This weekend, I did not lift my emotional or mental eyes to Washington D.C. To the unfathomable horror—the selfishness, the cruelty, the venality, the chaos being legitimized there. Dante’s exact nine circles of hell made manifest on earth. Destroying so many humans, so much of the exquisite life on earth, our planet itself. Even thinking about the monsters gives them gravity.
I committed my attention instead to all the beings around the world in pain and loss. With the faint hope that they’ll feel the flickers of compassion in my heart. My deepest wish for their safety.
I concentrated as well on the beauty and goodness and kindness and creativity that surround me. The Big Belts wreathed in weather-making clouds today. The sun—that even at 15 F.—had strength. On the newly-framed Warli prints that Helen sent me—a taste of the India I am eager to see. A Jim Harrison line of poetry that defines Montana as “the place the gods touched earth.” The holiday letters waiting to be reread once more and their authors held close. The bowl of Malt-O-Meal with brown sugar whose delight I’d forgotten. A Kindle stuffed to bursting with books to be savored. My new bouquet of Mexican paper flowers to replace their sun-faded sisters. Jackie, Peter, Martha, Kate, John, Stan, Anne, Lynn, Vicky, Ken, Alyssa, Bonnie, Liz J. and Liz M., the Cornelius crew-a legion of friends and family right here on my doorstep. I am living truly in the lap of luxury (an 18th century term referring to the wealthy who could lie back, stretch out on couches surrounded by silks and satins and velvets) and beauty and caring.
Still, the gold of my life, the treasures with whom I live: the cats, the boys, Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo—turn all days into magical ones. Yes, I am unabashedly that cat lady. I’m inadvertently featured in a million cozy mysteries, unkind one-liners, and all-too-true cartoons. I don’t care. You are missing so much if you’ve never invited cats to be family members.
You’ll remember that my boys are two-going-on-three. Tiger Tiger, the perfectly patterned mackerel tabby weighs 13 pounds or so. Tuxedo clocks in at 17 pounds and always wears a shiny dense coat. Tiger Tiger walks everywhere with a perfect question-mark tail. Tuxedo is forever adorable just with his perfect white paws hung over the side of a chair.
The boys presented themselves to me as ten-week-old crate-mates at our wonderful Humane Society after I lost Simon. I’d never adopted kittens before, much less two at a time. Of course they were entertaining right from the start—and even more so when I turned them loose into the whole house. I’ve purchased a slipcover for the wing-back chair. I now have exactly one live plant and a host of fakes. (And there are still no guarantees. I woke this morning to a decimated silk poppy.) And—though you may be troubled if you visit—I think nothing of the boys’ tendency to patrol the kitchen counters or favor the sofa as a scratching post. It’s their house as much as mine.
In fact, I love thinking about how they must see this space: yes, I’ve provided some nice sisal scratching surfaces and lots of toys. But how on earth can they distinguish between a keepsake vase, a scarf, and the play fish with tiger spots. Between a cat tower and a chest of drawers.
Their routines alone, their nutty and annoying behaviors, their particular tastes make me smile. Tuxedo still fetches orange practice golf balls—over and over and over again. He learned early how to bite into the holes that keep the balls airy so that he can return them to me. He mostly understands how far I can reach when he brings the golf ball back. And if I’m too lazy to throw them for him or pitch them too close, he’ll entertain himself by batting them around. In fact, he has a penchant for sending them under pieces of furniture just far enough that he can wriggle and stretch to retrieve them.
Tuxedo spends a chunk of daytime hours in the cupboard space below the bathroom sink. It once held toilet paper, but he couldn’t resist making enormous paper nests. Then I put the toilet paper into a plastic crate. He insinuated himself into the crate and continued to shred the rolls. So—of course—now I just keep an empty crate there lined with a soft blankie for his napping pleasure. He goes in and out at will. Opening the door and stepping slowly inside, his tail disappearing inch by inch. He comes out faster – and with a swagger. Kind of cat-rolling-out-of-an-old Western-bar as the door bangs shut behind him. I keep the toilet paper on high shelves in my closet.
Neither cat welcomes loud strangers or children. Tuxedo usually retreats to his bathroom hideaway. Though for awhile, he’d dive under the bedspread. And because he couldn’t see anyone, he assumed that the reverse was true. Tiger Tiger used to sleep on the top of an air purifier at the back of the closet. His little brown and black face just barely visible.
I own two pieces of cat furniture: a traditional series of round cat beds staggered to about six feet, and a single pole attached to the ceiling with three ascending shelves. Both show heavy use. Tiger Tiger now favors the upper platform on the pole. Both cats spend much of the night in the cat tree. Tiger Tiger again goes first to the top bunk only to be dislodged every night (and I mean every night) by Tuxedo who plops his significant bulk next to Tiger Tiger and fake-licks Tiger Tiger until he gives in and leaves.
I feed birds and secondarily, squirrels, on my porch. And with my new all-glass storm door, the boys are in heaven when there’s bird or squirrel action. Tiger Tiger has also hollowed out a spot on the top of the sofa just to be close to the window.
Tiger Tiger adores drinking from the bathroom faucet and a full sink. Tuxedo can be high strung—moments when he quivers with energy and curiosity and must leap up to some high shelf whether or not there’s room available. Which has led to some spectacular avalanches. Both boys love the condo’s radiant floor heat and stretch out in the toastiest spots. Both boys would love to be allowed into the garage, but thankfully steer clear of the front door. It, of course, brings unfamiliar people into the house. Tiger Tiger cannot resist a string or a laser light.
We talk throughout the day, of course. The boys remember the sequence of bedtime rituals: their wet food, their dry food, my pills, my litter box cleaning, my fast-ball throw of the poop bag out the back door. Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo know when company’s coming over when I start to set out human treats and glasses. I reassure them by announcing who’s coming for a visit. Recently, Tiger Tiger has decided that I sleep too long in the mornings.
But most of all, most of all, the boys adore me. I’m home so much—and during last winter’s recuperation continuously. More often than not, Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo choose to be close by wherever I am. Tuxedo runs down the corridor from kitchen to bedroom full tilt to leap up on the bed for a tummy rub. I remind him that he has a world-class belly. Tiger Tiger—once he makes sure Tuxedo is not watching—jumps up on my lap, puts his paws on my neck and nuzzles—licks, nibbles, kneads. He’ll often fall to the edge of sleep in that position while I rub his neck and chin. Not to be outdone, Tuxedo will come sit behind me when I’m here at the computer, wait until I turn around to pet him, drool, headbutt, and finally stand on my chest to bring his face up next to mine. Almost—almost talking.
These are not exceptional cats. Or pets. Given time and attention, so many animals are willing to come into our lives and invite us into their habits and preferences and caring. So many animals forgive–or at least live through-our ego-centric behaviors. Our busyness, our inattention, even our cruelty—inadvertent or deliberate.
The animals with whom I share my life do not rain anger or hurt on me. They do not know retribution. They are not snide or duplicitous or money-hungry or power-hungry. Even if I’m gone too long or accidently step on a tail or fail to play with Tuxedo and Tiger Tiger, they bear no malice.
Do you remember Dante’s nine circles of hell:
- Circle one – limbo;
- Circle two – lust;
- Circle three – gluttony;
- Circle four – greed;
- Circle five – wrath;
- Circle six – heresy;
- Circle seven – violence;
- Circle eight – fraud;
- Circle nine – treachery.
That’s what’s being celebrated this weekend in D.C. That’s the hell we humans have signed up for as a nation.
Even though I didn’t choose to put that malignancy in place, even though there will be tasks to undertake to mitigate the awfulness, that’s not where I’ve looking this weekend. That’s not what I’m considering.
I am instead celebrating my small world of beauty and the cats that I adore. Who return that companionship and adoration in full. ©
