I Believe in Magic

Moonlight fell softly like a quiet rain outside my bedroom window and I lay awake watching Abbie as he watched the moonlight. And he did watch the light, quietly, intently, and with a singular purpose. There was just enough pale illumination to outline his ears, ever alert, to the sounds of early morning silence. His eyes, wide open, and curious, reflected the magic of a nearly full moon, and I was able to appreciate that magic as a reflection of his fascination.

It has always been this way since he arrived in our lives. He was only a few months old when we adopted him. The name on his passport reads, Abracadabra, named by the 8 year-old daughter of the foster family that cared for him as a kitten. It seems only a few months ago that Ms Wonder sent a photo to me of a little black and white guy, the markings that we call a tuxedo--black waistcoat, white ascot, white gloves, white spats. Very formal.

Although it has been at least 10 years, I still remember that photo in detail. His eyes were wide and round, as though the world he saw through those eyes was full of fascination and wonder. It was magic at first sight.

I was instantly in love with him. But no, it was something more than love. The wonder that filled his eyes was infectious! I wanted to see the world the way he saw it and I knew I had to have him in my life. We made it so.

We call him Abbie, but his name is Abracadabra, just as the 8-year-old named him. She seemed to feel it imperative that we know everything about him that she knew--the games he liked, the food, the way he preferred to be petted. We understood the emotion that caused her to insist that we care for him the way she had. We understood perfectly. It's like being enchanted by fairy music. Once you enter fairyland, you never want to come back.

We considered Abbie a loner when he first came to live with us. A loner and an explorer. I suppose one would feel compelled to explore if infected by the wonder-lust reflected in those eyes. One of his favorite spots to explore was the top of the kitchen cabinets. Many times, when counting cats before leaving home--an activity I highly recommend when you live with 5 cats--I would wander the house calling Abbie! Abbie! At last, remembering to look up, there he would be, atop the kitchen cabinets, watching me. Wonder eyed!

Although the other four cats accepted a routine of twice-daily feedings, Abbie preferred small meals, several times each day. He somehow convinced me to willingly comply with his wishes. For the last 10 years, I've gotten up at least twice during the night to feed him. And the amazing part, the wondrous part, is that it never bothered me. Enchanted!

How could one not fall in love with a little guy that had started sleeping with you, in the same spot every night, just so he could let you know when he was hungry without waking the entire house. Each night when I go to bed, I smooth the spot that is his spot in anticipation of his arrival. Eventually, I wake to his presence and his quiet little "brrrppt" that lets me know it's time to eat.

He developed a routine to communicate with us at mealtime, or should I say to train us. The procedure involved stretching the right foreleg to touch my leg with his paw--meaning that he would like another spoonful--then moving toward the door and looking back over his shoulder toward me to let me know that we could return to bed.

He loved the sound of ice tinkling in a glass or bowl. Simply adding ice cubes to his water dish would bring him racing from some remote part of the house to enjoy a long, cool, sip.

Lying there in bed on that February morning, I thought of all those things and more. I thought about how much we had bonded, he and I, in the last couple of years. I thought of the other four cats and their health issues, and the fact that Abbie was never ill.

"You and me," I said to him while stroking his back. "You and me forever."You will probably be here with me when the others are gone, I thought. It was only a week later that we had to say goodbye to him.

It is so very true, what my friend Bob says about them. "They are so small and yet they take up so much space in our lives, and when they leave us, they leave a great empty space in our hearts.

Abbie has left that great empty space in our hearts and his leaving has shattered a bit of that enchantment, tarnished something of the wonder. But that won't last long. I know that it will change because Ms Wonder and I will be eternally grateful to him for that gift of wonder and we will strive to remember that his leaving can only enhance it in the long run.

Thank you, Abbie! That early morning when you and I enjoyed our last full moon together, you taught me that even on the darkest night, one need never lose the enchantment and wonder of this great, wide world. You taught me to believe in magic.

When Morning Comes

Life comes hard and fast and I don't know about you, but it sometimes takes me completely by surprise. I still remember exactly where I was and what I was doing back in the day, when Steven Hawking, The Most Brilliant Physicist in the World, admitted that black holes don't exist. 

You could have knocked me down with a feather. I mean just what the hell are we to do now? It's another blatant example of one damned thing after another.

Sifu Abbie Hoffman

The cat Abbie Hoffman is just as concerned as I am about the chaos and absurdities of life. He's with me now on the desktop, sitting on my keyboard, and editing the work as I write. Even at this early hour, before dawn, we're fully dressed, he in his formal attire of white tie and tails, and I in my cargo pajamas. 

We make a good team and it makes me feel better to know that I'm not the only one who feels that the present circs are too tight for comfort. 

We were awakened this morning, Abbie and I, like everyone else in the Renaissance District of the SoDu, at 10 minutes past 5:00 by the ubiquitous tornado warning. 

Like everyone else we rose, gathered up Ms. Wonder and the rest of the furry tribe, and bunged them all into the bathtub for safety. However why the bathtub seemed safe is something that escapes me. 

I try to remember the bilge we were taught in school about bathtubs and the only thing I remember is that Archimedes made that discovery, whatever it was, while playing with baking soda in the bath. Was it baking soda? The details escape me.

We were told he shouted, "Eureka!" and danced around a good bit, flooding the floor and no doubt sending water out into the hallway. And we were supposed to believe that the excitement was caused because he'd discovered the principle of displacement. 

That's right, we're supposed to believe that he discovered displacement in the bathtub. And yet we know, pay attention because the punchline is coming. We know that bathtubs were invented in ancient Egypt several BC's before Archie and we're supposed to believe that no one noticed displacement in all that time? Get real.

But let's get back to the present, shall we? Here's Occum's razor to explain the morning weather. (Look it up. It's spelled Occum's razor.) 

What the National Weather Service picked up on radar was not a tornado but a wind vortex created by the Witch of Woodcroft. It was intended to suck the sick spiritual energies from the environment and transform them into something good for society. She does it all the time. Becoming a nuisance.

No wonder the NWS is confused. The Witch of W. means well--she does, I don't deny it. But, her work often brings unintended results. Don't worry. Abbie Hoffman and I are hard at work to restore the natural balance. 

As I sat back to admire my work, I noticed that Abbie was staring out the window. Dawn peeked timidly over the edge of the horizon in the far distance. No doubt She's unsure of what to expect from the weather, it being one of the dark and loud species of weather this morning. 

Apparently, Dawn puts little credence in the promise that "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." If She intends to continue in the role of Herald of the New Day, then She's going to need some bucking up. 

After all, the Sun can't make his appearance on stage with Dawn's introduction. It would be like discovering the principle of displacement with bathtubs.

Abbie made a little noise deep in his throat and I wondered if he shares my resentment toward the Sun for being absent when he's needed most. A fair-weather friend, the Sun, in my opinion. I'm happy to have that howler of a storm out of the way but I'm not sure that I'm ready to welcome the sun with open arms just yet. I forgive, really I do, but I don't do it quickly. 

Dawn and the other half of the morning sketch, the Sun, need to get their act together. It's another opinion shared by my tuxedoed feline friend and me.

The light suddenly became brighter in my office and Abbie jumped from the desktop to the chair near the window. He huddled down, making himself as small as possible in the way that cats do, and he peeked over the window sill. 

Sunlight was slowly working its way across the fields and woodlands from the east. The sun was smiling in that smug, self-satisfied way it has at the beginning of the day. It eased itself up the drive and began climbing the wall. Inch by inch, the light moved closer to my office window. At last, it peered inside, still smiling, and softly entered the room.

It was exactly the Bruce Lee moment that Abbie was waiting for.

Abbie Hoffman, having recently been certified as a master of taiji ch'uan, executed a lightning-quick single whip, if it was a single whip, and the Sun lay cowering on the floor while dawn fell backward onto the grass in front of the garage. It was as beautiful a single whip as I've seen.

Abbie looked down on Dawn with lazy eyelids as though it were normal to see Her spread-eagled on the lawn. He turned an inquiring gaze toward me and I returned a look to say that I understood completely. 

It couldn't be helped. It was a thing that needed doing and he, with his impeccable credentials, was the man to do it. Now we could forgive.

While I was congratulating him on a job well done, I became aware that his attention was arrested, if that's the word, by a shimming light that illumined the center of the room. Abbie Hoffman was staring into that light with wild surmise--much like the one worn by stout Cortez and his men when they first glanced at the Pacific.

"Well," I said to the specter, "we know you're here. You might as well show yourself."

And with those words, a large face materialized in the center of the room. The features shimmered and glittered in the morning light. When he recognized who I was, he smiled sending little sparkles flashing around the room like tiny fireworks."

"I apologize for the intrusion," said the Sun.

"No need," I said, "it's not your fault nor ours. I credit all this ranygazoo to the Witch of Woodcroft."

Abbie concurred, or he mumbled something that seemed to indicate agreement with my assessment. He rarely disagrees with me. We march in lockstep most days.

"She's off the wagon again!" said the Sun. "I thought 30 days in rehab..."

"I think it will require something stronger than a 12-step program," I said. "But Abbie Hoffman and I have an idea and now that you're here, we no longer need to let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would'."

"Who's Abbie Hoffman?" he said.

"The cat in the adage," I said nodding toward Abbie.

"Oh," said the Sun, but not with any real conviction. "Well, I suppose I should get back into the heavens. Lots of people expecting it."

"I suppose so," I said, "although I don't know why. So many millennia without missing a day. I'd think that the odds are in favor of taking a day off."

And that pretty much sums up our morning. Even if some of the facts were mangled in the telling, the gist is there. The morning, as usual, swept away the weeping of the night and Joy now reigns supreme.

    

Strange Case of the Cat in the Night

On a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than, as Shakespeare said, "tired nature's sweet restorer--balmy sleep." 

It helps to have a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties, provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.

We can never really know why a cat does anything. Not really. We can only imagine and, more often than not, our imaginings interpret cat behavior in human terms, which I'm sure makes us look like priceless asses to the cats. 

Come to think of it, Sagi M'tesi, the caramel-colored target tabby, has only two expressions--one of them says, 'Please feed me,' and the other says, 'What a priceless ass you are.'

Now if Abbie Hoffman has ever resembled a specter, shimmering in and out of awareness, he achieved this resemblance in the wee hours this very morning. I could go so far as to say that he shimmered unceasingly and to the annoyance of all. 

Not only did he shimmer, but adding insult to injury, if that's the term I want, he yowled. He yowled in the Chang Mai room. He yowled in the hallway. He even yowled from atop the kitchen cabinets. Only during the few minutes that he lay motionless, cuddled in my arms, did he stop the nuisance.

I rose this morning much earlier than I would have chosen but you know how it is when you realize that you are wide awake with little chance of revisiting the sweet restorer. 

When I entered the dressing room, I discovered a clue to the cause of the incessant yowling. Abbie Hoffman had spent the wee hours of the morning in the closet trying on Ms. Wonder's scarves. 

This explains why, despite my earnest searching, I'd failed to locate him during the yowling episodes. He'd been in the closet trying to find the perfect scarf to accessorize his custom tuxedo.

Now Ms Wonder has done herself well in the matter of neck joy. Each time one of her colleagues travels to a foreign country, and they do travel often, each country being more foreign than the next, she puts in an order for a scarf of native handicraft. 

She has scarves from China and India, from Zimbabwe and South Africa, from Guatemala and Colombia. The actual number of countries represented in her closet by those colorful scarves is reminiscent of the parade of nations in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.

The subject cat, A. Hoffman, tried on every one of the scarves, judging from the fact that all of them were lying on the floor. I deduced that he wore none of them to bed, that not a single scarf satisfied his longing.

No doubt this process was intended to be a palliative to dull a pain that gnawed at his heart, for little as anyone might suspect, he has a gnawing pain. I know this because I too have a gnawing pain of the heart and I am well acquainted with futile attempts to find something--anything--to medicate that pain. 

It's a common malady. I believe that Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and perhaps even Napoleon, suffered in much the same way.

Strange how we never cease to look for something in the external world to restore calm to the manic mind. Abbie tries on scarves. I write these missives in Circular Journey. Whatever works about sums it up for both of us. 

When the limbic system drifts off station, the resulting altered state of mind will have you behaving in all sorts of absurd ways, like searching for a non-existent mouse or perhaps writing for a non-existent audience.

Yes, despite the evidence to the contrary, I'm certain that Abbie H. was searching for a mouse. That's the only possible explanation for his behavior in that closet. 

You may wonder how I came to this conclusion. Well, as Shakespeare or someone once said, 'Elementary.' It may not have been Shakespeare but he's credited with almost everything else quotable, and I like to go with the odds. 

Cats are well known to be acutely interested in qigong, performing slow ritualized movements, interspersed with bursts of rapid activity, followed by formal meditation. I did mention that earlier, didn't I? Should have. Sorry if I didn't. 

Cats are also known to shun the accumulation of material possessions, such as scarves; however, and I have this on the finest authority, cats do search for mice.

I'm fairly certain that I once watched my Aunt Maggie's barn cat stalking a mouse for half a day. And on more than one occasion, a devoted cat has presented me with a gift of a mouse, even though I had expressed no interest in having one. 

So I ask you, put yourself in Abbie Hoffman's boots. Your hippocampus is lying down on the job, and the happy hormones are on the decline. You feel that you could face the coming day if only you could teach a mouse a lesson or two. 

You search the premises, upstairs and down, looking for the hiding place that you know must be there. Your frustration builds until you begin yowling. Yes, you do yowl and you yowl without restraint. 

Then you enter a closet and discover a rainbow of scarves, each one looking for all the world like curtains behind which little furry invaders may hide. You see where this leads?

As I said earlier, on a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than balmy sleep in a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties. Always provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.