Cats

I just saw "Inside Llewn Davis," which I thought was a good movie, although not a comedy as it was described. The film is set in 1961 and follows the events through a week or so of a talented-but- self-destructive folk singer. By far my favorite character was the cat, who was given the meaningful name of Ulysses at the very end of the movie. Ulysses, carried about in subway stations and on trains, was an unflappable survivor. A cat.

I'm a dog lover with the capacity to also love cats. These two species are very different from one another, but it's easy to embrace both. Having grown up on a farm with animals all around, it isn't hard to love all kinds of creatures, cats and dogs alike. What would a barn be, without kittens playing in the hay? How does anyone go on a walk without at least one dog tagging along?  I don't know.

I do know we're glad that we kept two of the foster kittens from the summer of 2012, and Eddy & Reuben are both glad as well. It makes one big ol' sloppy family.

My fabulous niece gave me Mary Oliver's recent book Dog Song, in which one of my favorite poems is "For I Will Consider My Dog Percy," styled after Christopher Smart's 18th century poem about his cat Jeoffrey.

Some day I'll share Mary Oliver's poem, but first here is the text from Christopher Smart's poem.

 "For I will Consider My Cat Jeoffrey" from Jubilate Agno.

For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his fore paws to see if they are clean.

For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the fore paws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.

For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself upon a post.

For ninethly he looks up for his instructions.

 For tenthly he goes in quest of food.

 For having considered God and himself he will consider his neighbor.

For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.

For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.

For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.

For when his day is done his business more properly begins.

For he keeps the Lord's watch at night against the adversary.

For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.

For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.

For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.

Tiger at the Oregon Zoo in Portland

 For he is of the tribe of Tiger.

The love of dogs and cats and other animals is a special pleasure that I sincerely wish all people could get a chance to experience without allergies, aversions, or anxiety.  And if you do not love cats, I do hope you liked Christopher Smart's poem.

Love letters

They say that cats don't really show much affection, that they're only in it for themselves. While it's true that felines are self-centered creatures I don't believe they lack tenderness for their people. Sometimes it's not obvious, but if you're observant you'll see how much your cat cares. They're very intelligent animals. Finished with geometry at an early age, lately Tuck and Stitch have been practicing their writing skills to show me their appreciation:

 

I

 

L

O

V

E

U.

So keep an eye on your household pets. They may be trying to tell you something.

If the shoe...

...doesn't fit, wear it anyway.

Warmth

You ever fall asleep on a warm afternoon, and then wake up feeling really guilty, like you should be doing something much more productive than just napping in the sun?

Like maybe picking up a pick & practicing guitar?

 And then you think "naaaah,"  roll over, and decide to watch a show instead?

Photos are of our cat, Stitch, making use of one of the first warm days of the year, and shared with the only photo group I ever link to: Friday My Town Shoot-Out. For other takes on the theme of "warmth," go here.

Tuck learns a lesson

Eddy here. I have spoken more than once about the kittens inflicted upon introduced to the household after Kerry fostered their mother last summer. I've found them to be of extreme interest; in fact I keep tabs on them 24-7. Somebody has to. They have more bad ideas than you can shake a stick at.

Why are they allowed on the "good" couch, anyway? Reub and I can't set a paw on this thing, yet they're free to lay all over it and make those freaky grinding sounds with their teeth every time they see a bird.

At the same time I can't seem to keep them from dominating my bed on the floor. Bah. How can they sleep so much?

They're sneaky. This is Tuck unsuccessfully attempting a look of innocence while sitting on a chair. Tuck has a weakness for warm spots, and I can tell she's planning to jump down and find a heating vent to nap upon.  The house is freezing these days because the cats are blocking half the heat to the upstairs.

 

But ha! Her affinity for warm spots got her in trouble this week, yes it did. See how she can't leave the fireplace alone?

In the morning there's still some heat left in there from last night's fire. She's basically making herself comfy on live embers. I thought to myself one of these days she's going to learn a hard lesson...

And this morning, um, check out her nose: a burned spot. Ouch. I guess maybe she won't be hopping in the fireplace any more. Now if I can just get them off my dog bed.

Bad ideas kittens have

Eddy here. You know how Kerry fostered a pregnant cat, and then we ended up keeping two of the kittens? I'm okay with it, I really am, although I think I probably picked up a case of giardia from them. Blech. It may have been a bad idea to raid their litter box, I'll admit that right up front: I'm sorry sorry sorry.

But I'm not the only one with bad ideas around here, and I only have them once in awhile, whereas the kittens are constantly thinking up terrible ideas.

I've been keeping a list, and in the past week alone I've seen them:

Taking a random leap onto the kitchen counter and landing on a hot pancake griddle
Playing inside a clinging plastic bag
Sneaking up on edgy Reuben when he's sleeping
Crawling inside the dishwasher
Crawling inside the washing machine
Crawling inside the clothes dryer
Napping inside a salad bowl

 

If only Kerry had photographic evidence for all of their crimes, instead of just a few. Here they are playing inside a  camel saddle bag, just above a 12 foot drop. Needless to say, the saddle bag has been removed. This begs the question of why Kerry and John have antique camel saddle bags in their house, but you'll  have to ask them; I have no idea why they have two of them. They have lotsa weird stuff.

It really bugs me that the kittens like to play in my bed. This house is, like, two thousand square feet and they have to be here?

And when they sleep on it they don't even curl up tight, they stretch out and hog the whole thing. It's so annoying that I have to go sleep on the couch.

Jeez Loueeze. Even that doesn't work.

Picking the kitten

Foster mama cat is at the shelter already, but the kittens are still with me, in a holding pattern, until there is space there. I was happy to be told I had a little more time with them. Up until the last few weeks I was quite stalwart in believing they would all go back, but as their personalities have developed...well...

Just as I wavered over whether to-keep-or-not-to-keep, the following poem showed up on NPR's Writer's Almanac, like some kind of divine intervention:

 

 Picking the Kitten

by Faith Shearin

 You had to hold it awhile in your hand.

It was important to look into the box

of blind fur and notice who needed you.

Not the one who chased its tail,

not the one who slept in a corner

with an air of indifference. There were

colors and markings to consider.

Which would you want to find

on your pillow? The one I took home

was warm as fever. I held her purr

in my pocket, her roughness on my

bedroom rug. I pour out this memory

the way I poured out her evening cream.

"Picking the Kitten" by Faith Shearin, from Moving the Piano. © Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2011.

Dammit NPR!

Fostering

 

In less than two weeks I'll have to take them back, the foster kittens. 

They turned 6 weeks old on Tuesday and I had to put them in a crate and take them in for vaccinations. It was the first time I had to see them behind bars.

They went here for their shots and check-up, to the place that actually owns them, a no-kill shelter 20 miles away.

Aw, gee. They've been with me for a really important part of their lives, and perhaps of mine too. I know I'm gonna miss them.

I wonder what they'll remember, and how that works with animals.

Will they remember Hester Prynne, their good mama? I hope so, even if it's blurry.

On Thursday I must return Hester Prynne, who leaves me first. She will go to a vet to be neutered, and then she will be up for adoption. I will write her a fabulous resume, and she will find a great home.