Tag: cats

A Sunday Morning in the Age of COVID

(There was to be a picture here, but for some reason I can’t get my pictures to mail to me.)


Sunday mornings in my house: 

This much hasn’t changed: Classical music in the background — today it’s an album of violin concertos. 

Coffee — currently we’re drinking a store-bought coffee; usually we drink beans that Richard roasts himself. 

Cats — there are four, although one seldom comes upstairs. One of them, Girlie (the patched tabby with the attitude) is sitting next to me. She helps me get my work done.

Now, in the time of COVID: Breakfast is usually cereal, but in the quarantine I’ve discovered that I like playing with sourdough starter, and so sourdough bread as french toast is the featured meal of the day. I will make more sourdough bread later. I’ve named my starters: Marcy is a Polish whole wheat starter, Horatio is a home-captured wild yeast, and MarcyxHenrietta is an accidental batch that got spiked by the yeast water known as Henrietta.

My computer — I work on my writing on Sundays. Normally, I would be on my way to the cafe to write for a while. Now I write in a corner of the living room, burgundy and gold. I hate to be far from the action, which is part of why I used to write at the coffee shop. I miss the coffee shop.

 The view through the window — all the snow from the freakish snowstorm has melted, and the sky is a blue-grey. I need to get out, even if it’s just a trip in the car to the local park.

Today, for some reason, feels like Easter (which it is for the Orthodox faiths) and I have hope that we will rise from this pandemic a more thoughtful people.

Sunday: Classical music and tea

I’m late today — just warming up for today’s reading/tweaking of Apocalypse. My last thorough pass-through, I hope. I plan to get halfway through the second half of the book; all the way through if my eyes don’t start to bleed (that’s meant figuratively; don’t panic.)

I don’t like the phrase ‘warming up’ on days like this because it’s dangerously hot this weekend in Missouri. Like 100 degrees hot. I haven’t even gone to work at the cafe this weekend because that’s too hot for me to go outside in. (Ok, fine, I could go outside in it but that much heat makes me lazy.)

The drink du jour is Ten Ren No. 913 King’s Oolong/Ginseng tea, a good solid Taiwanese tea a friend of mine gave me. It’s amazingly refreshing hot tea. My frumpy calico cat Girlie-Girl (of the six, the one most attached to me) sits on the couch right behind me, cleaning herself. 

Playing on the stereo: Concerto in A Major, Bach. In my life, Sunday mornings lend themselves to leisure and tea/coffee and classical music in a room cluttered with hobbies and cats. 

Sasha, my ghost cat

I’m hopeful my ghost cat has moved in again.

I suppose I should explain my ghost cat. Some thirty-two years ago, when I was a graduate student, I owned a small, feisty black cat named Sasha.

I lived in a second floor, one-room apartment in an old house, with the porch roof just outside one window and access to the wooden fire escape out the side window. In the Illinois summers I had no air conditioning, so I tried to keep cool with a box fan and open windows.

I wanted to keep Sasha an indoor cat because I lived on a relatively busy thoroughfare in Champaign. Sasha had her own agenda. She found a way to pop the screen out of the front window, stroll across the porch roof to the fire escape, then bound down the stairs. She would eventually sneak upstairs with one of the other residents and sit outside my apartment door until I returned home.

Until the time she didn’t. Tommy, the alcoholic hippie down the hall, strolled upstairs that evening to announce that he put a dead cat in the dumpster and figured it was mine. My friend down the hall and I actually raided that dumpster at 10:30 at night to find the reeking garbage bag that contained the remains of my Sasha, and buried her on university farm property.

Soon, another cat found me, a grey and white polydactyl I named Kismet, who followed me halfway across town to become my cat. It was fall by then, and I no longer needed to keep my windows open. Kismet, like all young cats, would go into a chasing-nothing sort of frenzy, running around the small apartment, bouncing off the walls.

Except. Except that he would stop at the window, the window that Sasha used to break out of, and peer around the corner to the side of the porch, then run around to the side window as if watching something go down the stairs. And then friends would come and ask me if I had a cat, and I explained that Kismet was out somewhere, and they would ask, “What about the black cat?”

Eventually I moved, and moved again, and moved halfway across the country and back again, and I forgot about Sasha. But then, day before yesterday, my cat Chuckie started chasing around the living room. I thought nothing of it because cats do that. But then he turned a hard right and slammed into the French doors to the dining room. He stared into the dark room as if he saw something we didn’t, something that crept away from him.

If Sasha has found me again, I welcome her with open arms.

Welcome to My Winter Morning

Sunday morning, and Richard and I sit on the couch over coffee and Baroque music.

Our living room provides comfort with cream and burgundy and dark wood. Clutter from projects and plant catalogs litter the coffee table as garden planning helps us through the winter days. I sit on the couch next to Richard with a lap desk on my lap, tapping on the keys of a Microsoft Surface. Words come slowly today; maybe the coffee hasn’t taken effect yet.

The beans that Richard roasted came from Malawi, and the coffee brews up rich and brown sugar sweet with a slight herbal note. Yo-Yo Ma plays Bach on cello over a set of old yet functional speakers.

Chucky, the big butterscotch-colored cat, races upstairs chasing an unseen sprite. Me-Me, grey tabby and white, regards us with her huge, wondrous green eyes. Snowy, pitch-black and ironically named, sits in front of the fake fireplace warming herself by electric heat. Girlie-Girl, calico patched, demands something. Richard shrugs his shoulders and tells the cat he has no idea what she wants.

I light a candle, and the scent of sandalwood wafts to me. I drink my second cup of coffee and think about the seeds cold-stratifying in the refrigerator and other seeds in their packets waiting for the right time to be introduced to soil and water. It’s winter outside, and the weather forecast says it will get even colder, but for now I sit in my warm house on a Sunday morning.

Crazy cat lady

Six cats now reside in my house.

I don’t know how it happened — Richard and I had vowed to stop with four, which already put me close to the category of “crazy cat lady”. Our four — the fat curmudgeon Stinkerbelle, the shy flower Me-Me, the calico lady Girlie-Girl, and the diva Snowy (or Ironic Cat, given she’s totally black) coexisted in mutual disdain for each other.

Then, a student of mine brought a kitten to my office and asked me to watch it for her. The kitten was a mangy, skinny ginger boy who acted as if he’d never gotten affection in his whole life. Naturally, when the student couldn’t keep Chuckie, I volunteered to adopt him. — who am I kidding. My husband told me I had to (that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it).

Chuckie, a year later, is this immensely lanky cat who greets people by running up to them and digging his claws into their butt. He chases Girlie around, and she grunts and snarls at him. For the most part, though, the other cats are used to him.

Then we had to adopt another cat. Dreamsicle, an orange and white cat, started taking up residence in our garage this last summer. He had clearly adopted us as evidenced by his morning greetings, and we fed and watered him outside daily. Then he showed up one day with a long laceration at the base of his tail that looked like something tried to take his tail clear off. The vet who stitched him up told us that we’d have to keep him inside three to four days.

“This cat isn’t going back outside, is he?” I asked Richard as said cat cuddled in my lap.

“Nope. He’s an indoor cat now.”

“We have six cats now. That’s too much.” I didn’t protest too vigorously, because there was a little purry creature in my arms.

“It can’t be helped.”

Dreamy gave me his most ingratiating look. The other cats gave me dirty looks.

************
 The cats are still readjusting to each other. Chuckie still chases Girly, although I sometimes think her protests are just for form given how she waits for him to arrive. There are still occasional snarled conversations between cats at the food dish. But sometimes they sit near each other, which is the closest I figure they’ll ever get to cuddling.

No more cats after this. I promise.

Celebrity Cats Have Gone to the Dogs

I live my life simply, asking “Do I need it” before seriously considering “As Seen On TV” gadgets (and the answer is usually “no”.)

 I am not inclined to buy the latest fashion, arranging my wardrobe into two categories: classic and long-lasting work clothes, and jeans/t-shirts* (even t-shirts with words on them, which are supposed to be passé for older women.)

I avoid television, mostly because I have an infinite attention span in the wrong moments — like, say. commercials. And celebrity is lost on me — I have no desire to get an autograph from Wolverine, Lorde, Chris what’s-his-name who played Captain America, or Oprah Winfrey. **

Therefore, I  thought I was immune to the celebrity testimonial advertisements, which are supposed to make us feel closer to said celebrity if we buy these items. *** I wasn’t a namedropper, I didn’t covet fashion accessories, and I surveyed potential purposes by their usefulness.

And then came the Celebrity Cats.

For those of you who hate cats, the allure of Celebrity Cats has escaped you. You have never watched Surprise Kitty do jazz paws, or the round-faced Waffles demonstrating what cats look like when they’re in-bread (you do get the joke, don’t you?) And the slightly crosseyed Nala Cat, and the Boddhisattva from outer space, Lil Bub …

Obviously, I don’t hate cats. My Instagram feed has as many cats as humans. And yes, I follow the Celebrity Cats and their owners like others would follow the cast of Supernatural. The other day, Monty Boy had a seizure and I was combing his Instagram feed for the latest word on his condition (latest word — it’s not anything horrible).

But then the Celebrity Cats started selling things.

It began with fan merchandise (yes, Celebrity Cats have fans) like t-shirts**** and coffee mugs, and that was cool, because it was fun to be a follower of a quirky cat.*****

But then the Celebrity Cats started doing product placement and brand testimonials for cat-related items like automatic litterboxes and high-end cat food and something that looks like a gerbil wheel … and something has soured in my relationship with Celebrity Cats.

Why have I soured to these cats’ newfound success? Is it that I think they’re being exploited? I feel this way, although it’s not rational — the humans sign contracts that the cat hasn’t even seen (or likely cares about). Why was I not opposed to the t-shirts and the coffee mugs and …?  Because those reached out to other cat lovers and provided a sense of affinity.

What changes when selling third-party products enters the equation? First of all, cat lovers are a quirky lot, and we feel we have personal relationships with our small, furry divas.****** When they start becoming commercial actors, or worse, celebrity endorsers, the illusion fades and we realize that the owners, not the cats, are running the show. The curtain is gone, and what lies behind it is not a cute, quirky cat but a human with a degree in marketing.

* You may notice that this list leaves no room for sexy outfits. Deal with it.

** “You get an autograph, you get an autograph, EVERYBODY gets an autograph!” Sorry, international readers, you probably don’t get this. Comment if you want an explanation.

*** Not closer as in “Open the door, love, and quit calling the cops”, but closer as in “I’m in the in-group, I’m cool, I wear the same jeans as someone who launched a career by looking good in these jeans. Maybe I’m next.”

**** I only have three Bub t-shirts, and only because I had to replace one that had gotten too big and it was on sale, so … My husband reminded me of the sweatshirt. oops.

***** I have stuffed toy Bubs, Grumpy Cats, and a Simon’s Cat.

******As I speak, Girlie-Girl is sitting on the leg of the couch and the computer stand, purring.

Hope Springs Eternal: Querying again

Spring must be coming. My cat Girlie-Girl is standing on my chest while I write, some of my seedlings are coming up for summer, I’m dreaming frisky dreams that are too graphic to write about, and I’m querying again.

Girlie LOVES being held, doesn’t she?

I’ve sent four or five out yesterday, and I felt good about it. This is the stage of querying agents that is fun — the part where I get to brag about my novel. This time, it’s Mythos, which starts with a woman’s missing memory and ends with the upcoming Apocalypse.

Here’s the beginning:

In the waning light of a Chicago summer evening, a male rested his back against a light pole and gazed at the indigo horizon over the lake. The breeze from the lake caught a strand of his dark hair and blew it across his face. He gazed up at the concrete horizon to see a form falling, falling from a good height. He squinted, and then raced down greasy streets to its impact, his nerves on edge, his heart barely pounding. 
He arrived at a dead end where a woman lay sprawled, her head pillowed by a cat that had been crushed by the impact. Just behind her stood a rusty dumpster in front of a wall, which amplified the smell of dying. 
He knelt in one flowing movement. He checked her breathing – she breathed still, steadily, as if she slept. He, of anyone on Earth, knew she did not sleep. 
The man leaned closer, and his face brushed against curly blonde hair. He could smell the sharpness of blood. “Can you hear me? Let me know if you can hear my voice.” No response.
 He did not touch her so as not to injure her further. He did touch the cat, black with a white locket, whose labored breath indicated certain death. He whispered to it, “Well done, brave cat. You have saved this woman’s life.” The cat purred.
He leaned again to whisper in the woman’s ear, his hair falling in his face: “Please do not die. We have just met, but I suspect you are the most important being in my life, my love.” He stroked her hair and murmured words of comfort. Tears ran down his cheeks. 

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When the sirens approached, he froze for a second. 

Then he dissolved into nothing.

**************

The less fun part of querying, of course, is getting rejections. I’ve never not gotten one. Every time I go through a round of rejections, I swear I will quit querying. But I keep writing, and I keep querying. And spring keeps arriving.

Musing about the Rainbow Bridge

Right now, I’m sitting in bed coming down with something. A cold, the flu, my imagination — I’m not sure. I barely notice the clutter — the clothes racks that substitute for a closet, the pile of stuffed toys on the cedar chest, bins of summer clothes — but I do notice the round black-and-white cat who cleans herself at the foot of the bed. Stinkerbelle, after a long period of antisocial behavior, has settled into her second kittenhood at age 11, where she clings to me and occasionally cleans my face.

What does Stinkerbelle dream of? She’s a simple creature — she likely dreams of food. Lots of food. And enough petting that she actually gets tired of it. Maybe she dreams of playing, because her arthritic hips no longer will let her do so. They give her trouble merely walking, and jumping on the bed requires three tries now.

Maybe she contemplates the Rainbow Bridge. All pets go to the Rainbow Bridge when they die. When they cross the Bridge into the endless meadow, all their infirmities of life are somehow made irrelevant. They can run, they can play, they can see. The rain that bathes the plants somehow doesn’t drench their fur, so they can run in the raindrops.

At the Rainbow Bridge, they thrive until their owners come, and when we arrive, they remember us and escort us to the endless meadow. I wonder about the dogs and cats who were never adopted, and I’d like to think that some of us pet lovers would adopt them there.

Somehow, we owners think we’re going to Heaven or Hell and our pets think we’re going to the Rainbow Bridge to meet them. Maybe the Rainbow Bridge leads to Heaven. But remember — all pets go to heaven. Have we created in our imagination a better afterlife for pets than we have for ourselves?

Writing with Cats

One of the things that doesn’t become obvious when you read my blog is that I have five cats: Stinkerbelle, Me-Me, Snowy, Girlie-Girl, and Charlie. Each of them have multiple nicknames:

  • Stinkerbelle: She’s the rotund black-and-white cat. She goes by Stinky, Soccerballee, Turnip Head. She’s 11 years old and lives next to the food dish. We have to prod her every now and then to see if she’s still alive. She’s not sick — she’s just that lazy.
  • Snowy: Almost pure black longhair. She goes by Ironic Cat, Snewy, and No-ee. She’s the prima donna of the batch, sitting with paws politely crossed.
  • Girly-Girl is a patched tabby. We call her Squirelly-Girl, Twirly-Girl, Cattywumpus and Butterbutt. Very prosaic, as if she were a farm cat in her last life. She can jump four and a half feet from the loveseat to the couch and jump over me on the couch with minimum effort.
  • Me-Me is a petite blue tabby and white. We call her Meemerz, Weemerz, Meemer-butt, Wiggle-butt and Weebles. Pretty little con artist, but pretty independent.
  • Charlie is a six-month-old buff tabby and the only male in the bunch. He goes by Chuckie, Chuckles, Chuckroast, Chuckie Monster and No! As you might expect, pure energy and mischief.
Snowy, AKA Ironic Cat 

Stinkerbelle when younger

Me-Me, who looks like she took this selfie. 

Girlie-Girl, my editor

Charlie, in a rare non-evil moment.
The average morning early writing goes like this:
  1. Snowy sits on the arm of the couch next to me. A few minutes later, she gives me The Paw. Then both paws.  On my right arm while I’m typing. This is a signal to drop everything I’m doing so I can pet her. One hand is now occupied.
  2. Girlie jumps on the couch on the other side of me and plasters herself against my leg and purrs, even though I’m not petting her. Just wait.
  3. Girlie starts giving me The Paw. Only one paw, but she pokes at me in her rapid Kung Fu fighting strike. I pet her with the other hand.
  4. Snowy feels neglected because I’m not petting her hard enough, She starts headbutting up against my arm. I pet her twice as hard.
  5. Me-Me lounges on the floor, waiting expectantly for something. Charlie saunters down the stairs; Me-Me jumps up. They touch noses, the equivalent of shaking hands in the ring. Then they start whacking at each other.
  6. Girlie jumps off the couch to turn the twosome into a free-for-all MMA match, employing her Kung Fu fighting strike to the middle of the pile. Nobody is yowling, which makes me wonder if they like to fight.
  7. Snowy jumps off and saunters to the loveseat, where she sits on the back, since she doesn’t have to compete for attention anymore.
  8. The three-way fight on the floor breaks up with three cats scampering. Girlie jumps on the loveseat with Snowy, Me-Me sprawls on the ground, and Charlie bites my toes, then scrambles off.
  9. Snowy runs over to me for reassurance, with both paws and headbutts. 
  10. Richard turns on stereo.
  11. Snowy stands on my lap, in my face, meowing, headbutting my face. 
  12. Charlie sharpens his claws on the speaker. Richard yells, “No!” 
This is life with my cats.