It Was Raining Cats

You may remember that I woke a few days ago with a sharp attack of euphoria. In fact, I've never known a sharper one. This morning, however, was much different. The sharp attack that woke me involved scimitars and sabers. Actually, it was scimitar-curved claws and saber-sharp fangs. 

The source of the attack was the foster kitten, Eddy, who has been perfecting his stalking skills to match his killer instinct. He's been seen hanging in the corner with Abbie Hoffman, a bad influence if ever. No, not that A. Hoffman! I refer to the cat in formal dress known on the street as Abracadabra.

Eddy (L) and Lucy (R)

It was Eddy, you will remember, who once got me in the fleshy part of the toe, causing me to shoot six inches off the mattress. It's not an easy feat starting from the prone position. My convulsions shook him loose but left him giving me the eye with an expression on his map like that of a Baptist deacon rebuking sin.

"Poopsie," I said. No response.

"Ms. Wonder," I said louder.

"Whumpf?" came the muffled response from nearby.

"Will you please chorral your cat?" I said.

"What?" she said. It occurred to me that she wasn't demonstrating her commitment to our vows to stand by in thick and thin. Could it get any thicker?

"Eddy is what I mean. Will you get him off me!"

"I'm asleep," she said.

At that moment, I realized that Eddy's behavior had attracted the attention of his sister, Lucy, an accomplished little foot ninja in her own right. It could get thicker after all.

"Do you have a towel handy?"

Wonder stirred from the depths of the bedding, raised her head, and asked, "Why would I have a towel?"

"I remember the time you captured another foster kitten in that you-can't-do-that-here manner by using a towel in the way some Roman gladiators used a fishing net. Remember?"

"I don't have a towel," she said. "And it wasn't a fishing net."

And so there I was, Heir of the Ages, one of the highest expressions of life on earth, and I was being chivvied by one of the lessor. If you are a member of the Inner Circle, you will no doubt recognize this as another example of a tiger living like a goat. I mean where is the benefit of being human when you're constantly being harassed by kittens?

{rompt steps through the proper channels were called for, but it's never as easy as it sounds, is it? I remember something from my senior year in high school--a Shakespeare play I'm sure, that went something like this:

Between the first thought of doing something dreadful and the actual doing of it (some guff about the genius and mortal instruments came next and was followed by:), there is often a revolt in the kingdom or words to that effect. You may remember the exact quote.

Although I didn't remember the wording, I knew the feeling well. My genius, if I can call it that, knew what had to be done, but my arms were not happy about it. I just remembered another gag that may better explain my situation: The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. That's the baby.

I'd have preferred to go back to sleep. But after those early moments of hesitation, I took action. I threw the coverlets back to get out of bed but the unintended result was that it began to rain cats. It was a sight to see, let me tell you. 

The heavier elements, Beignet and Sagi, were only rolled inches from their sleeping spots. Lucy was hidden by the duvet. Eddy flew through the air like the daring young man on the trapeze. He came to earth--I should say to rest--at the far corner of the bed. I caught him as he turned to flee, and decanted him into the Saigon room for safekeeping.

"That cat should be bedded in the stables," I said to Ms Wonder. "You and I can care of ourselves but consider what might happen if Eddy discovered a housemaid napping. I don't like to dwell on the aftermath, do you?"

But Wonder wasn't in sight. I heard the bathroom door close and seconds later the sound of running water, similar to Looking Glass Falls filled the silence.

Uma Maya the brindled little Empress of Chatsford was surely in the sale de bains with Wonder. Eddy was safely confined to the Saigon room. Lucy was probably hiding underneath the bed. Beignet, the ginger and white ragamuffin, and Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, were at my feet looking up at me to ask, Breakfast time? 

Abbie was absent, but I expected he could be found in his usual spot atop the kitchen cabinets. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the tie that binds and the words of a close friend who often says, "The family we choose is the most pleasing."

Looking down at the two cats sitting at my feet I said, "Stand by to counsel and advise." I didn't need to say it, but I wanted to say it for reasons that words fail to describe--we were a tribe. Wonder, the cats, and I were the Chatsford Hall Tribe.

And the tribe has provided just what I needed, in the fullness of time.

The Crystal Coast Affair

After the thing was over and we were on our way safely back to Durham, I admitted to Ms Wonder that I had come that close to losing faith in my lucky star.

"It was a bit thick," she said and I realized that she was still not fully comfortable with what my biographers will probably call, The Crystal Coast Affair.

But hold on, you may not be in possession of the details. You're aware, I hope, that Ms Wonder and I spent a long weekend on the coast. Well, the first afternoon in our room on Atlantic Beach, I donned the knee-length footer bags and held two shirts in front of me, reflected in the mirror, first the one, then the other.

"Well, Wonder, you haven't told me what you think," I said.

"The blue one," she said.

I turned around to give her a sustained look and I meant it to sting. She knew I wasn't talking about shirts. During the walk through the sand dunes from the beach, I'd presented the facts concerning my Aunt Maggie's freshly laid bombshell. I did so hoping that she, Ms Wonder that is, would find the formula to prevent Hell's foundations cracking.

"I'm not talking about shirts, Wonder! It's bigger things--things of a life altering scale. Things like those dark storm clouds that have been stirred up by the latest goings-on."

The reference was to my aunt's recent disclosure of tigers living the lives of goats. You remember that episode. If not, then be aware that it apparently isn't good for tiger kittens to live like goats. Causes confusion and anxiety, and it really gives adult tigers a case of the hips!

"Not my problem," she said.

I groaned a hollow one and climbed into the shirt with difficulty, as though the limbs had been left overnight in the vegetable bin. Even though my guiding motto is "live life on life's terms," I wasn't ready to give up on Ms Wonder's practical magic.

"Poopsie."

"Still here."

"It could be that you don't have enough detail. I provided only the merest outline earlier, as we strolled through those remnants of Atlantis, and you were no doubt preoccupied with thoughts of sea oats or morning glory blossoms." 

Suddenly, as it sometimes happens, I was struck by a brilliant idea. "I know what," I said, "let's try the Hercule Peirot method of marshaling all the motives, opportunities and whatnot.

"Sure," she said.

"Number one," I began, "I've adopted the life style of Fierce Qigong and adopted it forcefully. Don't you agree?"

"Sure."

"And I've given up the food stuffs that promote the cortical steroids,  and fan the flames of inflammation. Not that I'm complaining about the food I eat. But now this! As if it isn't enough to ask a lover of baseball to give up hot dogs--now I'm faced with this tiger and goat scenario. Truly, Wonder, don't you see that I'm neck deep in the soup?"

"Disturbing," she said.

I stared at her. After all these years dealing with the inhabitants of that looney bin that I call the ancestral home in Deep River Village, did she not see the peril that loomed? Was it possible, I wondered, that this particular species of Lucille, was in fact, only the spectral body of Ms Wonder and not the real thing?

"Disturbing? You'd go that far would you?" I said.

She pushed out the lips, rolled the eyes toward the upper right hand corner, raised the eyebrows half an inch and shrugged. It wasn't a lot but I was prepared to take what I could get. My advisors tell me that when you have things going your way, it's best not to get greedy but let momentum build on its own. I waited to see what more she might say.

"That's an evening shirt," she said.

"Well, it is 4:00 in the afternoon," I pointed out, "and it will be evening when we get back to the room."

"But it's only 4:00 in the afternoon," she said, "and it will barely be evening when we get back."

I mused on this and had to admit she had a talking point. I shrugged off the shirt and slid into the blue one. Somehow the thoughts of having to change my life to measure up to duty, responsibility and whatnot began to fade in the background.

"Sometimes I wonder if shirts really matter, Poopsie."

"It's a temporary feeling," she said, "It will pass," she said.

"Don't they all," I said.

Turning Points

I don't know if you've had the same experience, but a thing I've found is that from time to time there occur moments that I recognize as turning points. The path takes a turn and something says that the winds have changed course forever. These moments come back at intervals. Just as I'm slipping sweetly into the dream world, they call to me as the sirens called to Ulysses, and they leave me flopping around in the sheets like a halibut in a dragnet.

One of these life-changing events took place in my teenage years when my best friend James Robert dared me to coast my bicycle down the Shady Grove road--a steep, S-curved, and a heavily banked strip of asphalt--from Clift's Grocery to the Baptist church, without braking the entire way. You will understand the extent to which I had gotten my self-confidence up my nose when I tell you that I took the first leg of the course, down to the first curve, riding with no hands.

It was a weekday morning and traffic was scarce to non-existent and so at the second curve, I moved to the deep inside so as to not be flung into the ditch by centrifugal force. This tight maneuver shot me into the final straightaway at maximum warp.

Now fully confident that the risks were behind me and that it was all peppermint from here to the finish line, I was standing on the pedals, flying through the wind. I wouldn't be surprised to remember that I was the living embodiment of personal mythology, the knight errant charging into the fray at Aix or Ghent or whatnot.

This is of course the point where drama enters the story, stage right. So keenly focused on the present moment was I that I completely missed the fact that since passing by Aunt Maggie's, I had been chivvied in the strong, earnest but silent manner of Pat's mixed-breed terrier, Snowball.

There I was inhaling the exhilaration of winning the dare, and there was the terrier, all whiskers and eyebrows, shagging hell-for-leather. Had there been an innocent bystander, the scene may have resembled one of those great moments in Greek tragedy, where the hero is stepping high, wide, and handsome, while Nemesis is aiming an arrow at his heel.

As everyone knows, when performing on a bicycle, concentration is of the essence. The mere suggestion of a terrier getting entangled in the wheels spells catastrophe and so it proved. It was as spectacular a stinker as I've been privileged to witness if privileged is the word I want.

One moment merry and bright. The next in the ditch, through the blackberry briers, with the bicycle resting on my back. The terrier stood on the shoulder of the road looking down at me with an expression of complete satisfaction.

As I picked my way through the brambles, the girl I had often admired but never found the courage to befriend, dismounted from her bicycle at the very spot where I had achieved escape velocity.

"What on Earth did you do that for?" she said, then remounted her bike and peddled away.

This Is That

At the end of last year, I decided to publish on Facebook my own little end-of-year wrap-up with a Top 20 Countdown of the most popular Circular Journey blog posts. I'm happy that I did because I realized something for the very first time: The top 3 posts have vastly higher readership numbers than the other 17.

It intrigued me not a little and I decided to get Ms. Wonder's opinion. She has a remarkable brain and I thought it would be good to hear her thoughts. When she came downstairs for breakfast, after her morning workout, I made her coffee, to sweeten her up a bit, and then popped the question.

"Good morning, Wonder. May I ask you something?"

"Sure," she said.

"I noticed something recently about the Circular Journey blog posts and I'd like to run it up your flagpole."

"First I think you should consider rephrasing that sentence before you use it on someone else."

"I'll take it under advisement," I said. "My question is about the three most popular blog posts on Circular Journey. I noticed recently that they have far higher numbers of readers than all the other posts and, since I'd like to increase the readership, I decided to look into what's so special about those three."

"Interesting," she said.

"Good," I said. "So what I've learned so far is that those three posts all include something about Cocker Spaniels."

"Cocker Spaniels?"

"That's right, and I'm wondering if I should include Cocker Spaniels in all my future posts."

"I think you need to look a little deeper," she said.

"Alright," I said. "How about this? The top two posts include, in addition to the dog, something about Napoleon and Catherine the Great."

"Are you serious?"

"Certainly," I said. "I'd never waste your time with frivolity if that's the word. You can read it for yourself. Just go to the front page of the blog and search for Right is Might. You'll soon see what I'm talking about." 

"I'd suggest putting a little more thought into the thing," she said. "In fact, I think you need to reconsider the content of your articles if you've written something about Kate, Nappy, and Cocker Spaniels in the same blog post."

"But you don't have all the pertinent facts. You see when I mention Napoleon, my French readership jumps and when I mention Catherine the Russian visitors increase significantly. I'm considering writing more about all three."

"Do it if it makes you happy but don't let your hopes soar too high; you may crash like Icarus."

"I'm afraid I haven't made his acquaintance. A business associate of yours?"

"Never mind," she said.

"If you have another minute, I'd like to ask you about something that I discovered recently. Are you aware that the number of fiction books on the shelves at Barnes and Noble differs markedly by the first letter of the last name? For example, more books are written by people whose name begins with an 'M' and the least number of books by people with a name beginning with a 'J'."

"So?"

"Well, I was thinking that maybe I should consider using a penname beginning with the letter 'M'."

"Do you have any aspirin?" she said.

I took that to mean that she had other things on her mind so I found the aspirin for her and decided to think of a subject for today's blog post. This is that.

Big Night for Surprises

At 2:00 AM this morning, I was awakened by the sound of someone in the hallway outside our hotel room in an altercation with a grandfather clock. 

Those who know me best describe me as a mild-mannered meditation instructor. One who responds mindfully rather than reacting emotionally. This weekend, however, there was another spirit in residence in the Genome frame. I am, for the time being, a recovering herniated-disker, rocket-fueled with vicodin and methocarbomol.

It occurred to me, in my chemically induced hyper-mania, that there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune or, if not fortune, then possibly sleep. I decided that I should get out of bed, get into some gentlemanly upholstery, and see if I could help settle the dispute.

When I found the combatants, the clock was clearly ahead on points and would possibly be named victorious by default. The perp, if you don't mind my calling him that, was leaning toward the door to his room, with his forehead on the door as though to keep his balance, while trying to scan his smartphone.

With each downward scan of his phone, his head moved away from the door a few inches and then returned with a thud, causing him to voice his objections with loud ejaculations of words he heard on Jersey Shore, probably. We Genomes are quick on the uptake and it was for me the work of a moment to assess the situation.

"Good morning," I said.

At the sound of my voice, he stopped scanning and stood back from the door staring at it as though expecting it to speak again. It didn't.

"Excuse me," I said, and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.

I quickly calmed him with a few well-chosen words and if I exaggerated a bit, what of it? My back was hurting and I needed sleep to knit up the raveled whatnot--you may possibly remember that it was 2:00 in the morning. Now, if my words led him to believe that I was there to assist him, what of it? 

"Keep your guard up," I said, demonstrating with my own hands, "and lead with the left striking just above the belt." He seemed to intuit just where a door would wear a belt. He whirled around and gave the door a passable left jab. It was an amazing thing to see. "Fierce gigong!" I cried, urging him on.

Just as the action was getting good, the door suddenly opened and a goggly-eyed young woman appeared and added a few choice words to our conversation. It was immediately clear that this room was the wrong room and its rightful occupant was surprised to find a stranger banging on her door. 

So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises. 

Surprises don't last, however, and in only a few short minutes, no more than 20 or 30, we got the whole thing disentangled, found our respective rooms, and, presumably, were able to knit up those raveled sleeves in a few winks. Napoleon would have been proud of the way I handled it. Don't you think so?