Cat Dancing

Dancing in the light

Cats watch from their safe spaces

Their crazy human

Sway to the music

Now observe my nimble feet

And salsa with me

Cool cat on the floor

Tango, flamenco, olé!

No lessons required

Every morning I dance around my bedroom while the cats watch in either fascination or revulsion. Sometimes I swoop in and bring one or another along on my wild pagan romp. They endure the experience with a stoicism the ancient Greeks would have admired. Here’s my actual cat, Patches, watching my dance routine:

Inside on a Rainy Day

Is there anything more wonderful than a rainy Sunday morning? Plip plopping drops sluicing down the roof,

Streaking across the window panes in a hurry to puddle up with their brothers and sisters on the driveway.

Dreamers lulled back to sleep by age old rhythms, the roll of thunder, the silence in between, waking to the smell of

Coffee an hour gone by in a blink. Cats snuggled under the covers. One detests the storm; the other relishes

Being present for this unexpected treat of extra time spent pleasantly cuddled on a perfect rainy Sunday. 

The Work of Being a Cat

I cannot imagine how difficult it must be, the work of being a cat. Between naps in the sun, one 

Must stalk every individual dust mote that filters through a ray of light on its way from window to rug.

Then there’s the bathing of fur, pink tongue seeking out any hint of dirt or foreign substance with

A rough lick and a promise to bathe again should something upset the delicate balance between 

Tidy and soiled, anxious and calm. Pleasured purring while kneading must be exhausting work 

And is often closely followed by head butting and a thrice circled snuggle into mom’s cozy lap. 

Scratching at posts, and pouncing on catnip-stuffed felt mice often induce wide yawns and paws

Covering eyes. A quick burst of energy when the word, treat, is uttered, even whispered, results in

A mad dash to the food bowl where petting is tolerated, but just barely. “Mom, petting just wears me out.”

I Lost My Marble

A few months ago I posted a whimsical piece about the thoughts I entertained while picking up a marble with my toes. (Link below, if you’re interested.) The exercise eventually helped reform my wayward middle metatarsal, and I dispensed with the activity.

Recently, though, my metatarsal began behaving badly again. When I went to find my marble it was gone. I truly had lost my marble. I looked high and low, mumbling to myself like some sort of mad woman. The cats, who I suspect of having had something to do with my marble’s disappearance watched me warily as I dove into drawers, cast shoes about the closet, and peered into dark corners and between chair cushions. Alas, no marble.

So when I spied a jar of marbles at a shop in Apalachicola with the sign, “Marbles: 30 for $1.00,” I grabbed a couple of greenies and took them to the checkout counter. 

“Only two?” The proprietor asked.

“Yes sir, you see I lost my marble and I’m looking for a replacement. The second one’s insurance.”

“In that case, no charge,” he said. “Never let it be said that I deprived a woman of her marbles.”

Call me crazy, but I think he just wanted me out of his store.