She carefully noted all of the comings and goings. She dares not miss a thing, that would be unthinkable. She takes mental notes, has no need for recording devices. She will tell you when something is out of the ordinary. She will demand you act when that happens. She will describe to you how that appeared to happen and what she thinks caused it. She is ever vigilant. She has no choice, after all she is a house cat.
If there were truly justice at least of the poetic sort perhaps Van Gogh could have been born 75 years earlier, and in Vienna not Holland, so that when he decided to be rid of an ear he could have offered it to Beethoven neither of his working in his later years. And if a poet could arrange time travel using his license then he could just as easily have made the ear work for Beethoven. But on second thought, heaven knows what the mighty Ninth Symphony might have sounded like if Beethoven had to listen constantly to the critics.
Of course when we lived up north we wouldn’t have imagined this, sitting on our lanai watching the sun set the patchy sky ablaze sipping small glasses of port and wondering if a light jacket might be in order, as the beaver moon of November waxes slowly.
The cat, curled at our feet cannot imagine the icy wind howling down the street, the foreboding clouds offering their first flakes, knowing this is a small taste of what nature will bring forth before we could again sit in shirtsleeves on our porch.
We sit around the small tables glad to be out of the sun whose midday glare seems to blind the drivers slowly approaching the Jetty Park lot.
A family chatters, the children laughing at nothing, at everything, and nearby a dog lays out dreaming of a good walk and dinner, hoping for scraps.
We can hear the water of the inlet, the waves breaking onto the beach, visuals left to our imaginations, but we are satisfied with that, and the fact that our tacos here are far more reasonable with the “without the view” discount.
I grant you cats can be peculiar but they have one significant advantage over all other pets, except maybe hamsters and gerbils, for when you need someone to talk to, to unload your problems on, to try and wrestle with a thorny issue of public policy or geopolitical intrigue and that night has swallowed everyone you know, anyone you might dare disturb in the hours after midnight, you may rest assured that a dog would be sleeping somewhere and will not be roused for heaven and earth, but a cat will be wide awake, willing to let you go on and on in exchange for a bit of play, but there is the risk that she or he will disagree with you using a claw for emphasis.
He was a writer. That is what he told people who asked what he did. Although he said it was what, no who he was. He said he wanted to be the sort of person that Stalin feared, a man of ideas, maybe someday, in an Alexieian world, charged with a crime of holding an audience hostage with the idea of a gun. But he knew somewhere along the way, the weapon would have to be fired. That was Chekov’s rule and he was one to obey the great writers.
You said it was a lucky charm, but I know my cereals and it clearly wasn’t that, nor was it a faked foot of some leporidae sylvilagus, even you would never be that cruel, you are a vegan after all, even your shoes are some unholy man-made material.
And I don’t believe in luck, I’ve never had it, good or bad although I do admit I look forward to Friday the Thirteenths for things always seem to go well when they occur for some reason.