Sunday, August 7, 2016
It's Sunday, give it a rest.
Gizmo was named by the boys, when they were 7 and 8. For a character in "Gremlins," I believe. Now 12 years old, he sleeps a lot, and I suppose he's earned his rest, for a dozen years of vigilance, and constant hauteur, and strolling, and that careful monitoring of the molecules in the air that cats scrupulously perform.
Even when sleeping, as above, he's on the job.
He is also a living link to my wife's first two cats, a brother and sister team rescued from the Anti-Cruelty Society, Anna and Vronsky, named for the lovers in Anna Karinina. They lived to be 19 and 18, respectively, ancient for cats. I happen to have a photo of the three of them—that's Anna, on the left. You can tell because she was always fatter. Meaner and fatter. Though able to fetch—not something cats are known to do. But we would fire those gold elastic Marshall Field's gift strings like rubber bands, and Anna would retrieve them. What people did for fun before the internet.
Vronsky in the middle. Sweeter than Anna, very quiet and gentle. And a young Gizmo, getting what corner of the food bowl he could. I'm surprised he survived in their company. Both are buried in the side yard now, under cat-shaped stones.
And my point being? Well, it's Sunday. And it's August. And Saturday I didn't do much of anything. Parked on the couch mostly, reading a book: my new book, as it happens, which turned up in the FedEx late Friday, and I thought I would give an immediate read. No typos, no slap-my-forehead mistakes, which is not always the case. So that's a relief. The thing held my attention. Five years of work.
Five years of work, you should take a day off and read the thing.
Gizmo kept me company the whole time, on the wing chair across from where I sprawled, his paws just so, as if he had dropped off and the little book of Cat Tales tumbled from his paws. Cats serve many purposes; reminding us to take it easy ourselves is a vital one. Gizmo wasn't working hard this weekend, and I hope you aren't either. I'm certainly not.
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You earned some rest. I suppose the poor dog in your household is outnumbered.ReplyDelete
One hopes that your Anna didn't go to Jesus under the wheels of a train. Some people feel it's cruel to keep cats indoors, but we always have. At least, ever since our first one failed to return home, followed by angst-filled and unavailing searches of the neighborhood. But we didn't declaw them, which is indeed cruel.ReplyDelete
Our last, fondly remembered, pussycat left at a venerable 21. She was somewhat stand offish when young, but after the dog, a somewhat bumptious Golden Retriever, died and she had us to herself became everything one thinks of as a dog being.
No, she was an indoor cat. My son did try to walk her once, on a leash, memorably, but they didn't get 20 feet.Delete