Love Potion Number Mouse

If you're one of the inner circle, you know all about Eddy, the two-year-old, black American shorthair, and his frequent bladder inflammation. Well, I want you to be the first to know that I've found the cause and the solution to his problems. I also want to pass along an idea that will enhance the fortunes of someone who can spot a sure thing when it comes along. That someone is you.

One recent morning I found Ms. Wonder in the salle de bains preparing for the office. When she saw me, she gave me a familiar look with those emerald eyes that turn the knees to jelly. It's the look that hooked me so many years ago.

"How did you sleep," she said.

"Sleep?" I said, "How can I sleep with Eddy suffering? I made a promise to that little guy when I found him in the construction zone. I promised him that I would take very good care of him and that he would be happy with us. Do you remember?"

"I remember," she said kneading my shoulder, "but you're doing all you can."

"No," I said, "I'm not. I can learn everything there is to know about this inflammation thing he has."

"Ideopathic chronic cistitis," she said. "Ideopathic means the cause is unknown. If the veterinary schools haven't found a cure, how do you hope to?"

"You forget," I said, "you're talking to the Genome. I do not eat pine needles. Watch me. I'll find the solution. I can't forget the vet telling me that if the urologist at North Carolina State has nothing to offer, then at least they will do the autopsy for free when we decide to say goodbye to him. And Wonder...."

"Yes."

"I don't plan to say goodbye for a good while yet."

"Well, on the subject of eating pine needles, I have a starting place for you--" she said, "kibble. I've read that it's associated with a lot of feline health issues from diabetes to urinary issues to allergic reactions."

"Kibble? I don't understand you. Isn't kibble just dry food?"

"That's right," she said. "I read that all dry food is nothing more than junk food for cats. Cat's wouldn't even consider it food if the manufacturers didn't coat the stuff with something to make the cats want to eat it."

"Crack for cats!" I said, "Thanks, Wonder, that's a good place to start. Cut out all dry food. But I thought pet food had to measure up to some government standard."

"Yeah, right," she said, "Just check it out."

I did check it out. I learned that the information provided by quality veterinary schools like Cornell (No. 1) and North Carolina State (No. 3) had to be rightly divided or taken with a grain of salt if you prefer because veterinary science is funded by the pet food companies and the science is not the best. 

If you want specifics, look it up. The vets I find most helpful are Dr. Karen Becker and  Dr. Elizabeth Hodgkins. They both suggest that healthful cat food consists of high protein meat sources (not meat byproducts); high fat content (cats require enough fat in their diet to give a human a coronary); very low carbohydrates; no grains or starches; and high moisture content. This is the suggested diet for all cats.

If you have a special needs cat--one with urinary issues or allergies--then you should go a step further and choose a food that uses "novel" protein sources. When first reading this, I was surprised to learn that novels have any redeeming value. I always stick to non-fiction. 

Then I discovered that a novel protein source is one that has very little incidence of allergic reactions. Those novel sources include venison, lamb, and rabbit. There are others, but I chose these three. I still stand by my recommendation to read non-fiction and for heaven's sake stay away from self-help books--I can take some drivel but not pure drivel.

After just a few days on venison and rabbit sourced in the United States and New Zealand, Eddy was showing signs of better health than he had shown in his entire life. It has been about four weeks now and he has been reborn. Hard to imagine that he is the same cat that, about six weeks ago, our vet was talking about quality-of-life and autopsies.

All our cats are now on the new diet and I am very happy with the outcome but I am never satisfied and recently I've been musing on a brain splinter that I picked up from those websites concerning raw food. It seems that the experts on cat nutrition all agree that raw food is the most healthful. But it takes a lot of work and quite candidly, my cat duties take up enough time, especially during the morning feeding.

However, I have had one of those manic inspirations that the Genome is known for, and I think it's the perfect solution for the most healthful cat food. I spoke to Wonder about it just this morning.

"Wonder!" I said. "I've got the perfect solution to feeding our cats the most healthful food without the hassle."

"You mean the raw food diet?" she said.

"None other," I said. "I'm surprised that someone else hasn't thought of it before me. Wonder, can you patent an idea?"

"No."

"Too bad." I said. "This one is a piperino."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," she said, "but before you tell me, let me say that I'm not going to feed raw food to my cats."

"You'll feed this food, I'll bet, when you hear how simple it is. Laboratory mice."

"I'm sorry," she said, "if I didn't know better, I'd swear you said laboratory rats."

"Mice, Wonder, mice. There's a big difference. Mice and rats hold different political views altogether."

"I know what you're thinking." she said, "The mice will be the perfect portion size and the cats will have the 'whole bone' diet or whatever, but you do realize, don't you, that you have to keep lab mice frozen, then thaw them in time for feeding? I'm sorry but I'm not going to have those things in my refrigerator."

"You have the wrong idea," I said. "No refrigeration. When the dinner gong goes, my job is to release five mice and the cats do the rest. Perfectly natural food source and no leftovers or washing bowls. Didn't I tell you it was ringer?"

"Feed live mice to our cats?"

"Nicely put. In a nutshell," I said.

She gave me a different look. One that I get more often than the soft gaze. It's the one where the eyebrows slam together above the nose and the upper lip is tucked into the lower and if I'm not mistaken there is a bit of chewing.

"I'm guessing you prefer to leave well-enough alone." I said.

What she was thinking she didn't say but it was enough. So there you are. You have my permission to use the mouse idea in a commercial venture--perhaps a book or a blog site--and I shall follow your future success with great interest.

Qigong Ukelele

This morning even before the sun got up (that slacker) I was qigong-ing like the dickens, doing the crane and I don't mean to boast, playing the ukulele. I know!

You are, of course, aware of what the Zen Buddhists say about chopping wood--that you should just whack the stuff and don't make a Broadway production of it. Just pay attention to the chopping.

According to these Zen practitioners, we should never under any circumstances play the ukulele while performing qigong. And yet, there I was underneath a spreading magnolia, bending and swaying and strumming. You're anxious to hear all about it, I'm sure, but like so many of my stories, it's a long one and for God's sake I don't intend to go into it all now. Just the gist, if that's the word.

Arriving at Native Grounds in the bright and fair of yester-morn, I found the room full of the usual corpses staring into space and presumably waiting for something to stir them to life. Little hope, of course, because nothing ever happens in the morning. Every Durhamite knows that if you want something diverting and invigorating, you've got to have the magic hour that follows the purples and amethysts and golds of the evening sky. 

I eyed this rabble with disapproval, resenting the universal calm that enveloped the horde at a time when, thanks to that little almond-eyed Princess Amy, I felt like one of those heroes in a Greek tragedy pursued by the Furies.

Ankling toward the bar, I noticed the headlines on the Observer lamenting the latest abomination of the North Carolina legislature and I felt Princess Amy hotting up in the darkest recesses of my mind. She was getting rowdy. I hurried toward the bar hoping that a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy would restore my sangfroid. It was not to be.

"Where have you been?" said Amy Normal, part-time barista and Backup Mistress of the Greater South Durham Night, for it was she filling the space behind the Order Here sign. "I haven't seen you in days."

"Oh?" I said. The comeback, I am fully aware, was lacking the usual Genome flair but don't forget those Furies who, even now, were creeping ever closer like a gang of Aunts.

"It's no good saying, 'Oh' with that tone of voice as though you don't give a damn," she said. "Consider the stars." She embellished the last remark by lifting a hand upward, as though we could see stars from inside the coffee shop.

"The stars?" I said, ratcheting up the Genome spirit in an attempt to get the emotional feet back on solid ground. "Is that a reference to, Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold? Because if it is, I want no part of it."

"I do not mean whatever it was you said, and what the hell are patens anyway? Shakespeare?"

"You have me in deep waters there," I admitted, "I'll ask Ms. Wonder when I see her this evening and report back tomorrow morning." I hoped this diversionary tactic would steer us safely away from Shakespeare. This A. Normal is a quirky bird and loves to get knee-deep into the Bard.

"Oh no," she said, "you don't get out of it that easy. I know where you've been."

"Oh?" I said.

"Stop saying Oh! What's happened to you anyway? You had so much promise in your youth and I wanted nothing more than your happiness. But what a waste you've turned out to be. You come in here giving me orders and expecting me to do just as you ask and then when the slightest temptation comes along, you cheat on our relationship and have coffee at some cheap, tawdry hole in the wall."

"Do we have a relationship?" I said.

"That's the question I ask myself," she said. "Looking up at the stars, I know quite well that, for all they care, I can go to hell, but on earth, indifference is the least we have to fear from man or beast. Auden."

Once more with the star motif and, to be honest, I had no clue as to why she called me Auden. Someone you may know, possibly, but I've never had the pleasure, I'm afraid. I began to worry for her sanity if any.

Fortunately for you and probably just as well for me, the rest of our conversation is a blur but when I regained consciousness, I was sitting at a table with the remnants of the Secret Nine. 

Sister Mary was saying something about a ukulele. When she placed the period at the end of the sentence, she gazed slowly around the table and each person, in turn, made some sort of reply to her statement. I searched the database for something meaningful but when her eyes came to rest on mine, I had only one thought.

"You don't mean a ukulele," I said hoping against hope because deep in my heart I knew I'd heard correctly. Still, it doesn't hurt to try.

"I do too," she said. "I loved that ukulele. Took it with me when I ran away from home at the age of five."

"Might it have been a cocker spaniel?" I said. "I loved a cocker spaniel when I was a kid and once took him with me when I ran away from home."

"No, I do not mean a cocker spaniel," she said. "Were you successful in running away? My parents found me on the neighbor's stoop by following the sound of my strumming."

"As I recall," I said, "my mother intervened when she found me packing a honey-cured ham for the trip."

"Too bad," she said. "Well, better luck next time. Anyway, Island Irv was just telling us about a ukulele video he saw on Youtube and his story reminded me of the Hawaiian music I heard in a hotel in St. Petersburg."

"IZ?" I said.

"Is what?" said Mary.

"No, I mean Israel," I said. I was about to add, 'Israel Kamakawiwo'ole,' but Mary interrupted again.

"Not Israel," said Mary, "Russia--we were in St. Petersburg."

"But why Hawaiian music in Russia?" I said.

"Why not?" said Mary, who is one of the more accepting and tolerant members of the Nine. If Russian hotels play Hawaiian music, let them do it until their eyes bubble, is her attitude.

And there, if your mind hasn't wandered, you have the story. It's the bare bones but I think it's enough to be getting on with and now you will understand why I thought of ukuleles while practicing the Five Animal Frolics in the dark this morning. 

I suppose one must give Amy her due because when it comes to selecting distracting thoughts, no one else comes close. I refer, of course, to Princess Amy, the Queen of the Limbic System, and not Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu.

A Fair Summer Morning

Sunshine fell graciously on the walls of Chadsford Hall and infused the surrounding gardens and terraces with a certain something, a pleasant jauntiness so that birds chirruped happily and cats murmured their contentedness. 

Cooled by the shade of the cypresses and refreshed by the contents of the amber glass, ice tinkling musically as I lifted it to my lips, I had achieved a nirvana-like repose. Storms might be raging elsewhere but here on the back lawn, there was peace--that perfect unruffled peace that comes only to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

In these rare moments between depression and mania, the Genome is a dapper guy on whose gray and thinly-haired head the weight of a consistently misspent life rests lightly. It is a mystery to those who know me best that one who has enjoyed life right down to the worm should, especially when reaching that certain age when most are paying for it, remain so superbly robust. 

It's the wildness that does it if you want my opinion. We are born wild and the wise and the reckless among us tend to remain that way. Domestication is unnatural.

On this morning, the brightest and merriest of the glad new year, upholstered in the costume of a qigong coach, Thai fisherman's pants hanging loosely from the hips, and a baseball-style shirt bearing the strange device of two tigers arranged in the taijutsu symbol, I was just getting busy separating earth and sky when Ms. Wonder blew in like a cossack of discontent.

No matter how balmy the day, when Wonder stamps a petulant foot and shakes a finger in the mind's direction, one can feel the chilly air of the Winter Palace blowing around the ankles. Her arrival coincided with the feeling that Greek fellow must have had with the axe suspended by a hair over his neck. I immediately sensed a twang of regret for I knew not what but expected to hear about in the next two minutes.

"The worst has happened," she ejaculated. Yes, I've searched the mental thesaurus and I'm sure that's the mot juste.

"Oh, yes?" I said for we Genomes are quick and I realized that her ire was not directed toward me this time.

"Buffy has struck," she said.

I mused for a moment, taking a deep breath and perhaps making a moue or two before replying, "The vampire slayer?"

Now she seemed to muse. Two musings in less than a minute. It seemed possible that this could turn out to be a big morning for musing. Then she gave me the eye and the eye she gave caused me to feel that coolness around the feet once more.

"Buffy my hairdresser, you goose. He's gummed the machinery," she said. "He's doing nothing about the music. For a week or two I thought he was just busy or waiting for inspiration but now I realize that he doesn't intend to do anything. He's going to dawdle and put the kibosh on the works."

I understand her concern now and I'm sure it is as clear to you that her words are the latest update on the progress of her new line dance. She's creating one and she's enlisted allies in the cause--one to do the choreography and one to write the music. The lyrics are her own. I don't know where she gets her inspiration, perhaps it's the Russian blood. The people of the Volga seem compelled to compose music. She takes a line through Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.

I removed the mental monocle and polished it metaphorically. "Buffy the Frizzy Slayer?" I said,  "I remember him well, nice boy. Not at all the sort of fellow to intentionally noble dogs just before the big fetch contest. No, I think you can dismiss Buffy as a carrier of malevolence. Too manic to do anything on the assignment is my guess. Put it out of your mind."

These words seemed like a good thing at the time and I expressed them with reserve fully expecting that she would see the wisdom of them and take a deep breath. Peace of mind is what I aimed for but not what I got. She seemed even more hotted up if anything.

"What are you driveling about?" she said with a slow shake of the head.

"Would you call it drivel?" I said. "Well, if it is, then it certainly isn't perfect drivel. What I'm talking about, just to be clear, are the people who may be expected to do the dirt, like Johnny Holiday, as opposed to the people who may not, like your Buffy for instance. You see it was nothing to the above Holiday to feed my cocker spaniel left-over steak and onions, without my knowledge of course, just before our contest to see who was the better retriever of tennis balls. When I threw the ball, Pluto just lay there, spread-spaniel with his ears unfurled and his eyes half closed. He was the perfect image of a fully contented dog."

"So you're saying that Buffy isn't..."

"Coming down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts gleaming in purple and gold? Not on the board. He's just somewhat pre-occupied, that's all. And I have a suggestion for you."

She raised her eyebrows about a quarter inch but spoke not a word. I took it to be an invitation to continue. "Tell him that you've lost interest in the project. Seemed like a good idea at the time but now, life is coming hard and fast. Time to move on. Thank him for his efforts and recommend that he spend no more time on it. Then you simply get on with the project and he never knows the difference."

"Do you really think it would work?" she said.

"Works for me all the time. In fact, it's become standard procedure for me. I call it the Genome Method."

"I'll think about it," she said. "Thanks."

"Not at all," I said.

She turned and started to move back across the terrace to the Hall but stopped as though her spring had wound down.

"Hello," I said.

"I was just thinking," she said, "that something about our conversation seems strange."

"Mysterious, you mean," I said. "Nothing mysterious really. It's just that you are usually coming up with the formula for my shortcomings and in the above dialogue, it was I who became the balm that soothed your fevered brow."

"Oh, yeah," she said, "that must be it. Well, thanks again."

"Happy to have been of service," I said. "If we Genomes live for anything, it is to be of service. And this little bit of usefulness has made all the difference. Happy Birthday to me!"

That last bit bubbled to the surface because I'd just realized that today was indeed my birthday. What a nice surprise.

Life is Good

I arrived early this morning, riding the shirtsleeves of the sun, who had awakened bright-eyed and gotten straight to the point. Not a bad opening for a yellow dwarf star. 

I deduced from the bird song redolent in the crepe myrtle and from the cawing redolent in the crows and from the speed-demoning redolent in the parking lot that the weekend had refreshed the great and the small without prejudice. 

I'm confident that all hearts were filled with gratitude for the ancient Hebrew invention of taking a day off every now and then.

But no gratitude beat in the breast of the Genome for it had been just one damned hour after another all week long. The Auditor was taking inventory as I parked and decanted myself in front of Native Grounds in the Renaissance District. The talley was: tired--yes; irritable--yes; angry--just a simmer.

Approaching the door, I saw a man on the other side cleaning the glass. He stopped cleaning as I grasped the puller and pulled. I took in his face and found that his countenance was not friendly. Stern I would have described it as. It was clear that this beni adam was not happy to see the Genome. I remember thinking how strange it was. The visage worn by this son of toil was the one Genome reserved for the Amalekites, Jebusites and Philistines.

It was with me the work of an instant to conclude that in an earlier era this guardian of the gate would have challenged me with a 'Friend or foe!' 'You're either with us or against us,' he might have declared. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd barely stopped short of ascertaining the color of my insides.

Immediately, the limbic system went into overdrive. A mental image of my hands sinking into the soft flesh of his neck filled the mental projection screen. Vivid memories of the taichi back-roll with feet planted in his belly and his body cartwheeling into the street completed the image.

I took a deep breath.

'Not today, Amy,' I said silently to the little princess shouting battle cries in my mind. 'Chill, baby. Remember, we don't know everything. This man may have had a bad morning.'

'I'll teach him what a bad morning really feels like,' she said or at least she seemed to say it.

"Good morning," I said to the neanderthal with a friendly nod of the coconut but he said nothing and continued to glare and chew his Juicy Fruit, mouth open, or it might possibly have been his tongue he chewed. Hard to tell.

Princess Amy, the tyrant of the underworld in the Genome's brain, is half Celtic, one-quarter Viking, and one-quarter Muskogee Creek, and I'm not so sure it isn't red camp Creek. When she is in full battle trance, she impresses not unlike the impression that Boudicca must have made on the front ranks of the Romans. 

She impressed like this now. One eye was saucer-sized, the other squinted into a mere slit. The lips were pulled from the teeth and the molars were grinding. Steam escaped from the seams which were near to bursting.

'Easy, old girl, there is more good than bad here,' I reminded her in soothing tones.

I reached the service counter and asked for a large, hot beverage and then searched the pockets for money. None was forthcoming. Then I perused the wallet for Genome's coffee allowance. Not there. Loaned to the needy and deserving yestereve. 

The outer crust maintained a semblance of calm reserve but need I tell you that Amy was now completely manic? She stomped the earth like a drum and sliced the forearms with an obsidian blade in the manner of the priests of Ba'al. She was in full battle frenzy and I'm sure the metallic taste of blood was in her mouth.

"Oh, that's alright," said the hostess. "We know you. Enjoy your coffee on the house."

Amy stopped her rant, her eyes opened wide. She collapsed in a heap, eyes staring blankly into the empty space that makes up most of the Genome mind.

"Thank you," I said to the hostess.

"Not at all," she said with a warm, wonderful smile that made all the difference.

'Take a deep breath,' I said to Amy. 'Life is good.'

Nature's Sweet Restorer

The stars had come out to play by the time we returned home from Winston-Salem where we had closed the Associated Artist's exhibit at Reynolda Village. It had been a long day and we wasted no time getting into bed to allow sweet nature to ravel up the sleeves of care. Somewhere in the night, in my dreams, I heard someone call my name.

"Did you hear that?" said a different voice from somewhere nearby and I was relieved to discover that it was Poopsie Wonder because, well, I'm sure I don't have to suggest the reason why. You can surely think of several good reasons on your own.

The first voice, let's call it Voice A, called again and, coming unexpectedly as it did in the middle of a peaceful summer night, it caused me to look at Ms. Wonder with wild surmise and she goggled at me with wild surmise. What rendered the thing so particularly unpleasant was that we had both jumped to the same conclusion. "It's your mother," Ms. Wonder gaggled as she switched on a lamp illuminating the clock on her night table that maintained the time at 12:30 AM.

I ambled to the top of the staircase and looked down at the specter in a cornflower blue nightshirt standing in the doorway to my mother's sitting room on the ground floor.

"Are you awake?" she asked out of concern for my safety should I stand at the top of a staircase while asleep. "Come here a minute," she said. When my mother says 'come here' it is not merely an invitation but more like a command from the centurion, a casual acquaintance of Jesus, who explained that when he said, 'Come,' they came. And so it is with me and my mother. I went.

Two hours later, after staunching the flow of blood from the motherly nose, and returning Reason to her throne, I was back upstairs and looking forward to returning to that dream where I was Bond and Ms. Wonder was Moneypenny. It promised to be diverting. I tilted the nightcap down toward the right eye, which makes all the difference.

A minute later I was in bed and within seconds I was joined by Abbie Hoffman, that tuxedoed American shorthair, who assumed his familiar position at my right side. It was now 2:30 AM and I was not exactly in the mood for a social reunion. I couldn't help but feel that he could have chosen a better time to get chummy. Still, not wanting to seem un-civil, I gave his chin a scratch.

He rearranged the cardinal points, anterior and posterior, and the expression on his map gave me to believe that something was not satisfactory. He seemed to be doing a bit of princess-and-the-peaing. I didn't like it. I was anxious to get down to some tired nature's sweet restoring. He stood, stretched, and moved to the foot of the bed, which I was all in favor of, but it wasn't to last. He returned to my side and I gave his rump a pat hoping that he'd gotten everything sorted out but no, it was another bust. He moved to the foot of the bed again but immediately returned to my side.

"I know where this is leading," I said, "and you're singing the wrong tune. You feel that old compunction to give voice to the wildness that sleeps in your breast but I ask you, is it wise? I know that you tell yourself that you can stop with one but isn't it the first yowl that does all the damage?"

"I don't have a problem," he said or, if he didn't actually say it, he gave me a look that did. "I'm not powerless in the matter you know. I howl because I enjoy the sound."

"Oh, what a tangled web," I said and I meant it to sting. "Is this the Hoffman spirit? Is this the American shorthair who used to play feathered stick with me when he was just so high?"

He didn't answer but went straight to his work, jumping from the bed and rushing downstairs where he took up position in the foyer. Moments later the first pleading cry floated up the stairwell. I'm not certain but it could be that a few passionate words spoken in haste escaped from me as I headed to the guest room.

Now, whether or not I would have achieved the dream state in that four-poster that filled the room I cannot say. This is the same bed I slept in as a young boy before my sister moved from her crib and I was awarded the living room sofa. It has been several years since I tried to actually sleep in this family heirloom and I found that a double bed no longer fits the Genome chassis. I guess I counted no more than a few dozen herds of sheep before remembering several pleasant nights spent on the sofa on the screened porch.

It was with me the work of an instant to be in position on that porch, a freshly brewed cup of ginger tea in hand, and the string lights turned on for mood. I sampled the tea. Perfect.

You know that feeling you sometimes get that someone is looking at you? I had it now. I was out in the open air with a night garden and a cypress grove just a few feet away and so I reasoned that there were probably lots of creatures of the night gazing in my direction. Then I heard a small, quiet voice address me from somewhere nearby.

"Whatch'ya doin'?"

In the dim light, I could just make out the form and color of the Siamese kitten that lives in the house on the hill behind the Hall.

"Oh, it's you, Lucy," I said cordially because I am partial to this little blue-eyed girl. "I'm planning to sleep out here tonight."

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she said.

"Not at all," I said. "What are you doing out here?"

"I saw the lights come on," she said. "I like to sleep on this tabletop," she added as she walked a full circle and then sat looking at me.

"Nice night," I said.

"Bit warm," said she.

"Just so," I said and then the message in her recent words made themselves clear and I turned off the lights. "Well, good night, kitten."

"Good night, sir."

Despite the fact that the night was unusually warm, I found myself experiencing a soothing drowsiness just about the time the scratching began. I didn't have to look to know that the scratcher was Uma, Empress of Chatsford. Hanging out on the porch is a passion with this brindled lady and looking through the French doors to see me out here had gotten right up her nose.

I had two options as I saw it. I could either allow her onto the porch and wait for her to complete a patrol of the perimeter to secure the space, or I could move to the garage and sleep in the car. I didn't take time to weigh the options. I opened the door. But what to my wondering eyes did she do but rush to the other end of the kitchen where she stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me as if to say, 'Come.'

"What's wrong, Uma? Is Timmie in trouble?" I asked.

She twittered something under her breath sounding a little like, "Don't be an ass, it's time for breakfast." And in that moment I saw the soft, rosy light of dawn flooding the atrium behind her and I realized that another day was beginning in south Durham. It's just another example of what I always say. Life comes fast and hard and one must be ready for anything, don't you agree?