Toby died yesterday morning at 7:50 AM after suffering from congestive heart failure. Toby was an opinionated cat, who in his early year was a fist-sized gray blur, racing around Gypsy’s apartment in Grinnell. He spent the first half of his life as an indoor cat, but after permanently moving in with us, he became an avid outdoors-cat. He was perfectly camouflaged as a rock in the yard even when, on consideration, that was not a place where gray rocks were known to be found.

Although known for his loud disposition, he mellowed with age, but remained opinionated, though not aggressive. He overcame his aversion to being picked up. He was not merely verbal, but his declawed paws could be heard at a distance when he walked on a hardwood floor. At the same time, he was easily contented as a lap-cat, requiring few scritchies and perfectly willing to purr in one’s vicinity.

His blue eyes, rock impersonations, and loving purr will be missed.

He is survived by housemate Brittanicus, as well as humans Jordan Wood, David Leppik, Sylvia Leppik (age 3), Ian Leppik (10 months), and his first owner, Gypsy Gies.

A memorial service will be held at his residence in St Louis Park, MN in about two weeks.

On a more personal note, this is the first time I’ve actively been involved in the death of a loved one. I had him euthanized this morning, after he spent a night at the emergency vet. He was having difficulty breathing, even with oxygen. The emergency hospital is only open at night (it’s a pet manicurist or something by day), and he likely wouldn’t have survived the short ride to the regular vet.

I left for work before Sylvia woke up. Jordan had to break the news. She seems to understand, though her comprehension is a little shakey. She has been asking about death a lot lately. A few weeks ago she had me explain how funerals work. She seems to think that you reach a certain birthday and then you die. (A few days ago, on my sister-in-law’s birthday, she asked “is she going to die?”) She also thinks that animals turn to stone when they die, based on fossils she’s seen at the Science Museum.

Here’s when Ian was just starting to crawl a few weeks ago.

It’s official. Ian has used sign language for “drink” and “more” (food). He also signs “more” in the mirror when I’m holding him, just for his own amusement–which doesn’t count. He’s actually communicating.

Signing is useful, not because it teaches language a little earlier, but because it allows us to communicate. I remember when Sylvia learned to sign, she let us know that she wanted that blue cup–the one she had just seen, not the identical one we tried to give her. Without language, we would have never known why she was crying. Signing keeps parental blood pressure low.

Ian is crawling well, he’s signing… Grandma Catherine is going to be really surprised when she gets back next week to see how much he has changed in the last three weeks.

Also on the topic of language, witness the power of storytelling. For the past few weeks, I’ve been getting Sylvia to let me brush her teeth by telling her a story about her whale toothbrush. The climax of the story is the whale saying, “little girl, little girl, may I brush your teeth?” (In the last few days, she’s been avoiding answering the whale’s question. I’ve had to add the threat of an ogre to the story. But we’re still way better off than the fussing and crying she was doing before.)

Ian is crawling now. He started all of a sudden on Saturday afternoon at 5:25 PM. It takes him a minute to go a foot or two, but at this point he’ll be getting better fast. He’s had all the moves for a while, but Saturday is when he put them together in a coordinated attempt to move forward. I was at my parents’ house for dinner, while Jordan was making a side-trip to buy a new camera. She called me from the store, and Ian crawled while I was on the phone.

In other news, the weather has been incredible. We had a record snow storm earlier this month, but yesterday it was 81 degrees. We haven’t had a day in the 70s yet. I rode my bike to work yesterday. It’s less than five miles, and the traffic isn’t too bad. It’s as if someone flipped the switch from “winter” to “spring” and suddenly there are birds, butterflies, and green shoots. At night you can hear the rustle of grass coming up. (At least that’s my best guess for the early-spring rustle; there aren’t enough insects out, and it goes silent after less than a week.)

This article suddenly made it clear why I’ve always been a B student, despite always being told I’m smart. I’ve never been able to find the motivation to study harder, and I never knew why. It turns out that being told that you are smart makes you more risk-averse, not less: studying is evidence that you’re not naturally smart.

The general rule, it seems, is that you should praise (or criticize) people for the things they can change. By taking pride in being hard working, you can enjoy the work rather than focus on the end result. When you focus on being smart, pretty, or naturally talented, you avoid anything that might disprove it.

The article also has lots of interesting nuggets, such as the fact that kids recognize when have a negative correlation with performance. In particular, when teachers feel free to criticize the top students while only praising the less-than-average, even young students interpret praise as criticism and criticism as praise.

He can’t sit up on his own, and he just started rolling over.  But last night he distinctly and repeatedly put his knee under his belly and moved forward.  Not exactly crawling, but it’s a little close for comfort… baby-proofing the house really needs to go into high gear now.

Ian learned to sit upright this weekend. He needs to be propped in that position, though.

Ian came home this afternoon.  Things are finally back to normal here.

Jordan:  “Sylvia’s being a contrarian.”

Sylvia:  “No, you’re a contrarian.”

Maybe when she turns four we’ll teach her what the word means.

Ian is still in the hospital, and we expect him to be released tomorrow morning.  He’s been in the hospital for two weeks.  There’s no particular reason why he’s been in the hospital three days longer than expected;  the doctors are just being extra careful.  For example, he hasn’t been feeding well from a bottle.  This could be a sign of trouble, but in his case he only takes a bottle when he’s really hungry, and they are too cautious to let him get really hungry.  So last night and tonight Jordan has been staying at the hospital to breast-feed him.  He’s gaining weight, and the doctor says that if he continues to gain weight overnight, he’ll be discharged in the morning.  (Am I the only one who wishes hospitals used a more antiseptic term than “discharge?”)  Sylvia and I visited them tonight, and he appears to be perfectly normal, except for being slightly hoarse and having a scar on his throat.