any food of any kind, even with an ample side of horse talk, was going to lure me out of the safety of my home, my bathroom and my couch.

In spite of the misery, the day turned out better than expected. Bill had to go to Spokane, so he left about 8 a.m. That meant a minimum of responsibilties: feeding the fire, cleaning the horse stalls (talk about feeling 95), washing about three dishes, and occupying the couch with a snuggly fleece blanket and the TV remote at arm's length.

The day involved napping, moments of thinking I was feeling better, leaving the couch for about ten minutes, realizing I wasn't feeling better, returning to the couch, napping some more, jumping from slumber confident of full recovery, strutting with zesto for about three minutes, slowing down, feeling 95 again, returning to the couch, watching some skating, watching a great Meryl Streep movie "Music for the Heart," even watching a classic boxing match from 1984.

I seldom allow myself to relax. The excuse of that stubborn stomach ailment and its accessory aches, chills and utter exhaustion made me slow down, and I didn't fight the situation. Instead, it seemed like willingly submitting to it was the best strategy for ensuring a new day of feeling like a new woman. After all, I knew I couldn't feel much worse.

By late afternoon, I had the nerve to drink coffee instead of 7-Up. No inner retaliation, a good sign. I tried a short hike out to the woods, where I hadn't been for nearly a week. After crossing the pasture where my feet sank two feet downward with virtually every step, I entered the woods where the shelter of trees have kept the deep snow at bay.

Looking down the path which goes through an opening in the trees, I decided I'd gone far enough. My muscles and bones were insisting that we'd surely been hiking for at least 50 miles. So, I turned around, headed back through the deep crusty snow and welcomed the plowed-out lane back to the house and to the comfort of that couch, that warm fire and some more televison. By this time, the Zags game was starting.

I ate a few chips and settled into a very satisfying match-up between Gonzaga and the University of San Francisco. The Zags were on their game and looking good for victory. Bill came home at halftime with his Costco groceries. We enjoyed the rest of the game and flipped the channel to the WSU-Oregon game.

About that time, I made the rounds to see that all house pets were in their proper spots for the night. I called my Tabby cat, Festus, several times. He had gone outside at midafternoon. I'd last seen him lying in the snow outside the front deck, soaking up the sun. After calling and calling, I experienced another sick feeling in my stomach . Festus always comes running from the barn area by at least the third summons.

"He's gone," I said to Bill. "We'll never see him again." Bill tried to convince me that Festus had done this before.

"That was in the summer," I insisted. "He always comes running in the winter." Throughout the WSU game, I kept going to all doors and calling. At one point, Bill and I put on our coats, hats and gloves and grabbed flashlights to see if he was down at the far barn. He wasn't.

"He's been hit by a car or snow has fallen on him from one of the barn roofs or some creepy critter has gotten him," I surmised as we walked back to the house. Next, we put the dogs in and headed down the road. Thankfully, we found no cat corpses. We walked back. My assumptions of my beloved cat's fate had narrowed to two, and neither presented a pretty picture----the critter or the sliding snow. To find Festus as a victim of either would be horrifying.

We watched the rest of the game as Oregon came back at the end and defeated the Cougers. Again, I kept going to the door and calling. I was at the point of breaking into tears once Bill had headed for bed. This feeling was even worse than the flu, which I knew would go away. I searched every knook and cranny in the house, hoping he had sneaked in and curled up in a new spot. Again, the search was fruitless.

One last time I went to the garage door and called at the top of my lungs, watching toward the barn and praying he would suddenly appear. Nothing. As I was about to shut the door for the night with the dread of not being able to sleep thinking about my cat, I sensed movement off to the right in the front yard.

The most beautiful sight of January 27, 2007, came trotting through the darkness. Festus, unaware that there'd been a problem, came across the driveway and stood for a moment outside my reach, acting as if maybe he really didn't want to enter. Finally, he came. I swooped him up and hugged him like never before. And, yes, the tears came, but definitely tears of happiness and relief.

So, this morning all stomach disorders, including cat demises, have passed. All is well at the Lovestead, and like so often after a sick setback, I'm ready to enjoy every minute this day and this life has to offer. And, I'm guessing that was exactly what Festus was doing last night.