Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Hairballs and Humility

I made an amazing discovery. While pouring cat food from the industrial size bag of kibble to the more manageable decorative container, I saw something written on the back of the bag that got my attention. "Different food choices for different lifestyles." I wasn't aware that my cats--or any of my friends' cats for that matter--had any other lifestyle beyond sleep, eat, redecorate, poop, repeat.

There's all kinds of information on the back of that bag. I'm wondering if it's the equivalent to reading the back of the box while eating your morning cereal. Should I leave the bag out for my fur-children so they can be better informed about their lifestyles? Do I even want them to know they have lifestyles? I mean, really, when you're that bloody close to divinity to begin with what more do you need to know?

They've already figured out how to subjugate their human servants to fulfill their every whim. They lie around in cat-nip induced stupors on the best furniture like imperial potentates holding court in opium dens. Surrounded by dozens of the latest toys designed for their amusement--most of which must be manipulated by their bipedal, opposable-thumbed lackeys.

I have had many friends tell me that in their next life they want to come back as one of my cats. Okey-dokey with me as long as they understand they will be spayed or neutered and declawed. Most of the guys rethink the idea. They really shouldn't. Most of the trouble they've gotten themselves into was due to not being neutered. Bless their hearts.

My cats have undergone a major transition moving from the sub-tropics of the gulf coast of Texas to behind the back woods of Maine. We lived in the urban sprawl of Houston and they were accustomed to asphalt and concrete. Now they are coming to terms with grass (which they've discovered is edible), trees (which are not edible), and arctic climate. Gentle Readers of this blog have already read about their first experience with snow (Winter Wake-Up Call) and predatory nature (Windex vs The Environment). Cats have amazing coping skills when it comes to change. Keep the bowls full and the litter box clean. That's about it. Oh, yes, and keep right on loving the heck out of them when they redecorate. You really don't need a complete set of anything anyway. Being the caretaker of divinity is an exacting job but when a cat chooses you to be its' equal you know you've arrived.


  1. "Being the caretaker of divinity is an exacting job but when a cat chooses you to be its' equal you know you've arrived."

    Now ain't that the gospel. Preach on!

  2. It is, no doubt, an honor to be closely associated with loving felines. I wonder, however, if it is less an equal relationship than it is equivalent to the honor of being chosen to serve in Windsor Castle, placing the silverware for a banquet.
    Sometime, catch PBS's Windsor Castle and see if you don't agree.

  3. I think you've hit the nail on the head there. I mean, imagine the honour of being the 'pooper scooper' to the Royal Corgies!! That has to be worth a knighthood.

  4. Bah! royal Corgies got nothing on HRH Sasha Renee Moonie-butt Patrick Fiesty-butt red-head, master of all he surveys. At least that's the way it is in his mind.

  5. Or Jezzie Boo-Bear Bunny Butt!! Or Scarlet Puss-Puss Boo-Boo Kitty either!! They are mistresses of the galaxy and bend to no master.

  6. I looked over your profile again.
    The plural of moose, if more than one, less than three is twoose.
    Three or more would be moreoose. That's why they have those long faces.

    Tell me about Renaissance festivals. Do you participate? All that history fascinates me too...if I ever get to Europe I just know I'll want to stand alone in some of those historic places and feel them.

  7. The moose riddle is finally solved!! You are a brilliant woman, June.

    I used to participate in Renaissance Festivals before I moved back to Maine. I was the wardrobe embellisher to the Royal Court. RenFaires are very entertaining to the open-minded. People who are sticklers for historical accuracy will have plenty to wag their tongues at.

    I grew up in Europe and you are absolutely right--you cannot help but hear the history sighing beside you as you move about. I am particularly moved by Hatfield,Hampton Court, Hever Castle, and, of course. the Tower of London. I am a Tudor Scholar so anything having to do with that dynasty captivates me. The most electrifying experience I ever had in a historical setting was in the home of Jeanne d'Arc in Domremy, France as a small boy. I have never forgotten it.

  8. P.S. The Royal Court at the Texas Renaissance Festival outside of Houston. It is now the largest RenFest in the U.S.

  9. The most electrifying experience I ever had in a historical setting was in the home of Jeanne d'Arc in Domremy, France as a small boy. I have never forgotten it.

    DO TELL!!!!

  10. My mother was a parishioner of a Catholic church in the village of Fontainebleau southeast of Paris. We lived in the shadow of the famous chateau. A pilgrimage to Arc-Domremy was organized to celebrate the feast day of St. Jeanne. I was a small six year-old. We arrived and set about touring her homesite and attended mass in the little church that the saint herself first heard "the voices". Afterwards there was a picnic-style luncheon in the little space around her home. We had been told we could only go into the ground floor level of the house because the building wasn't strong enough structurally to accommodate visitors on the floors above. While everyone was sharing parts of the lunches they'd brought from home and chit-chatting, I wandered off. I had seen from the ground floor that there was 'stuff' on the floor above--flags, pennants, and, well, 'stuff'. I guess there was something of the archaeologist in me even then. I very carefully climbed the rickety stairs-one at a very timid time-until I got up into that room. I was only in there for a matter of seconds when it got very dim--and absolutely silent. It was a cloudless, clear day and there were 30 +/- people just outside. But the room had gone dim and silent. My little boy's conscience thought I was about to 'get it'. Instead, I felt suddenly warm and happy. Like being hugged by a favourite aunt. In my ears I could hear what sounded like a combination of whispers and the fluttering of wings. The room became light again but the feeling of an embrace and the sound of soft rustling continued for a few moments more. I heard my mother calling for me and I descended the stairs carefully. Just as I reached the bottom step I heard--very clearly from the threshold of the room above--"Adieu. ma petit" and felt a tickle on my cheek. My little boy's mind told me I'd been kissed by a saint. I didn't tell anyone about this until many years later. It didn't recur on subsequent visits but I always felt a secret presence just out of my reach wherever I went--like the feeling of a smile on the inside. There are a hundred explanations for what I experienced in that house but I prefer my interpretation. My big boy's memory is one with that little boy's mind.