Another cat in the Lair

The clone of Bastet aka The Gayer-Anderson Cat, purchased at British Museum, London, UK during a recent visit, arrived to the Lair this afternoon.
The Cats in the Lair are somewhat confuzzled. Her Supreme Catesty has decided to accept the newbie, as long as she is subordinate. Li’l Kitty is mostly curious and Tiny Cat pretended to be totally uninterested. However he was later spotted climbing vigorously to get acquainted.

Bastet has now moved to another place where she hopefully won’t be exposed to any harm. Of course Tiny Cat then started climbing…

Also a way to explain cat husbandry (as there is anything such…)

My oldest son mailed this one to me. I just love it.

When memories aren’t no more

When I was a rookie doctor at a country side hospital one of the female senior consultants was my mentor.

The city was small, the hierarchy very masculine and the job took it’s tolls. Only a couple of months before my internship started, one of the interns committed suicide. His seniors were more bothered about the gaps in the night rotas that followed, than trying to find out why one of their most hard working juniors took his life without anyone noticed any warnings beforehand.

My mentor and a dozen of other female consultants started a mentoring programme for the young female doctors at their hospital and the surrounding health centrals, where the GPs work. They wanted to do something to support their young colleagues with the hope that this programme would be an aid in the path to find your own strenght and self assurance.

Dr C wasn’t my first choice, but the one I was accepted as a mentee to. My first choice was already “spoken for” when I put in my request. Dr C turned out to be a good choice. We had some similar experiences. Both of us had married young, raised a family and done a few other things in life before we applied to Med School. I was 34 when I graduated, Dr C had been something similar, at least what I can recall now.

She was a senior with a great respect both for her patients, colleagues and staff. Never afraid to raise her voice when needed, always very frank and correct when she spoke. No friend of sugaring and meaningless flatter. Cared more about her work than her looks. She was specialised in geriatric medicine, and very good in the treatment and care of elderly with various dementias.Thus it was very ironic that she in her late fifties was diagnosed with a progressive variant of dementia that forced her out of work and into an early retirement.

I’ve seen her on and off since I left the country side hospital in the mid nineties. I met her and her husband at a concert at the Opera. Still she recognises me and greets me with as warm and hearty hugs as always - but she doesn’t remember my name. She asks me about my children, is surprised they are grown up and then she asks me again what my name is. She has changed a lot. She looks as she always has. OK. her hair is grey and she has given up the wet snuff many of my fellow countrymen and women put under their upper lip. But she moves differently, very carefully almost shy and keeps close to her husband. Her voice is sort of flat, and you notice very soon when you talk to her that she is not the woman she once was.

I’m glad I met her tonight, and had some time to chat with her. But at the same time it’s sad to see someone change so drastically. I really hope she has a good life out at the Island in the Sea, in the summer house where she planned to retire so many years ago.