"Did you hear that?" said a different voice from somewhere nearby and I was relieved to discover that it was Poopsie Wonder because, well, I'm sure I don't have to suggest the reason why. You can surely think of several good reasons on your own.
The first voice, let's call it Voice A, called again and, coming unexpectedly as it did in the middle of a peaceful summer night, it caused me to look at Ms. Wonder with wild surmise and she goggled at me with wild surmise. What rendered the thing so particularly unpleasant was that we had both jumped to the same conclusion. "It's your mother," Ms. Wonder gaggled as she switched on a lamp illuminating the clock on her night table that maintained the time at 12:30 AM.
I ambled to the top of the staircase and looked down at the specter in a cornflower blue nightshirt standing in the doorway to my mother's sitting room on the ground floor.
"Are you awake?" she asked out of concern for my safety should I stand at the top of a staircase while asleep. "Come here a minute," she said. When my mother says 'come here' it is not merely an invitation but more like a command from the centurion, a casual acquaintance of Jesus, who explained that when he said, 'Come,' they came. And so it is with me and my mother. I went.
Two hours later, after staunching the flow of blood from the motherly nose, and returning Reason to her throne, I was back upstairs and looking forward to returning to that dream where I was Bond and Ms. Wonder was Moneypenny. It promised to be diverting. I tilted the nightcap down toward the right eye, which makes all the difference.
A minute later I was in bed and within seconds I was joined by Abbie Hoffman, that tuxedoed American shorthair, who assumed his familiar position at my right side. It was now 2:30 AM and I was not exactly in the mood for a social reunion. I couldn't help but feel that he could have chosen a better time to get chummy. Still, not wanting to seem un-civil, I gave his chin a scratch.
He rearranged the cardinal points, anterior and posterior, and the expression on his map gave me to believe that something was not satisfactory. He seemed to be doing a bit of princess-and-the-peaing. I didn't like it. I was anxious to get down to some tired nature's sweet restoring. He stood, stretched, and moved to the foot of the bed, which I was all in favor of, but it wasn't to last. He returned to my side and I gave his rump a pat hoping that he'd gotten everything sorted out but no, it was another bust. He moved to the foot of the bed again but immediately returned to my side.
"I know where this is leading," I said, "and you're singing the wrong tune. You feel that old compunction to give voice to the wildness that sleeps in your breast but I ask you, is it wise? I know that you tell yourself that you can stop with one but isn't it the first yowl that does all the damage?"
"I don't have a problem," he said or, if he didn't actually say it, he gave me a look that did. "I'm not powerless in the matter you know. I howl because I enjoy the sound."
"Oh, what a tangled web," I said and I meant it to sting. "Is this the Hoffman spirit? Is this the American shorthair who used to play feathered stick with me when he was just so high?"
He didn't answer but went straight to his work, jumping from the bed and rushing downstairs where he took up position in the foyer. Moments later the first pleading cry floated up the stairwell. I'm not certain but it could be that a few passionate words spoken in haste escaped from me as I headed to the guest room.
Now, whether or not I would have achieved the dream state in that four-poster that filled the room I cannot say. This is the same bed I slept in as a young boy before my sister moved from her crib and I was awarded the living room sofa. It has been several years since I tried to actually sleep in this family heirloom and I found that a double bed no longer fits the Genome chassis. I guess I counted no more than a few dozen herds of sheep before remembering several pleasant nights spent on the sofa on the screened porch.
It was with me the work of an instant to be in position on that porch, a freshly brewed cup of ginger tea in hand, and the string lights turned on for mood. I sampled the tea. Perfect.
You know that feeling you sometimes get that someone is looking at you? I had it now. I was out in the open air with a night garden and a cypress grove just a few feet away and so I reasoned that there were probably lots of creatures of the night gazing in my direction. Then I heard a small, quiet voice address me from somewhere nearby.
"Whatch'ya doin'?"
In the dim light, I could just make out the form and color of the Siamese kitten that lives in the house on the hill behind the Hall.
"Oh, it's you, Lucy," I said cordially because I am partial to this little blue-eyed girl. "I'm planning to sleep out here tonight."
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she said.
"Not at all," I said. "What are you doing out here?"
"I saw the lights come on," she said. "I like to sleep on this tabletop," she added as she walked a full circle and then sat looking at me.
"Nice night," I said.
"Bit warm," said she.
"Just so," I said and then the message in her recent words made themselves clear and I turned off the lights. "Well, good night, kitten."
"Good night, sir."
Despite the fact that the night was unusually warm, I found myself experiencing a soothing drowsiness just about the time the scratching began. I didn't have to look to know that the scratcher was Uma, Empress of Chatsford. Hanging out on the porch is a passion with this brindled lady and looking through the French doors to see me out here had gotten right up her nose.
I had two options as I saw it. I could either allow her onto the porch and wait for her to complete a patrol of the perimeter to secure the space, or I could move to the garage and sleep in the car. I didn't take time to weigh the options. I opened the door. But what to my wondering eyes did she do but rush to the other end of the kitchen where she stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me as if to say, 'Come.'
"What's wrong, Uma? Is Timmie in trouble?" I asked.
She twittered something under her breath sounding a little like, "Don't be an ass, it's time for breakfast." And in that moment I saw the soft, rosy light of dawn flooding the atrium behind her and I realized that another day was beginning in south Durham. It's just another example of what I always say. Life comes fast and hard and one must be ready for anything, don't you agree?
The first voice, let's call it Voice A, called again and, coming unexpectedly as it did in the middle of a peaceful summer night, it caused me to look at Ms. Wonder with wild surmise and she goggled at me with wild surmise. What rendered the thing so particularly unpleasant was that we had both jumped to the same conclusion. "It's your mother," Ms. Wonder gaggled as she switched on a lamp illuminating the clock on her night table that maintained the time at 12:30 AM.
I ambled to the top of the staircase and looked down at the specter in a cornflower blue nightshirt standing in the doorway to my mother's sitting room on the ground floor.
"Are you awake?" she asked out of concern for my safety should I stand at the top of a staircase while asleep. "Come here a minute," she said. When my mother says 'come here' it is not merely an invitation but more like a command from the centurion, a casual acquaintance of Jesus, who explained that when he said, 'Come,' they came. And so it is with me and my mother. I went.
Two hours later, after staunching the flow of blood from the motherly nose, and returning Reason to her throne, I was back upstairs and looking forward to returning to that dream where I was Bond and Ms. Wonder was Moneypenny. It promised to be diverting. I tilted the nightcap down toward the right eye, which makes all the difference.
He rearranged the cardinal points, anterior and posterior, and the expression on his map gave me to believe that something was not satisfactory. He seemed to be doing a bit of princess-and-the-peaing. I didn't like it. I was anxious to get down to some tired nature's sweet restoring. He stood, stretched, and moved to the foot of the bed, which I was all in favor of, but it wasn't to last. He returned to my side and I gave his rump a pat hoping that he'd gotten everything sorted out but no, it was another bust. He moved to the foot of the bed again but immediately returned to my side.
"I know where this is leading," I said, "and you're singing the wrong tune. You feel that old compunction to give voice to the wildness that sleeps in your breast but I ask you, is it wise? I know that you tell yourself that you can stop with one but isn't it the first yowl that does all the damage?"
"I don't have a problem," he said or, if he didn't actually say it, he gave me a look that did. "I'm not powerless in the matter you know. I howl because I enjoy the sound."
"Oh, what a tangled web," I said and I meant it to sting. "Is this the Hoffman spirit? Is this the American shorthair who used to play feathered stick with me when he was just so high?"
He didn't answer but went straight to his work, jumping from the bed and rushing downstairs where he took up position in the foyer. Moments later the first pleading cry floated up the stairwell. I'm not certain but it could be that a few passionate words spoken in haste escaped from me as I headed to the guest room.
Now, whether or not I would have achieved the dream state in that four-poster that filled the room I cannot say. This is the same bed I slept in as a young boy before my sister moved from her crib and I was awarded the living room sofa. It has been several years since I tried to actually sleep in this family heirloom and I found that a double bed no longer fits the Genome chassis. I guess I counted no more than a few dozen herds of sheep before remembering several pleasant nights spent on the sofa on the screened porch.
It was with me the work of an instant to be in position on that porch, a freshly brewed cup of ginger tea in hand, and the string lights turned on for mood. I sampled the tea. Perfect.
You know that feeling you sometimes get that someone is looking at you? I had it now. I was out in the open air with a night garden and a cypress grove just a few feet away and so I reasoned that there were probably lots of creatures of the night gazing in my direction. Then I heard a small, quiet voice address me from somewhere nearby.
"Whatch'ya doin'?"
In the dim light, I could just make out the form and color of the Siamese kitten that lives in the house on the hill behind the Hall.
"Oh, it's you, Lucy," I said cordially because I am partial to this little blue-eyed girl. "I'm planning to sleep out here tonight."
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she said.
"Not at all," I said. "What are you doing out here?"
"I saw the lights come on," she said. "I like to sleep on this tabletop," she added as she walked a full circle and then sat looking at me.
"Nice night," I said.
"Bit warm," said she.
"Just so," I said and then the message in her recent words made themselves clear and I turned off the lights. "Well, good night, kitten."
"Good night, sir."
Despite the fact that the night was unusually warm, I found myself experiencing a soothing drowsiness just about the time the scratching began. I didn't have to look to know that the scratcher was Uma, Empress of Chatsford. Hanging out on the porch is a passion with this brindled lady and looking through the French doors to see me out here had gotten right up her nose.
I had two options as I saw it. I could either allow her onto the porch and wait for her to complete a patrol of the perimeter to secure the space, or I could move to the garage and sleep in the car. I didn't take time to weigh the options. I opened the door. But what to my wondering eyes did she do but rush to the other end of the kitchen where she stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me as if to say, 'Come.'
"What's wrong, Uma? Is Timmie in trouble?" I asked.
She twittered something under her breath sounding a little like, "Don't be an ass, it's time for breakfast." And in that moment I saw the soft, rosy light of dawn flooding the atrium behind her and I realized that another day was beginning in south Durham. It's just another example of what I always say. Life comes fast and hard and one must be ready for anything, don't you agree?