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:
When you’re hungry, but you know if you get up to fix something you’ll wake up your sleeping husband and the cat, so you just sit and slowly starve to death.
They’re both snoring, by the way.
There’s a great bit of drama in the backstory of this photo, but rather go into all that I’ll just call this one, “There’s No Way in Hell I’m Giving Up this Bed to My Sister.”
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.
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.”
Patches was jealous of Scout’s moment in the sun yesterday, so today she gets to be the star. I call this one, “Too Lazy for Words.”
Patches and I were sitting out on the back porch when she asked to have her picture taken. I call this, “‘Meow’ Means I’m Beautiful in Catonese.”
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.
Cat got your tongue? he asked.
That’s the stupidest question ever, I replied
Cats have no need for human tongues and such, but they might have my yarn.
Cats love yarn.
Let’s call this one, “We’re Leaving it up for the Cats.”