I Love Lucy!

I bobbed to the surface from the depths of a dream, having been roused by a sound like that of distant thunder. Clearing away the mists of tired nature's sweet restorer, I was able to trace this rumbling to its source. It was the current Cat of the Year, Beignet.

Lucy, The Princess of Sweetness and Light

The super-sized Beignet has never seen eye-to-eye with me on the subject of early rising. I like to sleep to the last possible moment and then leap out into the day, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. I'm told Napoleon did the same. But this long-haired, ginger and white is absolutely up and about with the larks every morning.

Having bounded onto the bed, he licked me in the right eye, then curled up and settled in with his head on my arm.

"Isn't that sweet?" said the Wonder who had shimmered into the room. I could not fully subscribe to this point of view. What is sweet about getting out of bed before God wakes, only to go back to sleep again? Silly, it struck me as.

I extricated myself from the cat and brought myself to a fully upright position, the better to slosh a half-cup of tissue restorer into the abyss. It was only then that I realized Ms Wonder was knee-deep in boxes, looking like a sea goddess walking on the rocky shore.

"Unpacking?" I asked.

"Getting the Halloween stuff out. I thought it might help to keep busy today," she said. "Takes my mind off things I don't want on my mind."

I understood her meaning to the core. 

"Then unpack 'till your ribs squeak," I said, "and let me help."

It seems nothing brings more healing balm like anticipation of the holidays and our hearts were sore in need of healing. Lucy, the recently rescued little princess of sweetness and light has been adopted by another and is even now getting used to her new surroundings. 

It's an excellent situation for her, of course, being the absolute center of attention and becoming a member of a permanent family. Still, it leaves a void in our hearts. It seems that when Lucy left, the sunshine and bluebirds followed her.

We love you, Lucy, and we miss you terribly and if history is any indication, we always will.  I will always remember being wakened by your tiny, cold, wet nose.

Be happy, be healthy, be safe my little girl.

Abracadabra, Alakazam!

This morning I woke with the feeling that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest surrounded by a chorus singing of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes, and all the fixings. I can honestly say that I was feeling boompsie-daisy. 

"Wonder," I said on my way to the sal de bains, "I'm feeling boompsie-daisy."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she didn't surprise me this morning. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.

She continued to pluck her brows while she expressed her opinion but, I'm happy to say, that her expressed opinion was good. 

Yes, the morning began with a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts that filled my head only a few minutes prior were now "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as I've heard Wonder describe it.

Up one minute, down the next, that's the Genome known by most of the Villagers. It's a chemical thing with a lot of technical jargon and a lot of guff about the amygdala, the little organ in the brain that's the center of the limbic system and the source of emotion. 

The species of amygdala that sits behind the control panel of my emotions is a very stubborn little organ and most insistent on getting her way. She reminds me of a spoiled little princess who relies on temper tantrums to make her the center of attention. I call her, Princess Amy.

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about everything being part of the Great Web? He understood that everything in life was interconnected. Wrote books about it I believe. No matter, it will come to me later.

My point is that I see my depression as being part of that Great Web. In my case, the web is one of Serotonin reuptake inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius! Yes, that's the perp I was thinking of! 

I knew his name would come to me. That Great Web in my brain is like a personal Internet of ganglia and synapses. Names can be hard to find unless I have the appropriate keywords in the search string.  

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I am the chosen one, the hero of my personal life story. I have that on the authority of Joseph Campbell and he should know. And according to C.S. Lewis, all heroes have magic swords. My own magic sword is my fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me out of the soup this morning.

Having clad the outer crust in the upholstery of the casually employed, I bunged myself into Wind Horse and gave her rein on the open road. But most importantly, I held fiercely to the intention that the open road and whatnot would return the bluebird to her rightful position.

As soon as I set out, I tuned the radio to "60's Gold" where Louis Armstrong sang "What a Wonderful World," which was followed immediately by The Loving Spoonful singing, "It's a Beautiful Morning." 

Alakazam! (The Arabic magical word, not the Pokemon character.) Alakazam is a sort of versatile magical command, along the lines of abracadabra. Regular fans of The Circular Journey will remember our tuxedoed magical feline who was called Abbie Hoffman. His real name, of course, was Abracadabra. But then you knew that already.

But I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the story. Alakazam! The effect was immediate. The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions forever, but I don't have to let them steal my song. With sweet memories of the loves of my life, one of them being Abbie Hoffman, I can rise above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. 

Sweet memories make sweet dreams. And so I say, Abracadabra, Alakazam! Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!

A Story I Can Believe In

Today was the yearly checkup for Uma Maya, Queen of Cats, Empress of Chadsford, and, as per the rule book, she is perfect. When she lounges peacefully in an upper-story window, gazing out upon the lawns and gardens of Chatsford Hall, there flickers in the air around her a shimmering image of the Hermitage with Uma reclining on a velvet cushion in a gilded Louis XIV chair. The vet crew at Cat Hospital of Durham are in awe of Her Majesty, as are we all.

Given that this feline has her paw on the thermostat of my happiness, you would expect the Genome to be proclaiming his standard, 'It's a beautiful day!' But no, it was not in the works. There was a somber and low-spirited mood in evidence. And I'll tell you why. It wasn't the gray sky and threatening inclemency. No, the reason for the leaden heart is the recent arrival at Native Grounds of one who gets the Lord Sidcup treatment, but one that I shall call Spode.

I don't have to tell you how important to my mental health are these morning assignations at the den of caffeine. But one sowing discord has recently joined our little klatch. You probably know someone whose presence causes you to fiddle with the keys in your pocket, do a little dance from one foot to the other and generally behave like a turkey caught in the rain. Well, in the case of this slab of gorgonzola, that's just the beginning.

This guy dominates the conversation, telling stories that make everyone uncomfortable and then offering an unspoken eye-to-eye challenge in his theatrical pauses daring you to disagree.

I want to ask him to leave, explaining that he is taking up space that's better used for other purposes. But I don't. Instead, I shush the proud spirit of the Genomes, the one I encouraged yesterday to stand up and speak out, declaring to the world that it is worthy and good enough to deal with whatever comes. You're probably thinking, 'So why don't you tell him to buzz off?'

The reason I hold my tongue even though the urge to beat his brains out with a brick descends upon me like Papa Legba riding a Voo-Doo devotee is that I don't know him well enough. You see, there is always a lot more to the story than what we know. I don't want to take away from someone the very thing they need to cope. Perhaps this man needs a group to hang with. Perhaps he's vulnerable and the challenging looks are his way of determining whether or not we will accept him. 

You see, at the foundation level, he is simply telling his story. We all do it. We all have stories. You're reading mine now. Stories aren't the drivel we spout at the coffee shop as we hobnob with friends. Stories are the lives we think we are living. If the story supports us and helps us to get through the day, that's a good thing. 

The reason I didn't speak out is that I don't know the man well enough to know that it's necessary. I could take something away that is propping him up until he can get real help. Still, knowing the right thing to do isn't the same as knowing what I want to do. And as I noted in a past installment, knowing what you want is vital. Now, I love the assembly at Native Grounds but I cannot sit and smile like an idiot while someone is spouting bilge that conflicts with my version of what's right.

I have made a decision and having made that decision, I shall ignore any and all evidence that doesn't fit with my plan. Here is the plan, as I see it. I am booking passage on the first freighter to the interior of the Amazon where I will live with the Tupi Indians as one of their own. That is my first choice. If that requires more time than I have available, then I will find another local caffeinery and begin building a new tribe. That is the plan for now and as always, the plan is flexible and may change.

The Buddha pointed out that all things are impermanent and I certainly don't want to seem in conflict with the man. After all, I have taken the oath to uphold the Sangha, or is it abandon myself to the Sangha, I forget which. I'll check with Ms. Wonder. The point I'm trying to get at is that no matter how I resolve this little crisis, there is one thing you can bet the mortgage on. I will not give up. The Genome does not eat pine needles.

More Joy in the Morning

His response lacked any real enthusiasm and this got right by me. Why? That's the question I asked myself. Consider the circs I mean. 

Going about his business on what was presumably a typical day for a rock troll--he's a personal injury lawyer in Uberwald--and then Biff! without warning, he finds himself sitting here in my studio. 

You would think, wouldn't you, that he would rally round and support the team in doing something about it?

"Life comes hard and fast," I suggested in an attempt to make him appreciate the importance of our work--Abbie's and mine.

"And sometimes it takes us by surprise," he said.

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"Sir?" he said and I remembered that English isn't his native tongue and he's not fully equipped with all the gags and wheezes in the language.

"I was just about to say that," I said.

"My concern," he said, "is that fighting the negative forces seems ill-advised. It's well known that struggling against magic, we become more entangled."

"Ah," I said, "having found a talking point. "We do not struggle. We do not fight."

"We?" he said.

"Abbie and I," I said.

Abbie sat up to receive the recognition.

"Yes," he said in a soupy sort of voice, "the cat."

Abbie squeaked and directed one cold eye in his direction. This cat is a weapon when annoyed and channels the ancient Irish hero, Chuhulain, when in fighting mode. When one eye becomes larger than the other and steam escapes from the seams, the wise observer gets into the lead-lined jacket.

"We don't oppose the Witch of Woodcroft," I explained. "She's full of good works. She pulls the elements of decay from our environment and uses them as compost to feed a garden of wholesome and healthy delights. It's all on her website.

"I don't consider it delightful to be pulled away from very important business with the court," he said.

"Yes, I fully understand," I said. "The dross of her distillation, if it is dross, accumulates to critical mass. Then a loud report is heard and something that would rather not, pops in or pops out of one world and into another.  Like you. It's all very disturbing."

"You'd go so far as that would you--disturbing? Well, what can you possibly do about it?"

"That's where our plan comes into play," I said and Abbie Hoffman, who seemed to have calmed somewhat, stopped washing a paw and gave Feldspar another warning look to make it clear that he would harbor no backtalk about cats.

 "We will intercept the dross as it accumulates and replace the negative charge with a positive one--an effect greatly to be preferred because it will be healthful and enjoyable."

"How do you intercept the accumulation of dross?" he said.

"Ah, there you have me. It's something that Abbie Hoffman does but it's a trade secret and known only to him. But intercept it he does and then we use the raw material of it, he and I, to build a humorous story and then have a laugh. You can't be hurt by something that makes you smile."

"That sounds like Fierce Living," he said. "It's the solution you write about for managing runaway emotions. You're writing a book, aren't you? Is it finished?"

"Almost," I said. "Thank you for asking and yes, I am talking about Fierce Living. It works on everything. It's unbounded; it's wild and free; it's as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea. Why don't you join us, Feldspar? It will be like old times. We will make a team of three and nothing can stop us."

"Well," he said, and then looking at Abbie he added, "I don't know."

Abbie sat bolt upright at this, leveled a gaze at the troll and began washing the right paw with the intention, no doubt, of being prepared to deliver another single whip or possibly a repulse-the-monkey or a white-crane-spreads-her-wings. I'm sure you would know better than I.

Then suddenly Abbie Hoffman jumped down from the desk and approached Feldspar. I wondered if he was advancing to attack but then realized he was sniffing the chair. It was at this very moment that I noticed a distinctive odor.

"What is that smell?" I said.

"When the curtain between the worlds was rent," began Feldspar, "I was meeting with a gaggle of goblins and I fear that one of them fell through with me and I inadvertently sat on him."

"A goblin is beneath you?" I said leaning forward to get a better look.

"I'm afraid it's true," he said.

"Shouldn't you let him up?"

"On no account will I be responsible for releasing a goblin into your world. Remember the Middle Ages, sir."

"Right," I said. "So when you pop back home, he will pop back with you, is that it?"

"We can only hope, sir."

"I'm never going to get the smell out of that chair."

"I suggest burning it," he said.

Lucy Lucille Lupe

Chadsford Hall lay drowsing in the sunshine. Heat mist shimmered above the smooth lawns and the timbered terraces. The air was heavy with the lulling drone of insects. It was the most gracious hour of a summer afternoon, midway between lunch and tea when Nature kicks her shoes off and puts her feet up.

I was enjoying the shade of the cypress grove, near the rhododendrons, opposite the camelia glade. While sipping the contents of a tall, tinkly glass, and reviewing the latest acting-up of the social quality in the pages of The Independent, I was startled to hear a voice coming from a rhododendron that had until now remained speechless.

"Whatcha doin'?"

As soon as I regained my composure, if any, and restored calm to the mind, if it is a mind, I gave the offending shrub a stern look of censure. Wouldn't you? I saw that the bush was giving me the same. Not the bush in fact but something peering from it. It might have been a wood nymph for I couldn't see it clearly, but I thought not. As it happened, I was right.

"Sorry, sir," said the year-old Siamese kitten, the one I've named Lucy Lucille Lupe because Old Possum says that cats require three names. Ms Wonder tells me that Mr Possum had something entirely different in mind but So what is my comeback to that. I reserve the right to take the road less traveled sometimes. Napoleon, I believe, did the same.

 "Didn't mean to startle you," said L. L. Lupe.

"Not at all," I said having immediately forgotten the annoyance I felt at being shaken from a pleasant semi-slumber of the afternoon because this Lucy Louise fosters a warm, soft spot in the center of my chest near the heart. "It's good to see you again."

She did a little dance, her front paws moving two steps to the left and then two steps back to the right while the rear feet moved to a different rhythm entirely. I know this particular dance well, and I interpret it to mean, I like you because you give me good things to eat but, oooh! you've got big feet and I'm so small. I'm not fluent in the language of dance, of course, I offer only the gist of meaning.

"Got something to eat?" she seemed to say.

"It's not dinner time," I said.

"What's that?" she said adding a new step to the dance.

"I'm stroking your back," I explained.

"Don't touch me please," she seemed to say.

"OK, if you don't like it," I said and I stopped immediately. Protocol is very important to cats because there was a time when they were worshiped as gods and they haven't forgotten it.

"If not today, then maybe tomorrow," I said.

"Don't think about tomorrow," she said.

"Yes, I read about that somewhere. I don't mean to say it was about cats only. If memory serves, birds and lilies were mentioned too."

"Birds! Love birds!," she said turning round and round hoping to see them, I'm sure. "Where are they? By the bird bath?"

"I don't see any bathing just now," I said, "but don't distract me, I'm trying to remember something I heard when I was just so high. Probably not much bigger than you."

"Me? You were never my size," she said.

"Where was I?" I said.

"Birds!" she said.

"Right, birds. The passage I'm trying to remember went something like this, Behold the birds, for they sow not, neither do they reap, something, something, something--and then, pay close attention because the big payoff is coming up--take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for itself. I'm paraphrasing of course."

"That's me," she said.

"I thought as much," I said and I was being sincere about it. These cats have never completely given up their wildness and it's my position that their popularity has something to do with a human being's desire to fondle a tiger.

She stretched her front legs out and bent the body into the stretch. Her butt was high in the air, as high as it goes rather, and her tail pointed skyward. She was lovely. She was beautiful. She was so delightful that nothing else was required of her to be perfect in my esteem.

"Think I'll take a nap," she said and sauntered off toward the rhododendron.

It seemed a good idea and I decided to do the same. Perhaps I would dream of a perfect world, where no cat suffers from human malice, for as Robert Heinlein put it, "How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven." 

I like that. I keep it in mind always. I suggest you do the same.

Sing In The Sunshine

We'll Sing In The Sunshine

A song written and recorded by Gale Garnett in 1964.

In the song, a woman tells the person who loves her that they will be together for a time but then she will go away. She promises him that he will always treasure their time together.

We first met Uma at a pet adoption fair promoted by Best Friends, the adoption agency. Her name then was Reeces, because her fur was dappled and spotted, and brought to mind the popular candy known as Reeces Pieces.

Only a few months old, it was clearly evident that she wasn't very sociable. In an open crate with three other kittens, perhaps her siblings, she was alone in one corner as far away from the others as possible. 

My heart went out to her when I recognized that solitary nature. You see, I too am a lot like her. I prefer my own company to that of others although I've learned to pretend well enough to fool most people. 

I knew right away that she was going to come live with me and that I was going to give her the best life possible.

About a week later, with all the paperwork and veterinary exams complete, the Best Friends reps brought Uma to our home. 

I'll never forget the sight when her carrier was placed on the floor across the room from Ms. Wonder and me. The rep opened the door of the carrier and Uma came dancing out and crossed the room to introduce herself.

When I say that she danced across the floor, I mean that she seemed to be floating inches above the carpet and moving to music that only she could hear. She never stopped dancing to that music for the next 19 years.

She stole my heart in that moment. Forever more when I spoke of her, I told people that she was my heart.

Not long after coming to live with us, she stopped eating. I was inconsolable. Her veterinarian, Dr. Barbara, told me to leave her in the cat hospital for the rest of the day so that she could work with her.

For the remainder of that day, I thought of nothing else but Uma. I stayed in a bookstore across the street from Durham Cat Hospital, so that I could get to her within minutes.

I'm not a religious person, but when someone you love is in trouble, you do everything you can to help. That includes praying. And I prayed. I didn't know who or what the prayers should be directed to, so I just prayed to the sky. Continuously.

Toward the end of the day, Dr. Barbara called me and told me that Uma was eating and that the exam and lab work were normal. I felt a gratitude so deep that I doubt I've ever felt a deeper. 

When we were back home, I never left her presence for the next few days. But during that time, Uma told me that for the remainder of our time together,

We'll sing in the sunshine

And we'll laugh every day.

We'll sing in the sunshine

But then I'll be on my way.

And she was right. She was the delight of our lives for almost nineteen years. In truth, she wasn't the most loving of our five cats. She wasn't the sweetest. She wasn't the least trouble. But even though she never weighed more than ten pounds, she took up most of the space in our hearts.

During those years, she told us that,

I'll sing to you each morning.

I'll kiss you every night.

But don't cling to me

Because too soon I'll be out of sight.

We said our final goodbyes a few weeks ago, but I can't seem to let her go. And just as she made clear so many years ago when she was only a kitten,

When our time together is ended

And I have gone away

You'll think of me every day, and you'll say,

We sang in the sunshine.

We laughed every day.

We sang in the sunshine

And then you went away.

Thank you, Uma Maya, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall. I hope that when it's my time to go away, you will be the first to greet me on the Rainbow Bridge. Until that time,

I promise to sing in the sunshine

And remember you fondly every day.

Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Wellness and he's almost 7 now.

But it wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning. It was fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining to be exact. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000-year-old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of no-see-ums. She has a particular dislike for those. I'm not sure why.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "Just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"A painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and that work is surrounded by mystery. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. It wasn't one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just pause here to say how happy it made me to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I was impressed that I'd come up with this insightful nugget. It doesn't happen often and on those rare occasions, I like to appreciate the experience fully. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--and by lover I mean the citizens of her country--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by that mysterious letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her reply. Again, there was only silence. But she had a look on her map that caused me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes. I began to feel like one of those orators who incite mobs to action. Not one like Trump but rather one like Thomas Payne.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of people in Ukraine or Palestine. Like the way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"Many people are struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said. 

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized from the whisper that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.

Uma's Wet Kiss

A wet kiss woke me from sleep this morning. No, it wasn't the Wonder in my life. That one had been up since dawn making the world safe for executive meetings. No, not her. The wet kisser was Uma, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall. 

I knew it was her right away because, despite her royal titles, her kissing behavior isn't continental--one cheek suffices for her greetings.

As soon as my eyes were open, she left the bed and danced out into the hallway. She slowed only at the bottom of the staircase where she called for me to join her.

When I arrived, she was in mid-squat, the better to sit in my hand and ascend the stairs to her window seat in Wonder's office. 

I apologize to members of the Inner Circle for stopping the narrative here for a bit of station identification. But I feel the newcomers may benefit from a little background.

You see, Uma has season tickets for the box seat overlooking the beginning of another day in Lanvale Forest. She likes to be settled in before the curtain goes up on sunrise, the better to witness the arrival of the big yellow school bus.

Ms. Wonder and I feel we owe her our support in these morning rituals because it's she who taught us that all cats are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Now that's done, let's return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Once Uma was comfortable and ready for the first act in the daily drama, I rushed across town for my weekly mood tuneup. Nothing major, just a change of attitude and the usual 21-point assessment. I was bucked this morning because I had good news to report.

"I'm journaling," I announced to Beach. If you haven't been introduced, Beach is my therapist. I probably should have put that in footnotes but we're not big on procedure here.

"How's that going?" she asked.

"It's good," I said. "I don't know how to quantify the benefits but I'm enjoying it and I think enjoying it is important."

"Of course," she said. "Journaling is an example of an expressive coping method, which is a technique that helps a person overcome negative thoughts, feelings, or experiences by releasing them. When you write about them, they can have less power over you."

"Ahh," I said, and then because I wanted to tell her a story that involved me as the main star, I said, "I've also been socializing more."

"Journaling can help you cope with anxious thoughts," she said, "by putting your thoughts into words and then putting them aside rather than letting them become an obsession."

"Right," I said. "I had an interesting experience in a coffee shop on my way here this morning."

"Emotional writing," she went on, "significantly decreases symptoms of depression too. People seem to get greater benefits when they focus on deep feelings and thoughts rather than simply recording daily experiences like a traditional diary."

"Are you writing this down for me," I asked.

"Did you say that you've been socializing more?" she said. "Are you attending more meetings?"

"Oh, no, nothing that drastic," I said. "But let me tell you about my visit to Native Grounds this morning."

"Do," she said, "I'll bet you hold me breathless with the story."

"This morning I was helped by a young barista and after the initial pourparlers, she said, "I really like your shirt."

Well, we all enjoy a good compliment, of course, and I thanked her and said that the shirt was a favorite."

"You always wear the coolest shirts," she said surprising me not a little. 

"Oh," I said, "you've made my day."

"Seeing you in your cool shirts makes my day," she said.

"I was non-plussed. I didn't expect such an encounter with someone taking my drink order. And it didn't stop there. When my bagel popped from the toaster, she brought it over to me."

"I see why you're in a good mood," said Beach, "What a wonderful way to start the day."

"Yes it was," I said. "That one act of kindness made me understand for the first time ever, why God decided against the total holocaust of Sodom or Gomorrah or both or whatever, all for the sake of one person--that one being Lot. It's more evidence that one person really can make all the difference."

"Hmmm," said Beach.

"Although I still think it a terrible prank," I said, "to turn Lot's wife into a pillar of salt just because she looked back at the home she was leaving. I mean, don't we all look when someone says, Don't look now but...?"

"I'm afraid that our time is up," Beach said.

"Don't forget the notes," I said. "I'll want to review in case there's a pop quiz."

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.

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.

More Banging Less Grousing

"When I was a kid, we used to wait until dark and then build a big bonfire in Mr. Davis's front yard," I said to Ms. Wonder as she traipsed around the kitchen working up some new culinary delight.

"In the front yard?" she said with a touch of incredulity.

"We had big front yards in Shady Grove," I said. "The band was always located on the front porch, 'making music,' as the saying had it, and we didn't want the fire too near the band so we put it far out in the front yard, close to the road."

"Why build a bonfire at all?"

"Ah, it's one of those holdovers from the early days when my ancestors came over from Wales and were isolated in Appalachia. I didn't know that when I was a kid, but I didn't need to know. It was simply fun to have a bonfire in the night and that was reason enough. Much later, I learned that we were following a remnant of the old Celtic customs of our ancestors."

She glanced at me and I saw a sort of whatsit expression on her face. An expression that could easily have been followed by her excusing herself to attend to something she'd forgotten. I see that expression often when I begin one of the stories my childhood.

"You see, in Northern Europe, the Celts would build bonfires on the hilltops to help warm up the earth and add a little more light to the night. Moral support for the sun, I think it was. They would then beat drums to raise a ruckus and frighten the Spirit of Winter away. 

That was the whole point of May Day Eve--to push Winter back and encourage the new sun king to roll up his sleeves, spit on his hands, and get down to the business of summer."

"That's interesting," she said but her tone wasn't convincing.

"Well, the reason I bring it up..."

"Why do you bring it up?"

"Because I'm sick of winter and I'm sick of this virus thing. I don't like it. I know that members of our audience who operate from a base in New England or from the steppes of Russia are probably rolling their eyes right now at the thought of winter in North Carolina, but I'm sure we're all aligned in our disapproval of the virus. I think Providence has jumped the rails again, Poopsie. This is certainly not the stuff to give the troops if you want my opinion."

"Which troops," she said.

"Don't worry about which troops," I said. "We've had some warm days recently and I've seen the bluebird around the neighborhood and I do hope that she sets up shop on the corner and gets down to business soon. Bringing a little sweetness and light to the situation I mean. So I've decided to do my little part and start banging away and push this virus thing away with the winter."

"Banging?"

"That's right, I've built a bonfire in my heart and I'm going to start banging on anything that I can bang, which at present is Happy Cats Wellness, that online fount of information to keep cats and their caretakers healthy and happy."

"What do you plan to do with Happy Cats?" she said with a lot more enthusiasm than I'd noticed earlier in the conversation. "I thought you'd given it up, shut down the website, and closed the door."

"That's true," I said. "But Uma Maya has inspired me to crank it back up. I plan to stir up the Happy Cats website and launch a full-frontal social media attack."

"A little more of the Beltane analogy and a little less of the militarism," she said.

"Sorry, it's that old Napoleon line that runs through my soul," I said.

"Right," she said.

And so there you are dear reader. You've been apprised of the entire affair. You should now consider yourself banged to the fullest and you should feel much better for it. I'll keep you updated as the story progresses.