This is one of Peg’s three remaining feet. She lost her shattered front leg after she was thrown from a moving car. She gets along great despite the missing limb. The feline paw it truly is a work of art.
My favorite painting is My Wife’s Lovers by Austrian artist Karl Kahler (1855-1906).
In 1891 the painting was commissioned by wealthy philanthropist and art collector, Kate Birdsall Johnson of San Francisco. Mrs. Johnson, who was a wealthy patron of the arts, shared her Buena Vista estate with 50 beloved Angora and Persian cats. I had the honor or viewing the painting at a CFA cat show several years ago. It depicts 42 different breeds of cats including a prominent Turkish Van. The enormous painting measures six feet by-eight-and-a-half feet. My Wife’s Lovers is the world’s largest antique cat painting.
Kahler was paid $5,000 for the piece. A few years later, the painting was displayed at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, Illinois. When Mrs. Johnson died in 1894, the painting was sold at public auction for $500.
The painting survived San Francisco’s 1906, despite the fact that the art saloon where it was display was destroyed. In 1949, Cats Magazine declared it to be “the world’s greatest painting of cats.”The painting was re-discovered in the late 1980s, in a storage room by cat fancier and art collector Kaja Veilleux. Finally, it was offered at the all-cat collectibles auction with a pre-sale estimate at more than a half million dollars.
Talk to your vet or humane organizations in your area about reduced cost spaying and neuter. Because we don’t want babies having babies. (Don’t you wish it was that easy with your teenager?)
So many of you asked me to post my father’s eulogy, so here it is.
For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dusty Rainbolt, Alta Grace and J.D.’s baby girl.
My favorite statesman, Winston Churchill, once said, “We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.” I believe he was talking about my Dad, J.D. Rainbolt.
J.D. was born the eldest child of Ike and Mary Rainbolt. Husband of 73 years to Alta Grace Frost Rainbolt. Father to Art, Margaret and myself. He was the grandfather of Christopher Rainbolt, Laurence Woodruff and Mary Woodruff and great grandfather of Sebastian Rainbolt. He was a patriot, engineer, outdoorsman, rancher and animal lover.
Dad arrived in this world J.D. Rainbolt in January, 1917. My grandfather, a former minor league baseball player, named his first son after a good friend on his team. If you go online and check J.D.’s military records, it will say that John D. Rainbolt was born in 1916. So where did the name change and birth date discrepancy come from?
Lt. Rainbolt on the right with unknown officers
When he was in high school in Dallas, Texas, J.D. wanted to join the ROTC, but he was a year too young, so on the form he said he was born in 1916. That got him through the first step. Shortly afterward, the ROTC commandant called Dad’s mother and needed to know what J.D. stood for. J.D., it’s just initials–just like the baseball player. Sorry the commandant told her, he can’t have just initials; he has to have a name. So, on the spot Grandmother renamed her 14-year-old son John Dee Rainbolt. Even at that young age he loved his country so much, he changed his birth date and even his name in order to begin his military career.
In 1936, J.D. went to work for the phone company as a cable repairman, climbing telephone poles in Dallas’ sweltering summers and freezing winters. In 1940 he married the love of his life. Because of his critical job at the phone company, J.D. couldn’t be drafted. But after the attack on Pearl Harbor, his bride signed a waiver allowing him to join the army.
JD started out as a cable repairman climbing telephone poles in the sweltering Dallas summers and icy winters
The army wanted to make him a second lieutenant in the infantry. But Dad knew his life expectancy would be measured in minutes. He held out and was inducted as a first lieutenant in the signal corps. He served in France as a communications scout. He was proud of the fact that all of the men under his command returned to their families, alive.
Dad truly was one of The Greatest Generation. They saved the world, and J.D. had his hand in it. He was a champion of the defenseless but in his own subtle, humble way. On one occasion he drove up on some French soldiers who were forcing their young enlisted German prisoners to dig graves before executing them. Dad took the prisoners away from the French and sent them to the rear where they were processed as very relieved prisoners of war.
In the photo tribute to JD, you will see an unassuming photo of a partial bridge, the bridge over the Rhine to the German city of Remagen. Dad was asked to volunteer for a suicide mission to provide communications as the Americans fought for the bridge. Dad told his commander that he wouldn’t volunteer for a suicide mission and leave his wife a widow, but he would go if ordered to do so. His commander issued the order and Dad chose two men to accompany him. Fortunately, before they could carry out their orders, the Army crossed the Rhine down river and Dad’s mission was aborted.
JD’s commanding officer ordered him to undertake a suicide mission to set up communications during a battle at the bridge over the Rhine to the town of Remagen, Germany. Fortunately, before JD could carry out his orders another bridge was captured down river.
To Dad, the word “holocaust” wasn’t a metaphor. He witnessed it firsthand. In the final days of the war, while on a mission to set up communications ahead of advancing American troops, J. D. and his driver were the first Americans to discover the network of six concentration camps in Landsberg, Germany. Dad described the stinging stench of the smoldering boxcars as their Jeep crossed a bridge and they approached a barbed wire compound. The gates had been forced wide open and skeletal Jewish women stood outside the entrance holding up plates of fresh cookies, gifts for their American liberators. I never thought to ask Dad if he tried the cookies or what they tasted like. Pity. I now would like to know that. Dad had his orders, so he could offer no assistance except to call back and alert the approaching army about his horrifying discovery. I can’t imagine the helplessness of witnessing such brutality and frailty. I’m sure the scars of that day followed him his entire life.
After the war, he remained in the Army Air Corps reserves (which became the U.S. Air Force) rising to the rank of Lt. Colonel. He also returned to the phone company where he would eventually be promoted to the Military Activities Engineer, responsible for all military communications for the southwest.
Another of Dad’s favorite stories was about his participation in Operation Cue that would help determine how much damage a nuclear blast would cause to housing and infrastructure, including its effect on communications.
Just before sunrise on May 5, 1955, a 2½ kiloton atomic device, equivalent to 50,000 tons of TNT, was detonated from a tower at the Atomic Test Center in Nevada. J.D. waited in a foxhole 5½ miles from ground zero. If you looked at J.D.’s photo memorial, you may have noticed a mushroom cloud amidst all the personal photos. That wasn’t a press shot. Unlike everyone else pressed against the floor of their foxholes, when the bomb detonated, J.D. climbed out of his and took pictures of the fireball until the shock wave knocked him down.
In the l960s, J.D. was responsible for communications when Lyndon Johnson visited his ranch in south Texas. I had no idea how important Dad’s job was until I started going through his old records. I found secret plans for Harry Truman’s funeral, as well as LBJ’s. There were secret diagrams of Vice President Lyndon Johnson’s ranch. There’s a whole new set for President Johnson’s ranch. Poor Dad. During those stressful years, LBJ gave J.D. a bleeding ulcer.
But there was another side to J.D. Rainbolt—J.D. the Papa. He was a hands-on Dad when he had that luxury of time. He took Art, Margaret and me fishing, but at different times. And at those moments, we had Dad’s undivided attention. When I was nine he taught me to shoot a .22. As we matured and developed different interests, our activities changed. He and Margaret went to baseball games. He took me to movies (Patton, The Longest Day. I remember Dad and l laughed till our cheeks hurt as we watched Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines, one of my fondest memories. He took me to hear all of my then-favorite singers Glen Campbell and Johnny Cash.
On one of our overnight excursions, Dad confessed to me that he loved me (and of course my mom and siblings) so much he was willing to die to protect me. Wow. I understood that to mean that he would always keep me safe. He was willing to die for his wife and kids; he was willing to die for his country. John 15:13 says, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
I know it’s hard to segue from that, but bear with me just another moment.
A few months ago when I was going through Dad’s papers, I found a yellowed crumbling newspaper article that detailed J.D.’s pivotal role in establishing the air raid warning sirens in Harris County, and probably one of the first in the country. Since the end of the Cold War, the purpose of the sirens has changed. Where I live in North Texas, these early alerts are used primarily for tornado warnings. In Flower Mound they go off at least a couple of times each tornado season.
We all know about the legend that when a bell rings an angel earns his wings. But Dad has his own twist. From now on, whenever I hear those tornado sirens, I know that Dad is still looking out for me.
You see Dad, you really had a wonderful life. I love you.
Lt. J.D. Rainbolt saved the dogs his men has smuggled on board the troop transport ship before returning stateside after the war
My father, J.D. Rainbolt left us this morning, two months after he broke his arm at the shoulder. When he abandoned his earthy cloak, he left behind the pain of a body that refused to mend. He also left the tears of two daughters and a son who loved him very much.
But our loss is Heaven’s gain. I imagine the reception he received was filled with barks and purrs, whinnies and even some moos.
Dad always loved animals–all animals. I grew up hearing that some day he would own a ranch. In the mid-1960s he realized his dream and bought a run down tract of land near Seguin, Texas. A phone company engineer by day, he turned into a gentleman rancher on the weekend. Early on, the R Square Ranch resembled a dilapidated farm in the 1960s sitcom Green Acres. With a lot of sweat and perseverance, Dad molded the land into a working ranch.
Dad with the first calf born at the R Square
Dad truly loved his cows. I’ve never met another rancher who bought his beef at the grocery store, but Dad did. Because he didn’t want his calves ending up on someone’s dinner plate, he raised pedigreed black Angus, which he sold as breeding stock.
He decided before he bought his herd that he’d catch more cows with honey than vinegar. He trained his little herd that the sound of the horn promised a tasty treat called cake or range cubes. Every time he drove up to the ranch entrance he’d honk the horn. A happy audience of black cows would stampede to the corral to greet him.
Dad’s most touching animal story happened during World War II when he found himself surrounded by war dogs. Dad served in the U.S. Army Signal Corps as a communications scout in France. He commanded a small unit of 30 men, who all returned home safely. During the course of the war, his men would feed and rescue starving stray dogs. In return, the dogs offered war-weary soldiers friendly face lickings and emotional escape from the horrors of war.
But, the military frowns on troops keeping pets. Even today soldiers carefully conceal the dog or cat who travels with their units. If discovered, orders are often given to shoot the animal. However, some officers turned a blind eye to the illicit love affair for the good of his people and the starving animals.
J.D. Rainbolt was one of those officers. An avid dog lover since childhood, Dad took no notice of the soldiers’ canine companions, or at least never officially.
When the day finally arrived to return home, one of his men approached Dad and asked, “Lieutenant, what should we do we with the dogs?” Dad told the soldier, “Find local families to give them homes. Give them some money so they can care for them. You can’t bring them on the ship.”
When the unit boarded the troop transport ship bound for the U.S., Dad said there wasn’t even the hint of a dog for miles. He just assumed the locals had a lot of wonderful new pets. Several hours after weighing anchor, pooches appeared on deck. A few at first. Then more and more. Before long, Dad bumped into dogs no matter where he went on the ship. Dad learned that the dog smugglers had fed their pets sedatives, stuffed them in their duffel bags, then carried them onto the ship. Dad’s men weren’t the only ones who disobeyed the dog-abandonment order. Most of the dogs onboard had traveled with combats units. Over 100 French mutts found themselves bound for the United States.
The no-nonsense admiral in charge of the convoy ordered my dad to shoot every dog on the ship. Dad respectfully replied he didn’t think that wasn’t wise.
“These men have been killing Germans for months,” young Lt. Rainbolt reminded the admiral. “The dogs are part of their unit. If you start shooting dogs, there will be a bloodbath. These men won’t hesitate to kill to protect their dogs”.
How would they carry out this mutiny, the admiral wanted to know. The admiral thought all of the weapons onboard had been stowed in the bowels of the ship. My dad, reminded him that only the military-issued weapons were locked up. The same duffel bags that smuggled in contraband dogs, also (legally) brought in captured guns, ammo and knives. (Even Dad came home with eight captured German bayonets, and of course some cognac.)
The admiral realized before he could enforce his dog destruction order, he’d have to take up the captured weapons. Each piece would have to be logged in, labeled and stored so it could be reissued to its owner before the soldier left the ship. The confiscation process continued well past mid-voyage, at which time they had to start returning the arms. After all, with an immediate turnaround, they couldn’t waste valuable dock time messing with souvenirs. The admiral conceded, and both mutts and men openly strolled the ship for the rest of the cruise..
The last time Dad told the story, he couldn’t recall many of the details. The admiral and the ship’s name have been lost to time. And while these dogs saved the hearts and souls of his men, Dad just returned the favor. And for a few days at the end of World War II, Dad had over 100 dogs. That made Lt. Rainbolt the happiest dog lover in the world.
So I have no doubt that early this morning J.D. Rainbolt was greeted by joyful kitties, a few bunnies, some horses, a large herd of Angus and a huge pack of dogs (a hundred of whom barked with a French accent), all begging, “Pet me! Pet Me!”
Between tears I visualize the joyful reunion. “You go, Dad. I miss you.”
I’ll miss Jay Leno and all his entertaining cat segments.
Today my heart is broken by NBC…again.Last night we said goodbye to Jay Leno…again.
For the second time NBC fired the guy who was number one in his time slot to bring in fresh new blood. This time the pinch hitter is Jimmy (Thank You Notes) Fallon. Really?
Last time they replaced Jay the network had to eat crow. Eight months after they bid Leno farewell, they brought him back due to Conan O’Brien’s abysmal ratings. You’d think they’d learn their lesson, (in the words of Steve Martin) but nooooo! They let him go again.
They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. What does that say about the executives at NBC?
NBC has established a pattern for yanking successful shows. Can you say, “He’s dead, Jim”? 45 years after they pulled the plug on Star Trek it continues to be a very lucrative franchise. I bet Gene Roddenberry is laughing at the network from on high. I mean in orbit. His wife Majel had his ashes shot into space. But I digress.
Jay Leno made me laugh for 22 years. Ever the gentleman, he never was mean-spirited. He treated all of his guests with respect, which is more than I can say about all the other night talk show hosts.
He always said his favorite part of the show was when guests brought animals. He didn’t mind being upstaged by other species.
He’s the quintessential a cat guy. I love how he always spoke affectionately about his own cat, Bedalius. Recently he ran a series of segments called Cat Theater showing funny Internet cat videos.
My favorite Leno segment ever was his police drama parody about a “hard-boiled cop with just six months to retirement” and “a hotshot rookie kitty.” “Together they’re Cop ‘n Kitty.” Here are some of those endearing white knuckle episodes.
Jay, we love you. We will miss you. Nighttime won’t be the same without you. I guess I will just have to go to bed earlier or watch cat videos on Youtube. Or maybe I’ll watch Animal Planet.
I sure hope we’ll be able to watch you on the Fox Network at the same time slot. Fox TV please, give Jay a call.
A couple of times a month I get a call from someone who’s “moving” in a few days and wants me to take her 10-year-old cat. Where, pray tell, did they get my number? From a cousin’s friend’s yoga teacher? I suspect it’s actually written inside bathroom stalls at nearby Petcos.
Since I only foster cats who are on animal shelter Death Row, I try to help with advice and resource recommendations. After some quizzing, I frequently learn the future homeless cat is peeing outside the box, the most common behavioral excuse given for surrendering a cat.
First of all, if a well-mannered cat suddenly stops using his box, go to the vet. Often litter box avoidance is the first symptom that your cat is sick. How else can he say, “I feel like dog poop”? He’s literally writing his distress in the sand, or rather outside the sand. Even if Fluffy has been anointing the carpet for a while, it could still be a symptom of cystitis, arthritis or even life-threatening conditions like diabetes, thyroid disease or kidney disease. Never assume he’s doing it to spite you.
I always take the owner through a checklist when discussing litter box issues:
How old is the cat?
How many cats do you have?
How many litter boxes are there?
How big is the box?
Where is the box located?
How often do you scoop?
What kind of litter do you use?
It never ceases to amaze me that people with spotless bathrooms expect their cats to use a small, unscooped covered box saturated with enough ammonia to curdle coffee.
On many occasions I’ve fostered shelter cats labeled “Inappropriate Eliminators”. Two of them had terminal illnesses. (If only their people had taken them to the vet when the problem first began.) Most of my feline guests appropriately deposit eliminations in the quarantine room litter box. (Please note: the kitty gets a large open litter box that’s scooped twice a day and filled with Dr. Elsey’s Cat Attract™.) These cats aren’t habitual offenders; their compliance confirms that they were the one who had been offended. Often the responsibility for litter box transgressions lands firmly at human feet.
Dr. Bruce Elsey, DVM, owner of the first cats-only practice in the Denver Metro area, frequently heard clients complain about their cats missing the litter box.
“If you can’t work with the cats and get them over these litter issues, many of them end up at shelters or are abandoned,” Dr. Elsey says.
This tragic and all-too-frequent outcome inspired him to develop a litter that would encourage kitties to use the box. He tested various versions on cats at his clinic and local shelters and came up with Dr. Elsey’s Cat Attract™.
I discovered the litter in 2003 during my 14 years as the product editor/reviewer for the Tufts University newsletter, Catnip. Using the techniques recommended by Dr. Peter Borchelt who (as far as I know) conducted the first cat litter preference studies in the early 1990s, I set up what I called the Poopsy Challenge. I offered the Rainbolt
Test Kitties all of the most popular cat box fillers (including the brand new Dr. Elsey’s Cat Attract™) in identical new side-by-side litter boxes.
During these preference tests, I scooped several times a day and recorded the number of pee clumps and poops. At the time of this evaluation, my household was experiencing the Great Litter Box Rebellion of 2003, occurring after the Great Duck Food Raid. Whether the sampling of duck pellets contributed to the epidemic of feline cystitis, we never determined. Whatever the cause, the Test Kitties were peeing everywhere; and I mean everywhere.
According to my original review, my culinarily curious kitties were watering the most unusual places—the couch, the stove, my desk; to these little bladders, nothing was sacred.
Once my vet and I got the corporate bladder health under control, we had hoped the kitties would return to their former sanitary habits. That didn’t happen.
But the product review must go on, and I laid out my traditional litter box testing configuration. I couldn’t believe my nose. MY little offenders started using the Dr. Elsey’s Cat Attract™ in significant numbers, displaying an obvious preference over all the other litters. OMG! The proprietary herbal blend really did act as a cat attractant.
From that day on my kitties have always had boxes filled with Cat Attract. And whenever I get those calls from frustrated families, I immediately recommend a vet visit and switching to Dr. Elsey’s litter.
Dr. Elsey offered some excellent advice for frustrated cat owners that I have paraphrased.
Dr. Elsey’s Rules to Keep Kitty Using His Litter Box
Scoop daily. Twice is better. (Hey, you expect the person ahead of you to flush. Your cat wants the same courtesy.)
Size Matters. The litter box should measure one-and-one-half-times the cat’s length so he can easily turn around in it. Most commercially available litter boxes aren’t nearly large enough.
In a multiple cat home, the rule is “a box for every cat, plus one”. If you live with three cats, you need at least four boxes.
Diamonds are forever, but plastic litter boxes aren’t. Polypropylene litter pans develop microscopic scratches that trap bacteria and odor. Eventually the plastic capture odors that can’t be washed away so dump the old box in the recycle bin and buy a new one.
Location, location, location. Placing the box next to a washing machine, dryer or furnace that can scare the pee out of a kitty answering nature’s call. Also make sure there is a box on every floor of the home. Your 10-year-old kitty might not be able to make it upstairs or down to the basement in time.
Provide an open box. Enclosed boxes are too small and hold in odors.
Most cats don’t like scents. Switch to an unscented litter with a fine, sandy texture.
After scooping the box take a quick sniff. If the scooped litter still smells musty or you detect ammonia, it’s time to wash the box and refill with fresh filler.
Offer a box with lower side to older kitties. Arthritis makes getting into and out of boxes a painful event for senior kitties.
Privacy please! Make sure kids and other pets aren’t harassing kitties while they are using the box.
Disclaimer: This post is sponsored by Precious Cat on behalf of the BlogPaws Blogger Network. Dusty Rainbolt’s Universe is being compensated for spreading the word about Precious Cat’s Cat Attract formula, but rest assured, I only write about products my cats love and use regularly. Paying me to write about inappropriate elimination and Dr. Elsey’s Cat Attract is like paying me to eat chocolate. I’m going to do it anyway, but kitty needs a new pair of shoes (or rather a new collar.) Precious Cat is not responsible for the content of this article.
