Beignet Lafayette

He's the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year award for 6 consecutive years. He's nine years old and weighs 15.25 pounds--in other words, peak condition. If you think he's a bit heavy, you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Beignet Lafayette, often called Ben or Benny, is a child of the Lost Kitty Tribe--he was left behind when a previous owner relocated--and I'm sure she's never recovered from the heartbreak. Beignet is a keeper.

But then, all cats are keepers because they shine the light of joy that dissipates the darker emotions. Even kittens that are too young to walk straight and have tails that look like lint brushes get the job done. It's simply their nature.

So, by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance they will all be sleeping when the zombies--those dark emotions mentioned above--begin prowling.

Earlier today, during our visit to the cat hospital, the veterinarian suggested we begin yearly lab workups to keep Ben around forever. None of us can imagine life without him--not even the veterinary staff. Naturally, Ben agreed to donate a little blood for analysis. 

Before leaving, the vet tech wrapped a scrunchie bandage around Ben's leg to prevent bleeding. When we arrived home, I decided to remove the bandage quickly and get on with other tasks, but Ben had a different agenda and it didn't include bandages. 

I cradled him and began brushing, a surefire way to put him in a good mood while distracting him from my sleight of hand. As I brushed with one hand, I searched for the end of the bandage with the other. Ben tolerated this for exactly two seconds before deciding he'd had enough.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I stubbornly decided the bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves, commended my soul to God, and set about it.

Cat wrestling, much like alligator wrestling, should be done sparingly—and only in season. I stretched out on the floor for stability and attempted a move I’d seen pro wrestlers use. Ben, ever the sweetheart, took this as a gesture of affection and began to purr. I seized the moment. My fingers found the pull tab. I gave it a firm tug.

It was the tug of no return. Ben bolted for the doorway like a crazed weasel.  Clinging to the trailing bandage like an Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along the polished hardwood floors. We made a sharp right-hand turn and began descending the stairs. A turn of events I never anticipated.

Now, if the cherry floors can be called smooth, then the oak staircase is best described as bumpy. Over the years, I've developed a sort of wisdom about situations where I'm in control and those where I am clearly not. This situation was one of the latter.

I took the stairs with relative calm--not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower level, I would have more options. 

I remember being attracted to the sport of rock climbing some years ago. You may have done the same. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I thought the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with--something to stop or slow our forward movement.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath the sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast. It sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, my friend, and always remember a little thing I heard from our veterinarian, Dr. Kirch, who said when it comes to cats, "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

Why Write At All?

From my earliest years, I wanted to be a writer. It was not that I had any particular message for humanity. I just wanted to write something light and humorous to make me feel better about my own dreary life and maybe, with a little luck, those stories would help someone with a similar life feel better about theirs.

Beignet Lafayette, Cat of the Year for 5 consecutive years.

There was a brief period in my late teen years when my writing teachers in school convinced me that I had some talent and should keep writing. Their encouragement, which I am grateful for, allowed me to think that a muse had called to me and was silently urging me to share the stories in my head. I realize now that if I ever received a call from a muse, it was a wrong number. 

Thank you P.G. Wodehouse for that bit of wordplay.

It's good that I didn't have a message for the world in mind because, after all these years of writing, still not a glimmer of a message has appeared. Unless I get hotted up in retirement, I fear that humanity will remain a message short.”

Whatever the reason, and even if there is no reason, I continue to write.

I have many writing friends who strive to turn out perfectly crafted stories. But not me. I think of my stories as musical comedies; the music plays in the background. I begin with real-life experiences and then look for ways to make them humorous but there must be something genuinely quirky about the actual event. 

When I find the absurdity, I exaggerate it but I don't make things up just to be funny. That's why I sometimes go through a dry spell with nothing to write.

When I can laugh at the circumstances that cause me anxiety, anger, or embarrassment, I feel that I have some control over my quality of life. If I exaggerate the events to make them funnier, so what? The time for concern is when I can't find anything amusing in my daily life.

And so I don't worry about the exaggeration. The story is still true, just a bit more interesting. The Nac Mac Feagals, a race of wee people created by Terry Pratchett, always offered two stories when asked for an explanation. One story contained only the facts. The one the Wee People preferred had elves and dragons woven into it. When people chose the bare facts version, the Nac Mac Feegle would show their disapproval by exclaiming, 

Crivens!

Don't you agree that the Elves-and-Dragon version offers greater possibility for entertainment? And if fantasy doesn't fit in the story, you can never go wrong by substituting cats for elves and dragons.

I suppose the greatest benefit that comes from fictionalizing my daily life is that it allows me to distance myself from the uncomfortable nearness of dark, foreboding thoughts.

In that calm, friendly, sometimes funny space that comes from detachment, I can find hope for today and purpose for tomorrow.

Back In the Village

Well, here I am again, back in the Village of Crystal Cove and staying at the Inn of the Three Sisters. I know what you're thinking. As determined as I am to avoid this place, how is it that I end up here so often? 

Well, I'd like nothing better than to explain but it's a long story and for God's sake, I can't into it now. Right now I want to tell you about the dream I had on my first night here.

In my dream, I was in a hotel restaurant in central Missouri. I know! Central Missouri! Dreams can be so weird. I was eating a bowl of wabi-sabi--I know, I know! The waitress, filling the tall, amber drinking glass with tissue restorer was Susan S. and she looked exactly the same as so many years ago when she was a doctoral candidate at Rice University.

Susan inclined her head, the way the best waitresses do, toward the sidebar and recommended the sauce in the bottle there over the sauce in the bottle on my table. Of course, I walked over to investigate but discovered that the indicated bottle was uncapped and that the mouth of the said bottle was all crusty! When I turned to protest her recommendation, Susan was gone. 

Guess what happened next. Right! I woke up. You will not be surprised to know that my immediate thoughts were of the nature of the dream. What the hell, I thought. 

Now I am well aware, just as I'm sure you are, that many great and wonderful breakthroughs come to people through dreams. I'm sure you remember the story about Albert Einstein unlocking the secrets to general relativity because of a dream in which he rode through space on a sunbeam. Or was it a comet? Don't quote me.

What you don't know is that this Susan S. is the person who taught me to decipher dreams. The technique requires that immediately upon waking, you use guided imagery meditation to put yourself mentally back in the scene of the dream and then you direct your questions to one of the characters in the dream. You can speak to a person, a rabbit, a zombie, it really doesn't matter. Ask a direct question concerning events in the dream and you will get a direct answer. It really works. Try it sometime. I tried it with this dream.

I soon was back at the same table in the restaurant in the middle of Mizzou but, as I'm sure you've guessed already, Susan wasn't there. The waitress was played this time by Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater Durham Night and part-time barista at Native Ground. 

I considered the change of personnel to be irrelevant, a side issue, and one that I would not let distract me from unlocking the secrets of whatever my higher self was trying to tell me. I decided that this Amy, not to be confused with Princess Amy, although come to think of it they do have a lot in common, would be met with the same respect I show the idle wind, which as Poopsie Wonder tells me…oh forget it. Not important really and I'm in danger of getting derailed. Let's get back to the pertinent details.

I rolled up my sleeves and got into action. She--Amy Normal that is--raised an eyebrow and I saw immediately that she was going to play hardball. I decided to take the direct approach. Always best when the witness is hostile. I'm sure Napoleon would approve.

"Hey, Normal," I said. "What gives?"

She rested her elbow, the one connected to the arm holding the coffee pot, on her hip and gave me a look.

"Simple," she said. "You're wabi-sabi has got stems on."

This got right by me. Stems? As you well know, this Normal and I have our differences and she can often become a thorn in the side but I've always maintained that her IQ is of the highest and brightest. This comment however had me reeling. I was sure she had finally come undone. 

"Look in the bowl, douche-bag," she said.

"Bowl?"

She stomped her foot, just a little, like a horse stamping the ground prior to charging into the fray if fray is the word. She looked toward the ceiling and sighed and for some reason and it immediately dawned on me what she was driveling about. I looked into the wabi-sabi bowl and you will never guess what I found there.

Cherries! The wabi-sabi, whatever the hell that is, had become a bowl of cherries--with stems on.

It was at that precise moment, back in the waking world, that Uma, Empress of Chatsford, began licking the top of my head. I woke but lay motionless thinking about the dream. Uma put an end to the meditation when she began playing Dig-the-Mummy-Out-of-the-Sand. What the hell, I thought. You play the hand you're dealt. 

I rose, moved to the window to salute the sun, and then performed the morning ablutions. This day was going to be filled with more good than bad and I was ready for it. I may not know the meaning of the dream but I have the support of Poopsie, Uma, Susan, and yes, even Amy. And like icing on the cake, I have you, my 1000 real fans, to rely on to get me through the day. What's the worst that could happen?

Bluebirds and Ragamuffins

I blue-berried the breakfast granola with something of a flourish and I came as close as ever to saying Tra la la. And if I did say it, what of it? I do sometimes when I'm in a particularly good mood. The look given me by Beignet from atop a chair, not too near the garden window, seemed to indicate that I said it aloud.

Seeing that ginger and white ragamuffin--it's Beignet that I refer to--as he busied himself with the annual Audubon winter-bird count, I was reminded of why that particular chair is placed some few paces from the windowpane. Do you remember?

The chair used to sit right smack dab in the window space, the better to see the birds, as any cat will attest. But one bright morning a rare visitor lit on the bird feeder and began to flit about, as birds do. 

The newcomer was one of those Eastern Bluebirds you hear so much about. Bright, colorful and quite active they are. Well, this one captured the fancy of Beignet and it was with him the work of an instant to get a visual lock on the target and to spring--zero to sixty--from the floor where he lay in the sun, to the top of the chair and beyond.

When I say beyond, I mean that he didn't stop at the chair but continued into the window. This window may have been made of tempered glass but it was not Beignet-tempered. He smashed it. He was surprised by the hard stop but not as surprised as I. Good grief, about summed up my response.

He was OK of course. He's made of indestructible stuff, that cat. But I've detoured from my message for the day haven't I? The real reason for this post is to express my gratitude for bluebirds, and ginger cats, of course, always ginger cats. I was in good mood this morning because, after a lengthy vacation in southern climes, the bluebird was back doing business as usual at the old stand.

I was up and about with the snails and the larks this morning, blue-berrying anything that didn't move and honey-smearing anything that would fit in the toaster. Why? Well, that bluebird for one thing and also because life gets shorter every day and I have many things to not get done. When the pain level drops below 3, it's easy to see that the right attitude and the right action will lead on to fortune, if happiness and fortune are the same things.

Such clarity is not always possible in the midst of an RA episode. My rheumatoid arthritis is episodic, coming and going as it were, and when it's working its magic of transforming my spine into a Picasso line-drawing the level of pain erodes the cheerful attitude. Life comes hard and fast, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, and when physical discomfort is involved, the Genome becomes manic; even angry.

I don't scowl, as the act is prohibited by the Sovereign I serve, but when the limit is reached and the bluebird packs the overnight bag and calls the local Uber driver, look out! The face gets red, the breathing becomes short and shallow, the eyes bubble, and steam escapes from the seams. If you hear a loud report, it's too late to look for cover.

Fierce living is the solution of course. Everyone knows that. Living fiercely prepares us for whatever life may bring our way. We keep a balanced perspective, being fully conscious that we don't know as much as we think. We pay close attention to what's actually happening and not what we think is happening. Lastly, we maintain the fierce resolve to live Life on life's terms--whatever that may be.

Today, then, I would not lead a qigong session at Straw Valley; nor would I meet the Insiders for coffee at the Den of the Secret Nine. Instead, I would deliver the cat Beignet to the Morrisville Cat Hospital, a Cat Friendly practice, highly recommended by Happy Cats Health & Wellness, where he would have his yearly checkup, and get his nails clipped and head patted.

And so life is good and I am happy. Happy to be a part of this wide, wild, wind-swept world and happy to have Beignet in my life. No doubt he will elevate the mood even more by serenading me all the way to the Cat Hospital with his favorite song, Bird on a Wire, as sung by Rita Coolidge.

I will finish this post, with your permission, by wishing you a wonderful, bright, and beautiful day! Life is grand! Fierce Qigong!

Modern Life and Cats

"Modern life is not a lot of fun if left to its own devices," I said to Ms. Wonder and I felt it to the core.

"You seem low-spirited," she said and I think I've made it pretty clear that it was so. I was as low-spirited as I could stick even though Uma, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall lay at my feet doing an impersonation of an eel out of water in the hope, no doubt, of receiving a treat for the effort.

Empress Uma Maya 

"No, Poopsie, modern life is not much fun at all. Consider how Napoleon must have felt when Nelson sailed the British fleet into Cairo Bay and burned the French navy. Couldn't have been pleasant for him."

Sagi (Sagitarius) M'tesi

"It must have been much the same for Peter II when Catherine the soon to be Great, led the Russian army to the Winter Palace where he was in residence. No," I said, " modern life is just one damned thing after another, just as Shakespeare told us."

She gave me a quizzical look and I realized that she was about to interrupt my soliloquy with some drivel about Shakespeare but I wasn't done yet. I continued.

Beignet Lafayette

"But instead of searching for the silver lining of life's muddle-headedness, do you know what most people do? They get all hotted up and the pressure builds until they start leaking at the seams. You can find them grinding teeth and clenching fists and giving passersby a look that could open oysters at 20 paces. Only makes things worse, if you ask me."

I waited for her response, one that would make me feel that we commiserated if that's the word I'm looking for, but she didn't say anything, just gave me what passes with her as a compassionate look.

Lucy Lucille Lupe 

I remember thinking that brown eyes do a better job of portraying compassion than green eyes, but then it isn't her fault that she has the eyes of an elf, and besides, I knew what she meant. 

"Something really should be done before it's too late," I said.

"Done?" she said. "You mean something to change the general attitude of people you meet? Do you think that's possible?"

"Thank you for asking," I said. "I really would like to see people sweeten up a bit and I think I have the perfect antidote to whatever it is that poisons their outlook."

"Go on," she said.

"P.G. Wodehouse," I said. "It's imperative, the way I see it, that modern man, and woman too if she cares to join us, read Wodehouse to learn the importance of aunts, or rather, the importance of avoiding them."

Abbie (Abracadabra) Hoffman 

"But not cats," she said, always having her finger on the nub. "People must realize the importance of socializing with cats."

"Cats to be sure," I said. "Of what value would life be without cats? I mean, what's the point?"

We began to discuss the Wodehouse cannon and the relative importance of aunts and cats but somewhere along the way, and I'm not sure exactly where it occurred, I began talking about my own writing, and my hope that perhaps I could help supply some relief to pedestrians as they navigate life's potholes.

Eddy Spaghetti 

"I've paid my dues, the way many writers do, and I feel it's time I give back some of what I've learned," I said. "I shall stick to writing about what I know, which is normal life, or in the words of George Costanza, nothing at all, because that's what I know best. 

I'm as apolitical as an oyster but I'm not naive, at least I don't think so. I hope that I can follow in the great man's footsteps--I allude again to P.G.--and produce quality work in my latter years, just as he produced in his. Neither he nor I peaked early."

"I hope you consider offering spiritual guidance to your readers," she said.

"Not as such," I said. "My stories will be in the context of my own spiritual outlook but I will not be explicitly spiritual. I don't care to be preached at and I don't intend to engage in the practice. I have some knowledge of the Bible due simply to the age in which I grew up. We memorized and quoted Bible versus in primary school and I can nail down an allusion as quickly as Jael, the wife of Heber, who was always driving spikes into the coconuts of overnight guests.

"The plots I prefer are much the same as those of Shakespeare's comedies. The foibles of love and the antics of those trying to win or escape from love's embrace. There will be a scarcity of mothers and fathers, only because of my own upbringing, but a pile of aunts, uncles, and cousins, of which I had so many that laid end to end would stretch from here to the next presidential election."

"And cats," she said as Abbie Hoffman, who had just wandered into the room, and apparently decided that the number of felines in attendance exceeded the fire marshal's recommendations. He left the way he came.

"Absolutely cats," I said. "Cats add value to any subject and the absence of cats wounds even the best literature."

We both mused on this concept for several minutes, cats being a deep subject and a wide one too.

"I shall attempt to apply what I have learned from the master," I continued, "and use metaphor to the fullest extent. From bees fooling about in the flowers to the stars being God's daisy chain. I hope I can do it. I've certainly marinated myself in his works--not God's but Wodehouse's. I do hope so. These are truly troubling times we live in and we must battle the powers of darkness before we are undone."

"Excellent plan," she said. "I can't wait to see where this new path leads."

"Me too," I said and I meant it like the dickens!