Tuesday, June 25, 2013
IF I WAS..
What if I was a horse? No, I wouldn't make anything bigger than a short, stout pony. That is sad, don't you think? I admire the horses so much. What can be lovelier than all that power in a sleek and graceful body? But even as a pony (maybe a white, cuddly one), I would enjoy running through the meadows and the hills, reveling in the sunshine and a bale of hay. I wonder, what do the horses think about carrying the humans on their backs? Are they glad of the company, or is the weight a bother? Maybe, being a pony is good, at least I wouldn't have to transport nothing heavier than a child!
IF I WAS...
Hmm.. What else? A llama? A camel? A Hare?
I know, - a bird! Lets see: should I be an eagle or a hawk? Just kidding! I really like the budgies. Little birds look so cheerful and cute, with fat cheeks and all colors of the rainbow. But, I think, I would be the off-white one, with the rosy cheeks. I'd be very inquisitive, waddling around with my head cocked to the side, plucking people's ears with my beak.
What could make me happy, as a bird? A nice, juicy worm? Ugh (like the Americans say)! Perhaps, I would choose climbing on my human's shoulder and peck on a piece of sugar? Or swinging on a tiny swing in my cage? Still, being out of the cage would be preferable. Until the cat shows up, that is!
IF I WAS...
Being a cat is fun, but I am more of a dog person. Dogs have been a part of my life for my whole childhood and youth, and even now, a thought strikes me a few times a day: we need a dog!
If I was a dog, what kind would I be? Obviously, not one of the sleek short-haired hunters: I am more of a fluffy, short legged mutt, happy to have a company and loving everybody willing to play with me.
As a dog, I'd, probably, live for the times shared with my humans. I hope, I'd be something of a mystery, though, like the Doberman Pinscher we had in our neighborhood when I was in my twenties. He had a name in English: the Beast. The brown, powerful animal, largely, "walked alone", in other words, the owners let him out by himself. One foggy morning, I was returning home from a run. Suddenly, I felt somebody behind me. I looked. The fog parted at that moment, and there he stood - the Beast! That was eerie enough for me to remember for the rest of my life. I also saw the Beast at the dog place in our woods. He was playing with another canine. The way he did it was remarkable: he would clamp his teeth on the furry opponent's shoulder, twist it 'til the dog fell over and, quick as a lightning, switch the teeth to the throat. That's exactly the way the wolves kill their bigger prey!
Wishful thinking! I can never be that much of a predator! The need to belong and be liked is too strong in me. I would love, as a dog, of course, to lay my head on someone's knee and sigh contentedly. Is that something to apologize about? I don't think so! Isn't that the way the dogs are made to be?
Monday, June 24, 2013
IF I WAS..
Now, most of the time I enjoy being human. We have more control over our lives, our needs and urges. We are more in control of taking care of and keeping our loved ones safe and close. Last night I had a thought: what if I was a cat?
If I was a cat, would I be a long haired or short? Would I be a purebred or a mongrel-tabby? We--ll, I don't know about being a tabby, but I'd, probably, be tubby! Perhaps, I'd be a silky, long-haired fat Persian. I never saw a fat feral or street cat, which means that I'd, probably, have a home. I would laze all day in one place or another in the house, moseying to the food dish every time the fancy strikes me, my long fur and the fat rolling with every bouncy step. Or, maybe, I'd be one of those rag-dolls, plushy and pliant, adoring my humans and being a putty in their arms?
Would I miss the wild, the smells of the damp, secret places, the taste of my prey's blood in my mouth? While looking out to the backyard, would I long to go where I please, chew the grass and stick my claws into the soft flesh of a mouse or a bird?
My cat, Sylvie, just jumped and ran from her place by the back window after seeing something there. She hopped on the back of the couch and crouched there, her fur standing on end, the tail twitching in agitation. She's been a house-cat for nine years, yet she still can't help her beasty instincts, when she sees something small move furtively outside.
My habits take root in me for a good old time. If I was a cat, I would treasure the comforts of the home, but long for the freedom of being me. Or, more likely, I would keep my thoughts to myself and live in a moment, like a cat should!
If I was a cat, would I be a long haired or short? Would I be a purebred or a mongrel-tabby? We--ll, I don't know about being a tabby, but I'd, probably, be tubby! Perhaps, I'd be a silky, long-haired fat Persian. I never saw a fat feral or street cat, which means that I'd, probably, have a home. I would laze all day in one place or another in the house, moseying to the food dish every time the fancy strikes me, my long fur and the fat rolling with every bouncy step. Or, maybe, I'd be one of those rag-dolls, plushy and pliant, adoring my humans and being a putty in their arms?
Would I miss the wild, the smells of the damp, secret places, the taste of my prey's blood in my mouth? While looking out to the backyard, would I long to go where I please, chew the grass and stick my claws into the soft flesh of a mouse or a bird?
My cat, Sylvie, just jumped and ran from her place by the back window after seeing something there. She hopped on the back of the couch and crouched there, her fur standing on end, the tail twitching in agitation. She's been a house-cat for nine years, yet she still can't help her beasty instincts, when she sees something small move furtively outside.
My habits take root in me for a good old time. If I was a cat, I would treasure the comforts of the home, but long for the freedom of being me. Or, more likely, I would keep my thoughts to myself and live in a moment, like a cat should!
GOLDIE
The little cat started to hang around our yard a few months ago. She was so scrawny that, I thought, that she was an adolescent. Only after looking at her carefully I saw the stiff back legs and tail - the signs of an older cat, marred by the deprivations of living on the street. She was pretty, though: white on the chest, belly and the legs and bright orange on the back and the face. She also had orange on her shoulders, outlined with white, like some kind of epaulets from a bygone era. I often saw her on the same little mole mound in the garden: front paw in the air, the tail straight and vibrating in anticipation. I don't think, she ever caught that mole, but not for the lack of trying!
One day, I was at the computer and my cat, Chicken Bone (Chickie) was sunning himself by the glass door into the garden. I heard him meow, but didn't pay attention at first. He is a very vocal individual, who lets us know his moods and wants with an amazing variety of sounds. After a while, I noticed a very distinctive meowing from him. It sounded, for all the world, like he was conversing with somebody! I went to look, There, on the other side of glass, stood the orange-white kitty, talking with Chickie, but I only saw her mouth moving: the glass cut off the sound. When she saw me, she abruptly stepped back. I also stepped back, not wanting to interrupt such an interesting occurrence. She stepped back again and I stepped back too. The tension was too much for her, and she ran away.
Since that time, I began to put a small bowl of cat-food on the back porch, where the kitty could reach it, and we could see her pretty self, while she was eating. Since we already have a cat named Sylvie, I named that one Goldie. She came faithfully every day, as soon as I filled her bowl and yelled her name a couple of times.
A few weeks ago she stopped coming. We were disappointed and worried , but what can you do? Then she showed up again. One of her back legs was hurt, she either kept it pulled all the way up or let it hang uselessly, not putting any weight on it.
I had a sickening feeling that this will be the end of her. How can she survive, having to feed and constantly defend herself against the other cats and the murderous raccoons that once almost killed Chickie? I kept putting the food out for her, and she stopped going away, just stayed the whole time in a bush by the fence. Every day I expected her not to show up, but there she was, limping to the porch, gulping her food down and frequently lifting her head to watch out for danger.
My cats took it for an insult, to have to share their food with an interloper. Chikie just meowed and scratched the glass a few times, then took a philosophical view of the situation. Sylvie, on the other hand, stayed true to her demon-cat nature. Every time she heard me calling Goldie, she'd run, then crawl the last foot or so on her fat little belly to the door. She then would start yowling, spitting and hissing at the poor Goldie. God forbid, she was there when I called Goldie some cute names. She'd behave all betrayed and add a couple more decibels to her screeching. It unnerved Goldie a little, but then she realized that Sylvie can't get to her from behind the glass. Now Goldie just eats her food and gives Sylvie sarcastic looks, like: "what, do you think, you can do?"
She soon began to show the signs of improvement. She started to put some weight on her back paw, then we saw her limping, but walking on it. She also started to come and stretch on the concrete by the porch, incessantly grooming or just laying down before the next meal. Time to time, she would look into the room or even the kitchen window, now taking interest, what's going on in there. I can't take her in, my husband reached his limit the last time we tried to help a couple of kitties and were left with millions of fleas in the house. I also don't want her to stop hunting for food altogether, she needs to be able to fend for herself.
Last night it rained. We worried, where Goldie was going to go, to hide from the rain. This morning, she came as soon as she heard me call her. She is a little wet, but, I believe, she can survive much more than that!
One day, I was at the computer and my cat, Chicken Bone (Chickie) was sunning himself by the glass door into the garden. I heard him meow, but didn't pay attention at first. He is a very vocal individual, who lets us know his moods and wants with an amazing variety of sounds. After a while, I noticed a very distinctive meowing from him. It sounded, for all the world, like he was conversing with somebody! I went to look, There, on the other side of glass, stood the orange-white kitty, talking with Chickie, but I only saw her mouth moving: the glass cut off the sound. When she saw me, she abruptly stepped back. I also stepped back, not wanting to interrupt such an interesting occurrence. She stepped back again and I stepped back too. The tension was too much for her, and she ran away.
Since that time, I began to put a small bowl of cat-food on the back porch, where the kitty could reach it, and we could see her pretty self, while she was eating. Since we already have a cat named Sylvie, I named that one Goldie. She came faithfully every day, as soon as I filled her bowl and yelled her name a couple of times.
A few weeks ago she stopped coming. We were disappointed and worried , but what can you do? Then she showed up again. One of her back legs was hurt, she either kept it pulled all the way up or let it hang uselessly, not putting any weight on it.
I had a sickening feeling that this will be the end of her. How can she survive, having to feed and constantly defend herself against the other cats and the murderous raccoons that once almost killed Chickie? I kept putting the food out for her, and she stopped going away, just stayed the whole time in a bush by the fence. Every day I expected her not to show up, but there she was, limping to the porch, gulping her food down and frequently lifting her head to watch out for danger.
My cats took it for an insult, to have to share their food with an interloper. Chikie just meowed and scratched the glass a few times, then took a philosophical view of the situation. Sylvie, on the other hand, stayed true to her demon-cat nature. Every time she heard me calling Goldie, she'd run, then crawl the last foot or so on her fat little belly to the door. She then would start yowling, spitting and hissing at the poor Goldie. God forbid, she was there when I called Goldie some cute names. She'd behave all betrayed and add a couple more decibels to her screeching. It unnerved Goldie a little, but then she realized that Sylvie can't get to her from behind the glass. Now Goldie just eats her food and gives Sylvie sarcastic looks, like: "what, do you think, you can do?"
She soon began to show the signs of improvement. She started to put some weight on her back paw, then we saw her limping, but walking on it. She also started to come and stretch on the concrete by the porch, incessantly grooming or just laying down before the next meal. Time to time, she would look into the room or even the kitchen window, now taking interest, what's going on in there. I can't take her in, my husband reached his limit the last time we tried to help a couple of kitties and were left with millions of fleas in the house. I also don't want her to stop hunting for food altogether, she needs to be able to fend for herself.
Last night it rained. We worried, where Goldie was going to go, to hide from the rain. This morning, she came as soon as she heard me call her. She is a little wet, but, I believe, she can survive much more than that!
Sunday, June 23, 2013
GRAY DAY
Today is a gray day. I don't mind the cool weather: its much better than the heat. I don't really mind feeling a little blue either. Sometimes, we need to come down from a constant excitement. Everything is fine. Writing that, I suddenly thought that I don't really know, if everything is fine. My daughter is away at college, son is a hermit, hiding in his room 'til he gets too hungry, or his dad yells for him to do something. What if there are things that I'm missing? There, probably, are! Ever feel like a balloon is about to get popped? Upon reflection, that's how I feel today.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
TIS NO FUN - GETTING OLD
It would be lovely, if we could all age gracefully. Who needs the aches and the ailments that come with growing old? The worst, by far, are the humiliations associated with aging: the body betraying us, the mind following the suit. My friend, Roberta who is eighty and her husband, who is seventy three, stay with us in a small room with their own bathroom. Roberta recently fell down and fractured her spine. It sounds terrible, and she is in a lot - a lot - of pain, but, it turns out, there is a way to mend from it. Anyway, she sleeps on a narrow bed and her husband - on a mattress on the floor.This morning the two of them came out of the room laughing. They continued to giggle until I pried the story out of them, and we all didn't stop being amused by it since then. At night Roberta can't, sometimes, tell the imagined from reality. Once I ran into her room when I heard her talking in the small hours of the morning (2-3 am). "Are you alright?" - I asked. "I'm alright, but I don't know where all these people are going to sleep!" - she answered. "What people?" - my knees became weak. "Those ones: she, and he, and he!"
That was awhile back. Last night Roberta's husband, Dr. Park, from his place on the floor, saw her get up, again, at about two or three in the morning and start walking toward him. "Where are you going?" - he asked. She answered: "To the bathroom." "The bathroom is in the opposite direction!" - he insisted. "Hush" - she said, untying her pants. He began to panic in earnest, trying to get out of the tangled sheets. "Turn around!" - he yelled, covering his face with his arms - "Go back!" To his relief, Roberta turned and saw the bathroom. Otherwise, who knows, what she could've done!
That was awhile back. Last night Roberta's husband, Dr. Park, from his place on the floor, saw her get up, again, at about two or three in the morning and start walking toward him. "Where are you going?" - he asked. She answered: "To the bathroom." "The bathroom is in the opposite direction!" - he insisted. "Hush" - she said, untying her pants. He began to panic in earnest, trying to get out of the tangled sheets. "Turn around!" - he yelled, covering his face with his arms - "Go back!" To his relief, Roberta turned and saw the bathroom. Otherwise, who knows, what she could've done!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)