A Cat Memoir

Puss

Once upon a time, I used to love cats.  I dreamed about owning a cat and in my eighth year she showed up in my grandparents' basement, a surprise Christmas gift for me.   Puss.  At various times she was also called "Booze" or "Puce."  Don't ask why.  She was the queen of cats - gracious, sweet and affectionate.  I loved her with all my heart!  Good old Puss was a gray tabby without any real distinctive markings, but she was the best cat in the world and so generous with her love.  Puss died while I was in college and was succeeded by Tabby, who was a blight upon my cat-loving soul.   Tabby would lurk in the basement and attack my ankles with fiendish delight.  Was it then that the ardor for cats began to cool?

I went off to college and shortly after graduation got married. Many catless years ensued, which my mom thoughtfully filled with teeny cats for display.  I was delighted with the many different varieties of cats she found and each time she sent one or more, happily found a place for them in my growing collection (see below).  

November

Fast forward to the year we had twins.  The twins arrived in May, we started homeschooling in September, and on my birthday in November, we added another living creature to the mix, November the cat.  I thought we'd call her "Novie," but that was rejected.  Kris had the great idea of calling her "Ember," but that was neglected.  November she stayed.  I had sort of a love-hate relationship with November (probably the only kind of relationship that was possible with her).  She was quite verbal, always answered when you called her name, loved her food, but my goodness, she could be unpredictably mean.  We learned that you could only pet her for so long - if you overstayed your welcome, she'd bite the hand that pet her.  If you reached to pet her in a certain way - chomp.  She was exceedingly anti-social with guests.  As soon as November heard the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, she'd run for cover upstairs.  If you tried to pick her up - scratch.  One day, I realized that the mystique was gone.  That day coincided with the fact that November had FLEAS.  I tried, oh I tried, to get rid of the little offenders.  I bought flea repellent and sprayed it all over.  I combed her with a flea comb everyday and dumped the fleas into a solution of Murphy's Oil Soap.  Nothing helped. Finally, I put an ad in the paper thinking somebody else would love to have our flea-ridden cat - I just couldn't handle it anymore.  We'd give her away. Almost right away, someone called.  I answered and the man said without preamble "You still got that cat?  When can I come and get her?"  Well, of all the nerve!!!!  Did he think that we were going to give her away to just ANYONE?   Hmmm...I guess I didn't want to get rid of her after all.  We discovered that the source of the fleas was in the unfinished basement where we'd been having her spend her nights.  No basement, no fleas.  November had experienced a reprieve.

We moved from Indiana to Minnesota and she almost didn't make it with us.  She freaked out when the movers came and found a hiding place between floor joists where we couldn't reach her.  Moving day arrived.  We put out tempting treats, we cajoled.  The car was packed and ready to go and we had a long drive in front of us.  The very real possibility of having to leave her behind loomed over our heads.  At the very last moment, she relented and allowed herself to be captured.  Another reprieve.  

Years later we were facing another move and we were going to be homeless for one week.  What would we do with November?  She hadn't become any more endearing over the years and it seemed that the time had come to give her up to someone else.  I put an ad in the paper.  Someone called right away and she seemed nice enough over the phone.  We made arrangements and it was settled...until the day when she was going to pick November up.   I cried all morning and faced the obvious truth - I couldn't let her go!  I tried to call the young woman who wanted November, but couldn't get a hold of her.   When she arrived with her little kennel, I cried some more and apologized about a dozen times "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...". Another reprieve.  

Luna

The day came when the vet told us that she had some sort of cancer in her cheek.  By this time, she was about 15 years old and her quality of life had been absolutely ruined by the acquisition of a dog in our household.  While once she was queen over the entire expanse, her territory had been reduced to a mere pittance as she tried to find refuge from our rambunctious puppy.  There were no more reprieves.  We said our goodbyes and let her go at last.  Ironically, we had to say our goodbyes to the dog about a year later and for the first time in a long time, we were petless.  If it had been up to me, we would still be in that happy state (how soulless I have become!), but we yielded to the longings of others in the house and acquired Luna, a petite gray cat. Luna is a perfectly agreeable cat, but she and I have never really bonded.  Now that her favorite person has moved out, she pays more attention to me, but in a somewhat demanding way.  Sigh. What bothers me is the lack of sweetness in my heart for this harmless little creature.  I used to love cats...what happened?   I think the truth of it is that my first cat spoiled me - I am still looking for Puss, who was a true companion and soul comforter.  

Cats are connoisseurs of comfort. 

James Herriot

Bobblehead

Remember when bobbleheads became a thing?  I'm trying to imagine the first person pitching that as a product.  I would definitely have been the one at the table shaking my head saying, "It'll never sell."  That's why I'm not invited to those types of meetings.  Someone else gave the go-ahead and pretty soon, bobbleheads abounded while everyone tried to ride the tide of this weird trend for as long as it would last. Even Martin Luther had a bobblehead!  [a funny aside - every time I try to type the word "bobblehead," it comes out as "booblehead," which I then have to erase and fix.  Tee hee.]  Thanks to our having a good connection with the Minnesota Twins, we ended up with quite a few Twins' bobbleheads. Somehow Pete became the Keeper of the Bobbleheads and then in a bloodless coup, he also became the de facto owner of them.  This is, I think, an oldest child thing - there's probably even something biblical about it, or at least he'd like to think so.  My favorite of his collection is the Hermann the German bobblehead.  Three cheers for New Ulm!


And now, the stunning revelation:  in a strange turn of events, I've become a bobblehead myself.  Yes, it's true.  This is a consequence of not always hearing what people are saying to me, especially in loud places like restaurants.  The bobble is a handy maneuver which allows you to give the impression that you heard what was said and are definitely tracking the conversation.  Here's how it works:

Other person:  The other day I mumble mumble and it is so mumble mumble in the morning...(and so on)
Me:  Bobble, bobble.

If the person is smiling and generally looking pleased with the world, I'll accompany the bobble with a smile.  If they look worried, the bobble will take on a concerned-looking aspect.  The only time the bobble doesn't work, and those of you who are clever will have already figured this part out, is when the other person asks an actual question requiring words as a response.  It may surprise you to learn that many questions don't require words as a response, for example:

Other person:  Mumble, mumble, mumblety mumble...do you know what I mean?
Me: bobble, bobble.
Other person (perfectly satisfied): mumble more mumble...

If someone looks rather aghast or confused after I've issued a non-committal bobble, this is my cue that I've completely missed something important and, well, bobbled it.

On that note, I'll just be bobble, bobble, bobbling along.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Matthew 11:15

Discoveries

I've discovered that I don't like writing fiction.  At 58 years of age, it feels good to have settled that issue at last.  I've also discovered that I'm not a very disciplined writer.  I've been adding the item "Blog post" once a week to my Daytimer for the last several weeks, but have steadfastly ignored it, ensuring that the item doesn't get the coveted check mark and stares at me accusingly, reminding me of my inadequacy. 

On the plus side, I've discovered that inspiration strikes without warning and fills my heart with words that must be said.  When I picked up the little doll from the last post, I had no idea what to write.  I toyed with the idea of a fiction piece, but stalled out several times in the intersection and had to pull over to regroup.  I started typing and the next thing you know, I'm going full steam ahead on a full tank of gas.  I have no illusions that I'm writing in any way that is laudable among literary types, but there's a satisfaction in following a trail to the end (try to keep up with the dizzying number of metaphors being tossed around). 

The last discovery: I'm a confusing collection of contradictions.  I want people to read what I write (thus the public blog), but it makes me feel vulnerable.  I used to share my posts on FB occasionally, but it always seemed like a risky level of exposure.  And I really want people to like what I write but have to struggle with retaining a humble perspective if a word of praise comes my way.  Remember the writer played by Greg Kinnear in "You've Got Mail?"  He meets someone at a party who is familiar with his column and tells him something flattering about it.  Kinnear's character immediately leans in with a funny combination of false humility and begging to hear more, along the lines of "aw shucks" and "Oh, did you really like it?"  It's funny because it''s so real.  That would be me.

I'll continue to use photographs as writing prompts and see where it leads me.  Each time I write, I am exploring new territory like one of the explorers of old.  It is always a time of discovery.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me and know my anxious thoughts;

And see if there be any hurtful way in me,
And lead me in the everlasting way.

Psalm 139-23-34

Living Dolls

The petite doll fit nicely into my hand.  I contemplated it, wondering why I still had the thing.  What is it about stuff that grabs hold of us so?  A little bit of wood had been cut, shaped, sanded and painted with a face and suddenly a dead plant had taken on personality and demanded to be clothed.  If you pick up a stick in the woods and carry it around for a while, it doesn't cost a lot of sentimental currency to cast it away.  But just let your hands invest in it with time and tools, with thought and purpose, and voila, a worthless stick becomes something with value.  Add imagination into the mix, and your stick has a name and you may animate her for your entertainment, giving her words, movement and a story.  But no amount of imagination will make her real or put thoughts into her head.  She has no life to live, no story to tell apart from the one I tell for her.  Still, I could not cast her away.  Why not? It's a stick, for goodness sake!   No matter, she won't be thrown out on my watch.

My thoughts turned to God.  He took a bit of inanimate dirt and clay, fashioned it to reflect Himself, gave it a face, a soul and life.  The dry bones assembled and walked.  He bestowed upon His creation the ability to think and talk.  The very minute the dirt man was animated, he began to have a story.  God imparted value, a living, eternal value to that bit of dirt.  He gave him a name, a beautiful garden in which to live, a purpose, and then He completed the whole package by designing and animating another one to do the work of cultivating and taking dominion with him.  This one had a different pronoun: she.  They fit together perfectly.  He set down these two living dolls in the house He had made for them and gave them one rule, only one boundary.  We all know what happened after that.  "You had one job!"  This business of creation is apparently a risky one. 

And then I thought about having children.  Two little cells collide and voila!  God lets us participate in this risky beautiful business of creation.  The very minute those two cells collide to form one new life, it has a story and a purpose.  He or she has living, eternal value, a face and a soul.  This is no silly painted stick, people.  It's a miracle!  Granted, it's a miracle that will require a lot of time and attention, not to mention a great deal of self-sacrifice, but once begun, the miracle has a story to live.  And we are casting away millions of these stories, these little miracles, on our watch.  Something that is whole is being ripped apart; something living is being killed.  And we all know it. 

I will tell you a secret: I, too, have done this terrible thing.  I cast away someone eternal as if it were a stick I picked up in the woods.  I snuffed out a story on the very first page.  My imagination was small, my fears were large, the lies were appealing, and the crime seemed victimless.

I put the doll back down, a very poor substitute for the real thing.  But no matter, she won't be thrown out on my watch.

For you formed my inward parts;

You knitted me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.

My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;

in your book were written, every one of them,

the days that were formed for me,

when as yet there was none of them.

Psalm 139:13-16

Loretta

Up until I took this photo, I thought this little thing was a snail - and I've had it for probably 20 years or more.  Funny how you can own something and never really have looked at it. This was a gift from a friend who lives in Poland, but I think she bought it when she was doing a short-term missions project in Yugoslavia (back when it was Yugoslavia).  Does this explain the "YU" on the back?  The reptilian neck and the patterns on the skin are what convinced me that this was no snail.  With the fashionable flowered hat and the pretty blue sunglasses, I'll go even further and postulate that this is a female snake.  As to why she's rolled up in such a fashion or why her skin is so flat, your guess is as good as mine.  I shall call her Loretta.

If you turn Loretta upside down, you see the letters "PKS," and it is here that my imagination is captured.  Somewhere in Yugoslavia, the artisan PKS carefully crafted this whimsical little snake out of clay, rolled it up, made the tiny hat and sunglasses and then with a brush, painted on various colors of glaze and fired it up in a kiln.  How old was PKS when she did this?  Was PKS a man?  Was the making of trinkets like this a big part of PKS's income?  The day came when Loretta was finished: fired, cooled and ready to go.  She sat out in a stall with many others just like her while tourists went by, barely giving her a glance.  An American named Lisa stopped at the shop, looking for something to bring home and give to one of her supporters.  She spoke to PKS in halting Serbian, picking up Loretta, who at that time was not covered with the grime and dust of years (let's use the word "patina" instead - so artsy!).  "How much?"  Not one to haggle, she paid PKS the asking price and brought Loretta back to the United States with her.  And now, through Loretta, I have this thin, trailing connection to Yugoslavia, to an artist there, whose hands have traveled the world.  PKS, I salute you!

Do you see a man skilled in his work?
He will stand before kings;

He will not stand before obscure men.

Proverbs 22:29

Floating Cats

Floating Cats I

Cats appear to float
A slight breeze keeps them moving
They make me happy.

Floating Cats II

For weeks at a time
I don't see them, these 5 little cats
And then, an invisible current of air
Swirls around, moves them gently
And as peripheral vision catches it,
I give them my undivided attention.
This little bit of whimsy and beauty
Makes me happy.

Floating Cats III

They sat in a box, neglected and broken,
My mom couldn't throw them away.
Their silent mews to me were spoken-
I tell you I heard them that day!

I rescued them with a bit of string
I set things all aright.
To balance them was a tricky thing,
But eventually they took flight

And when in airy stillness they float
I blow and make them dance
A simple pleasure, a quiet note,
My life has been enhanced.

God’s in His heaven,

All’s right with the world.

Robert Browning

Writing Prompts - The Korean Artifact

Wow - only 2 blog posts in 2016...you'd think I don't really like to write.  It turns out that I enjoy writing, but only when it comes to letters, notes and journals.  Kris has been encouraging me to write more - he has this idea that I should write a book, but I'm not sure I've got it in me.  So this year, I'm going to do something a little different with this blog (like actually write in it - that would be different).  I'm going to take photos of everyday objects in my life and use them as writing prompts.  It might be a fiction piece, it might be poetry, or it might be reminiscences of how that object came to be in my life.  Ideally, I'd be doing this weekly, but keep in mind that if I only do 3 in 2017, it will be more than I did in 2016.  Let us begin...

He had looked everywhere for this little treasure.  In fact, it had been his one defining obsession since Jack died and left him with so many questions.  He'd known it had existed - he'd been with Jack in South Korea when they had been following a lead on a case and it had mysteriously appeared in Jack's bag after a long train trip.  At the time, Jack had been surprisingly cagey, examining it furtively and then pocketing it without much explanation.  When Doug had questioned him about it, he'd shrugged and said it was a gift from a secret admirer and they'd laughed it off.  Shortly before Jack was killed, however, he mentioned it in an email to Doug, saying,

"Remember that little gift from my secret admirer in South Korea?  I've been doing some research and it appears that it may be quite valuable, or at least valuable to certain people.  It has unusual properties, quite fascinating.  Someone has contacted me via third party about acquiring it, but I'm not sure I'm ready to part with it yet.  I'd like to explore its capabilities some more before I let it go.  I'll show it to you the next time we have a case together.  Until then, I'll probably err on the side of caution and keep it hidden."

Three days later, Jack was found dead in an alley nearly 10 miles from his home.  He'd been tortured and then shot.  Doug was certain that the Korean artifact was key to solving Jack's murder and he was even more certain that the killer had not gotten it.  That was 8 months ago.  Jack had not made it easy to find this tiny casket; it had been well hidden indeed.  Following hunches, cryptic notes, half-baked guesses, and running into a myriad of dead ends, Doug had finally tracked it down, in an old ratty gym bag stuffed in a locker somewhere.  Doug set it down on his old, scratched desk, and realized upon closer inspection that with a little manipulation, the top was removable.  He looked inside.

-----

Me, again.  I feel pretty "meh" about that entry, but it's a start.  I received this little trinket many years ago from my brother-in-law who used to travel to far-off places for his job.  I think it came from Korea, but couldn't testify to it in a court of law with any certainty.

Behold, you desire truth in the inward parts,

And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom.

Psalm 51:6