Sunday, January 11, 2004
Food just doesn't taste the same unless it has cat hair in it.
Some people call us cat rescuers, more people call us crazy (our kids). I swear there's a sign posted in the cat pathways of the neighborhood: "Free eats" with our address.
Of course, despite my admonition to my wife about putting out food, I do it too. So they show up, even the neighborhood possum, who I used to scare off, dines when it's available. A loose round robin of the hungry makes its way to our doorstep.
The most wayward we've taken in, some reluctantly, some willingly. Everyone gets a trip to the vet for a checkup, the necessary shots and the spaying or neutering that their irresponsible human neglected to do.
It’s too bad that, like people, they don’t all get along.
Watching them makes me think of Huxley’s essay on Siamese cats, he says if you want to know human nature, study them. An anthropomorphic view, well maybe, but we share the same limbic roots.
We've tapped out our relatives in finding homes and now the house nears cattery proportions.
How did it all begin? I recall our feral days. A soft heart, a softer head, a mother cat and her litter taking up residence in our backyard and our feeding them.
Mom, the matriarch would come out first to make sure that the coast was clear. When she was sure it was safe she would pause and trill to them and one by one, they came to eat. They came to be known as “The Gang of Four.”
We’d watch them surreptitiously from the kitchen window. Silly, with their cuteness and caution and we watched them feast to repletion. We were comforted.
That went on all summer and into fall but what would winter bring?
At last Mom shucked this brood off.
The Gang of Four lingered, food and familiar territory.
We made plans to capture them, to bring them into our home. I improvised a trap out of a cat carrier and slashing it to our picnic table I ran a rope from the carrier’s door up through the kitchen window. All I had to do was bait the trap and wait, and wait and wait.
Some people call us cat rescuers, more people call us crazy (our kids). I swear there's a sign posted in the cat pathways of the neighborhood: "Free eats" with our address.
Of course, despite my admonition to my wife about putting out food, I do it too. So they show up, even the neighborhood possum, who I used to scare off, dines when it's available. A loose round robin of the hungry makes its way to our doorstep.
The most wayward we've taken in, some reluctantly, some willingly. Everyone gets a trip to the vet for a checkup, the necessary shots and the spaying or neutering that their irresponsible human neglected to do.
It’s too bad that, like people, they don’t all get along.
Watching them makes me think of Huxley’s essay on Siamese cats, he says if you want to know human nature, study them. An anthropomorphic view, well maybe, but we share the same limbic roots.
We've tapped out our relatives in finding homes and now the house nears cattery proportions.
How did it all begin? I recall our feral days. A soft heart, a softer head, a mother cat and her litter taking up residence in our backyard and our feeding them.
Mom, the matriarch would come out first to make sure that the coast was clear. When she was sure it was safe she would pause and trill to them and one by one, they came to eat. They came to be known as “The Gang of Four.”
We’d watch them surreptitiously from the kitchen window. Silly, with their cuteness and caution and we watched them feast to repletion. We were comforted.
That went on all summer and into fall but what would winter bring?
At last Mom shucked this brood off.
The Gang of Four lingered, food and familiar territory.
We made plans to capture them, to bring them into our home. I improvised a trap out of a cat carrier and slashing it to our picnic table I ran a rope from the carrier’s door up through the kitchen window. All I had to do was bait the trap and wait, and wait and wait.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Family tragedies happen all too often. Most of the time they happen to someone else. We can be objective about those, tsk - tsk, at the tragedy, even really mean it, but these people aren't close to us, we shed no tears.
When the tragedy happens to us or people we love ... well. We wonder about the injustice, why me Oh Lord.
I just keep thinking of The Bridge of San Luis Rey and that little niggle called fate.
When the tragedy happens to us or people we love ... well. We wonder about the injustice, why me Oh Lord.
I just keep thinking of The Bridge of San Luis Rey and that little niggle called fate.
Many of the Democratic candidates spent an hour or so in Iowa today blasting George Bush the Younger and one another.
A well oiled machine where simple answers required that candidates set their records straight after another candiate threw dirt their way, then say bad things about the President and how they would do better.
Most of the country didn't hear it, see it or know about it, it was broadcast on NPR.
These Democrats will spend most of their time trying to impale one another whiile trying not to seem too liberal for the white males who will re-elect George Bush.
The real silent majority just grim and bears it all.
A well oiled machine where simple answers required that candidates set their records straight after another candiate threw dirt their way, then say bad things about the President and how they would do better.
Most of the country didn't hear it, see it or know about it, it was broadcast on NPR.
These Democrats will spend most of their time trying to impale one another whiile trying not to seem too liberal for the white males who will re-elect George Bush.
The real silent majority just grim and bears it all.
This is a test
