so much for arrogance

We are the most arrogant species – often behaving as if, even believing that, we are the whole point of creation. 

And yet.

 And yet when a beloved pet is ill – or worse, dies – we become acutely aware of our deep emotional attachment to at least one other specimen of one other species.

 Remington, my friend’s beloved dog died this week. Another friend’s dog, Cai, is in jeopardy. So one friend is bereft and the other scared. If you believe in that sort of thing, please send them both good energy/prayers.

My cats had their annual check-up/shots last week. Guinness passed but Herbie had to go back today for dental cleaning and a possible tooth extraction.

 When I brought him in, the receptionist gave me a form – authorizing treatment, anesthesia, blood work, and a dozen other things – and basically exonerating the veterinarian from legal liability.

 Not the kind of thing you want to sign for a being who has been with you for ten years.

 My instructions were to stop giving him food after 10 p.m. last night and to give him no breakfast this morning.

 I was to bring him in between 8:30 and 9 a.m. I didn’t have breakfast until 9:30. I couldn’t eat in front of him.

As a UU (Unitarian Universalist) I  believe in the interconnected web of all creation -- and today especially my deep interconnection with my cats.

[Herbie’s home now and fine, thank goodness.]

Anniversaries

The cats are integral to my days and most of the components thereof.

Mornings of course. I have learned to awaken carefully lest I roll onto one of them. Herbie is usually near my head; Guinness, in the curve of my legs. But not always. Sometimes they are spooned – the dark gray tabby and cream almost-Siamese like a furry yin yang symbol.

 They have learned to wait for breakfast. Most days they stay on the bed while I shower and dress. When I’m ready to go downstairs, I announce, “breakfast time.” Guinness meows a response and jumps down, racing to the steps. Herbie often raises his head then resumes his slumber.

 There are breakfast routines and lunch expectations.

During the day, our activities are synchronized. If I work at my computer, the cats perch in the study. If I work in the yard, I am supervised from window ledges. If I go out, they are there to greet me when I return.

It is no longer possible to keep an accurate cat toy inventory. Some are upstairs, some downstairs. Some in appropriate receptacles. Others, under furniture or the washing machine. I do try to play with them each day. If not before, then at bedtime.

Each day one or both of them does something that makes me laugh.

When I am ill or sad or scared, they spend more time with me, cuddle more closely.

 We’ve been together ten years now. Our relationship seems to be working.

* * * *
 [Ironically, I filed for divorce just before my tenth wedding anniversary. That relationship didn't work.]

Indian Summer

I love the illusion of warm days in late fall when sunshine is translated into innumerable shades of gold and amber and crimson. 

Ever so slowly the colors fade, even the green of suburban lawns. 

 Of course colors will remain but the residuals will become softer – gentle echoes of autumnal splendor, turning cooler, like the weather. 

Trees, unadorned will reveal their inherent traceries against beige blue skies. 

I know it is coming – the cold, slippery season. 

 It will have its own beauty, its own quality of the sacred. 

 But not yet. 

 Today I sit on my porch swing absorbing the waning warmth and colors, perfectly happy to pretend it will stay this way forever.

For want of a nail the shoe was lost; 
For want of a shoe the horse was lost; 
For want of a horse the battle was lost; 
For the failure of battle the kingdom was lost— 
All for the want of a horseshoe nail.

500 years after this proverb made the rounds of Western Europe, 
 a new version emerged in northern Colorado. 

I found one Brussels sprout in package of grapes.
What to do? Add it to my salad. 
Placed in a pot and set to boil, 
It was not done when I sat down to dinner. 
I sat and ate, forgetting the pot on the stove.

There was a pungent smell.  
Leaping up, I discovered a blackened pot 
And one severely singed Brussels sprout, 
Which I ate. 
It was later, while scouring the blackened pot 
That the fingernail was lost 
All because of a sprout

Kaleidoscope of Autumn

We always forget don’t we?

 Oh sure, we say Fall is our favorite time of year but still we forget. 

 We forget the cascades of color falling down the mountainsides.

We forget the rivers turning to gold and the kaleidoscope of autumn 

 Overhead

And underfoot 

Amazing and ephemeral 

And incomparable 

Hallelujah.

OLD CATS

Unlike old dogs, old cats can learn new tricks.

Guinness is about 11 years old, the equivalent (according to the Internet) of 61 human years; Herbie is about 12, the equivalent of 65 human years.

They are almost as old as I am.

From the day I brought him home from our local Humane Society, Guinness has loved playing on my bed. At first, he attacked my toes. But claws are claws and I decided it would be safer if I substituted a cat toy. So he attacks the toy – scrunching down, attentive, then leaping on the plastic or feathered prey. Making the bed creates momentary mountains and valleys that add enticing mystery so that a successful pounce becomes more triumphant.  Making the bed under these circumstances can take twenty minutes, but who’s counting?

I brought Herbie home from the Humane Society a few days after Guinness. He had to undergo required surgery before being released. Because he’d picked up a slight infection, he had to be isolated for two days. At 4 p.m. on the third day, I opened the door to the bathroom in which he had been confined.

They met.

Eventually, they bonded.

It is hard to tell which is the alpha cat. Sometimes I think it is Herbie because he is older and more dignified. Sometimes I think it is Guinness because he tends to eat both his own and Herbie’s food. Each of them has been known to attack the other, lurking then jumping before they tussle.

But the bed games have always been Guinness’s territory. Often Herbie watched, standing out in the hall, sometimes half hidden around a corner. Occasionally, he would come closer, standing solemn at the bedroom door.

Once in a great while, he would venture onto the bed, bat the toy then leave.

Now, after ten years of cohabitation, the games have changed. Now they both help me make the bed – taking turns playing mighty hunter.

And Herbie, old cat, has equal time.

Long Pause

After a trip into the American past (Feast of the Hunters Moon, Lafayette, IN)

and my own past (friends in Indiana and the Chicago area), a visit with my younger son, a ride on the Chicago river, and an interlude in a butterfly haven,

I came home to Loveland, Colorado in time to prepare for the inaugural readings and sales/signings for my first published book, Tree Lines, A Memoir.

I first realized that writing was what I wanted to do when I was about five or six years old (many, many, many decades ago).

Now I have a published book and, possibly, a future of more books and more readings and more sales/signings.

It's taking a bit of getting used to.

But it's awesome.