When I unpacked the gaming chair I got for my birthday, I discovered that a miller moth had been included at no extra charge. Still at large, it fluttered past me just now and hid behind a curtain. When I was a small child, I decided that miller moths were called “blumblumlies,” one of the more obscure loan words that entered the private language of the family not long after it was brought to the shores of the new world of childhood. When I had kitties, if a blumblumly got loose in the house, they would go ballistic trying to catch it, and woe betide anything breakable that got in the way. Then I remembered my black boy cat, the last of his tribe, who shouldn’t have weighed 18 lbs, and how astonishingly fast that rotund cat could move in hot pursuit. Thus it is that in the lingua propria of my mind the word for “moth” is a synonym for sadness.
In the early morning darkness, eyes are useless. It is touch that defines the world — the warm cocoon of the bedclothes, the cool air on my nose where it pokes above the covers, the warm furry kitty body curled against my shoulder. After a moment on the surface of wakefulness, I take a deep breath of quietude, and sound like a whale back down into the depths of sleep.
An odd sensation: Sitting in a recliner, with a lap robe on, absorbed in blogging, and the black kitty noses under the end of the lap robe, crawls up between my legs and curls up between my knees. He is sleek and warm, and his whiskers tickle my skin. We are both content.
Is there a cat shaped hole in your life? There are plenty of cats that are already in progress. You can have the World assign one to you, and your designated cat will show up on your doorstep in its own good time. Then again, if it’s a very empty hole, you can have it filled on the spot by applying to a local shelter. Or, you can engage a kitten and start one from scratch.
Posted in Cats
The grey kitty snoozes curled up into a ball under my chin, warming my heart.
Nestled snuggly in the darkness, I am a winter-sleeping mountain with a grey fog kitty in my valley.
Household Spell: A black one and a white one, and the little girl is grey. There are no more ice cubes until the water freezes, but three will do to chill the Coke.
Small Stone for 07/05/2011
I took the book and opened it to chapter 1. I’ll only read a chapter, maybe two. I can’t recall the instant when the light switch of the world flicked off . I don’t remember turning pages, the book’s weight resting in my hands. I don’t recall the mantle clock donging out the hours, the settling of the cats beside me, or darkness falling. I don’t remember when the black print on the white page began projecting brilliant technicolor images on the silver screen of my mind. But there were people, in places, doing things, saying things, sights, sounds, sensations, vivid as a dream. THE END. No! Not yet!
Small Stone for 07/04/2011
A large, grape-green box fan, already old when ransomed by a fiver at a tag sale 15 years ago. Inexplicably, the dial turns first to “HIGH.” The motor rev’s the fan blade until it’s rattling the safety grills as it slowly hums across the floor. (I am strapped inside its belly as the C130 Herk goes rumbling, jiggling, juggernauting down the runway like a fat kid grim with determination to reach the plate before the baseball.)Turn the dial to “MED,” The fan blade throttles back, the growl becomes a bass kazoo above a steady clattering. (The aircraft sits back on its haunches, points its clown nose skyward. The rattle-tattle squeaking falls away with the ground as the lumbering metal bumble bee slowly winches itself skyward.) Now turn the dial to “LOW.” I set the fan upon the rug to dampen the vibration, cock it, lock it into place with two heavy bricks set along its top. Then into bed, adjust the sheet, turn out the light. (The heavy metal albatross has leveled off to cruise at altitude and I am curled into the darkness of its craw as it goes droning onward through the star-pocked night.) I would not take $100 for that fan.
In the darkness, whiskers light as butterflies’ legs dance along my outflung arm. By the interval between one dancer and the next, I know the claiming paw is white-furred pink.
The grey kitty has dozed off and left her motor running.