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.

Not Like A Melon

"Not like a watermelon?" I said.

"Certainly not," she said and I felt much of my anxiety fade away as soon as she said it. "If anything it's more like a honeydew."

I knew she meant well and was trying her best to reassure me because the little geezer has a soft spot in her heart for her favorite god-uncle. 

Although speaking from a place of goodness and light, and I was touched by her words, they left me non-plussed for the moment. I mean, it isn't every day that one of the nearest and dearest tells you, in a soft caring voice, that your head resembles one melon more than another.

I looked to Claudia who had just that moment joined us at our sidewalk table in front of Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar on Princess Street. She's one of those whip-spart urban girls who always knows just the thing to say in any situation. 

She didn't fail me in this situation. Apparently overhearing the recent conversation, she sat, and gave my hand a light pat as if to say, there there.

"Not at all like a melon," she said.

"Not like a melon?" I said hoping for more encouragement.

She gave Lupe a look that carried a light reprimand if I read it correctly.

Then turning back to me she said, "Not like a melon." Her eyes turned up and to the right, as if she'd find something more to say in that corner of her head. "More like the dome of St. Catherine's," she said.

I was struck mute and could only return her look, which immediately softened, and took on something resembling what I've heard described as, that hangdog look of a native English speaker who is about to attempt French.

"Are you familiar?" she said. "With St. Catherine's I mean."

"Of course," I said, "it's the cathedral on 3rd Street."

She brightened when she heard my words and said, "Yes, that's the one! Good." With that she patted my hand, excused herself, and went inside to order what I assumed would be a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy.

I followed, feeling that I could use another cup of his mercy myself.

Charlie and The Extra

It's all a multi-layered, convoluted, mash-up if you want me to be rigorously honest about it. And why would you want anything less? Besides, I've made a promise to be completely upfront with my public and what follows is as upfront as the orchestra seats.

If you've been following along this season, you're aware that after the last of my entourage retired and moved to gentler climes, I was lost. I mean, now that it was all over, just who was I? Life is a stage after all and each of us has our role to play. But I'd been a main character in the current production since opening night and suddenly I found myself cast as an Extra. 

I was open to suggestions and Amy took advantage of my weakness to convince me that I was called to collect the soul vessels of the recently departed. I'm sure you're up-to-date and all that.

Fortunately for me, and follow me closely here, Amy doesn't give me clear instructions. She likes to make me work for it. What she actually told me, and you will remember this, is that I should become a reseller of vintage items.

Let's not go into all that now. I've written about it often and you can find all you want to know in the archives.

The purpose of reselling, according to Amy, was to keep the world safe from the dark forces of the Underworld striving to take over the Upperworld. I embraced her suggestions because there’s nothing more bracing than seeing the forces of darkness stubbing their toe.

Eventually, it became clear that Amy's true purpose was to drum up as much mania as possible. She's addicted to the stuff. Oh sure, she claims she can quit anytime she wants but, in truth, it only takes one and she's off on some bender and God only knows when she'll hit bottom.

Yes, it's all heiness, underhanded, skullduggery known as feeding one's monkey. That's what it is.

Turns out that Amy used one of Christopher Moore's books to manipulate me and it was, to be blunt, a dirty job. Fortunately, for me, that same book held the solution.

The Emperor of San Francisco explained that my true purpose was to be out among the people of the city when they were just beginning to stir. My job was to greet the day, setting the stage for the shape of things to come, and do a bit of mood-lifting for the people I met. 

When the opportunity arose, I was to lift the mood of their little dogs too. You might say that I was to become the antidote to the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Sometimes," the Emperor said to me, "a man must muster all of his courage to simply be calm, quiet, and present in the moment. Only then can one be kind to all without judgment."

Life is much better now because somehow, some way I have more space for the love that Ms. Wonder sends my way. If that's all there was to look forward to, it would be more than enough.

Of course, I still see things. You've read about most of them, but one there is that you haven't heard of. Recently, I've seen squirrels peeking over fences as if to spy on me. I know! It's hard to credit but I swear it's true. And I'm not so sure they aren't filming me. I wouldn't swear to it. It's just a feeling I have.

Now, I should probably mention that the squirrels may be monitoring my movements because they've seen me in the company of Charlie. Have you met Charlie? You'll read more about him in future posts but for now, here's the essence.

Charlie is a member of the Doggy Nation, and like his cousins, possesses a hyper-active amygdala and has a less than enlightened opinion of coexistence with any rodent. 

Considering the above, you can easily understand why being seen with him may cast me in a suspicious light among the squirrel community. Still, I completely agree with Charlie that the tree monkeys are just way too goofy for a self-respecting terrier to tolerate.

There you have the gist of the current state of affairs. The multi-layered, convoluted, mash-up that is my new life. I'm still learning the ins and outs, and I'll do my best to keep you informed on developments. 

Until next time; Good morning! Have a wonderful day and most importantly, be happy, be healthy, and be safe!

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.