My father would pore over his books, wrapped meticulously, protectively, obsessively, in thick plastic scotch-taped to the insides. Books on astrology, philosophy, psychology, parapsychology, buddhism, zen buddhism, spirituality, religion, astral planes, mythology, enlightenment, UFOs. He fancied himself a scholar, an eminent expert on such matters. His library was extensive; his knowledge unparalleled.
And I believed him, of course, because children believe.
This, he said, pointing to a triangular-shaped figure on one of the many pages of my professionally-read horoscope, means you are destined for great things. You will be a leader, a prophet, a woman among men. And I believed him, as daughters will.
And when the astrology fails, what then?
When I find myself contemplative and alone, furnace humming in the dark, knowing that my potential for greatness is slipping silently away into the night and that one day I will cease to know anything at all and be lost and unremembered like all those other triangular-shaped figures destined for greatness and lost in a jumble of yellowing papers at the bottom of a box, I think back to my father's books and their plastic armour and I believe.
I believe in my body, in hunger and thirst and pain and sleep and sex.
I believe in fear and desire and sorrow and frustration and compassion and achievement and love.
I believe in the ultimate unknowability of things.
And sometimes, misguidedly, I believe that I am a leader, a prophet, a woman among men.
Oct 13, 2011
Sep 18, 2011
Warm Nights in Strange Cities: Italy
I survived two nine-hour flights, traffic in Rome, 37 degrees, blisters between my toes, blisters in my heels, water "pressure," 4 a.m. bouts of wakefulness, my shitty camera, a union strike, cobblestones, too-firm mattresses, headaches, aching feet, an aching back, stiff calves, diarrhea, tourists, towels whipped into sandpaper by the warm Venetian wind, mosquito bites, intense sneezing fits and an alternating runny/stuffy nose, rose peddlers, no milk, the erection of scaffolding immediately outside my hotel window, and no rock and roll, anywhere (except for Queen on repeat that one time).
In return for the minor inconveniences that travel invariably brings, I was rewarded with Roman drinking fountains; cobblestones; the motherfucking Colosseum, man; gelato; the Roman Forum (you wanna see ridiculous? shazam); the Ecstasy of St. Teresa; the bones of 4000 dead friars, artfully arranged; the "glory" of the Circus Maximus; statues of lions; plates of meat; Michelangelo's melting face in the Sistine Chapel; the babble and murmur of the Trevi Fountain; dancing Mickey Mouse and splat guys and blue-green lights in the sky; frottage on the bus; discovering Bernini; a cat sanctuary; gelato; a gondola ride under the full moon with my adventurer-love; Peggy Guggenheim's grave, and the grave of all her dogs; vino rosso della casa every day; the rolling marble floors and golden ceilings of St. Mark's Basilica; traghetto crossings; the stone prison cells under the Doge's palace; granite limone; the graves of dead bambinos; glass boobs in Murano and candy-coloured houses in Burano; Roxy's; soaking my weary feet in the jade-green waters of the Grand Canal by moonlight; my first opera; the ticket seller with Tourette's syndrome at the Correr Museum; gelato; the tomb of Galileo (that rascally heretic); Caravaggio's David and Goliath for the second time in my life (how lucky am I?); unexpectedly stumbling across Dante's house; the oversized head and hands of Michelangelo's David; olive groves and cypress trees and umbrella pines and vineyards; the zebra-striped cathedral in Siena, torture museums in San Gimignano, and tourists holding up the tower in Pisa; gelato; Italian children; scooters; bicycles; keyholes; a stroll by the Tiber and dinner in Trastevere; and, finally, always, in any situation, prego.
My own bed, when I finally fell into it, was like clouds, and the contented purring of my cat while she lay wrapped around my head on the pillow was almost as great as more than 2000 years of art and history. The world is an incredible place, from the spectacle and tragedy of Rome to the decaying grandeur of the Grand Canal to the rolling Tuscan hillsides to the simple pleasure of one's own showerhead. Ciao, Italia, and, per favore, don't ever forget to riot on.
In return for the minor inconveniences that travel invariably brings, I was rewarded with Roman drinking fountains; cobblestones; the motherfucking Colosseum, man; gelato; the Roman Forum (you wanna see ridiculous? shazam); the Ecstasy of St. Teresa; the bones of 4000 dead friars, artfully arranged; the "glory" of the Circus Maximus; statues of lions; plates of meat; Michelangelo's melting face in the Sistine Chapel; the babble and murmur of the Trevi Fountain; dancing Mickey Mouse and splat guys and blue-green lights in the sky; frottage on the bus; discovering Bernini; a cat sanctuary; gelato; a gondola ride under the full moon with my adventurer-love; Peggy Guggenheim's grave, and the grave of all her dogs; vino rosso della casa every day; the rolling marble floors and golden ceilings of St. Mark's Basilica; traghetto crossings; the stone prison cells under the Doge's palace; granite limone; the graves of dead bambinos; glass boobs in Murano and candy-coloured houses in Burano; Roxy's; soaking my weary feet in the jade-green waters of the Grand Canal by moonlight; my first opera; the ticket seller with Tourette's syndrome at the Correr Museum; gelato; the tomb of Galileo (that rascally heretic); Caravaggio's David and Goliath for the second time in my life (how lucky am I?); unexpectedly stumbling across Dante's house; the oversized head and hands of Michelangelo's David; olive groves and cypress trees and umbrella pines and vineyards; the zebra-striped cathedral in Siena, torture museums in San Gimignano, and tourists holding up the tower in Pisa; gelato; Italian children; scooters; bicycles; keyholes; a stroll by the Tiber and dinner in Trastevere; and, finally, always, in any situation, prego.
My own bed, when I finally fell into it, was like clouds, and the contented purring of my cat while she lay wrapped around my head on the pillow was almost as great as more than 2000 years of art and history. The world is an incredible place, from the spectacle and tragedy of Rome to the decaying grandeur of the Grand Canal to the rolling Tuscan hillsides to the simple pleasure of one's own showerhead. Ciao, Italia, and, per favore, don't ever forget to riot on.
Jul 28, 2011
3 a.m. comedown
I see you in watercolour, pale pink and yellow and ivory, dark hair damp against your forehead, your head tipped back against the chairtop, a burning cigarette held absently in laquered fingertips.
The slow, deep drag, skin stretched and hollow, sucking, sighing.
There is beauty in this pain, this sickness, this weight, but the photograph I take fails to capture the image and so I see you in watercolour and wish that I could paint.
The slow, deep drag, skin stretched and hollow, sucking, sighing.
There is beauty in this pain, this sickness, this weight, but the photograph I take fails to capture the image and so I see you in watercolour and wish that I could paint.
Jun 28, 2011
Warm Nights in Strange Cities: Cuba 2011
We are drunk, all of us, on cuba libres. (Free Cuba, I'll think later.)
The waves slip and suck in the darkness as we strip, leaving our clothes together in a pile on the sand so that we can find them later. I leave my bra and panties on, unwilling, even in the darkness, to share so much with these friends, these strangers.
We run across the sand, naked, laughing, to the water, and the waves welcome us home.
***
Rows of diesel-stained concrete and candy-coloured houses. Dark-skinned women with long legs and short skirts stand tirelessly in high heels by the side of the road, waiting. Old men stand in doorways and dogs roam the streets, alone or in small packs. With my platinum hair and pale skin, I am an exotic creature. Or a freakish aberration. Despite the glances, I am unafraid here.
The city crumbles. Old Fords and Chevrolets cough acrid black smoke. The image of Che Guevara is everywhere. A hero, a madman. Castro is crazy, our driver tells us. Is there talk of another revolution? we ask, and he nods. Yes.
Por favor, we say. Gracias. And always the answer: de nada. It's nothing.
We give the resort guard the beer from our fridge. Hola, we say. Cerveza? And he takes it with a smile. Gracias amigo, he says, popping the tab, and we reply, de nada. It's nothing.
May 19, 2011
Her Ignominious Death (a work in progress)
I look in the mirror, sometimes, and see her there, and my throat constricts and I can’t breathe for missing her. My throat aches and my heart aches and my stomach aches and I wonder how I can possibly still be here, alone.
At night, sometimes, I look across the room at the empty twin bed, the pillows like giant marshmallows, fluffy and white and inviting, and the pale satin bedspread shining dully in the darkness, and I can almost hear her breathing. She always fell asleep before me. Habitually troubled by insomnia, I would lie awake at night and listen to her breathe, match my breaths to hers until I finally fell asleep. My sister, my oldest lullaby.
Margaret took her first breath seventeen minutes before me in a hospital room in London, Ontario. Bloody and red-faced, she screamed to the world her anguish at our separation, and when I emerged, small and slippery, after her, I joined her in her howl, cacophony in stereo. Two days later, our parents, Bill and Barbara Mudd, took their identical writhing pink bundles home to Old South.
Old South is an established neighbourhood near the city’s core, consisting of mature trees and cracked sidewalks and Korean-run variety stores. Houses are restored and stately or old and in need of repair, with peeling porch paint and overgrown barberry bushes. Ours is one of the latter, a small brown brick bungalow set back from the road. Dandelions thrive on the lawn, and the concrete steps are crumbling, but I hardly notice anymore. You can learn to live with pretty much anything.
I live with my mother and father in the house I grew up in, in the room I shared with Margaret. Twin beds separated by a nightstand, one lamp, one dresser for us to share. On the dresser, matching pink jewelry boxes, the music box kind with the tiny dancing ballerina inside. Mine contains the gold cross necklace I received on our confirmation; Margaret wore her necklace to her grave. Above the beds, matching Jesuses die for our sins, and dirty lace curtains let the moonlight in.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.
Thy will be done.
At night, when I lie awake listening for the breath-lullaby that is no longer there, I wonder how such an ignominious death could be God’s will, and I hope that Margaret is up there, happy amongst the marshmallow clouds.
**
We walked the two blocks to school together every morning. Margaret and me, the Mudd sisters. Matching brown jackets, matching black boots. We rarely spoke. We lived identical lives; what was there to discuss? Alone together in a corner of the schoolyard until the bell rang, Margaret would look wistfully at the games of four-square and hopscotch while I picked at my hangnails.
Once inside, we were separated into different classrooms. Luckily, we were neither brilliant nor stupid. Solid Cs for the Mudd girls, and that suited us just fine. Better not to stand out any more than we already did. We were never late, and we never raised our hands in class. It was better to be ignored than to be called out.
Dirty Mudd sisters.
Why don’t you take a bath, Mudds?
And when Margaret would protest,
Shut up, Mudd, with such contempt that I would pull at her, plead with her, please Margaret please let’s go. Please.
There were no birthday party invitations, no sleepovers, no weekends at the cottage in Grand Bend. If we were one, some kind mother may have noticed, might have urged her daughter to invite that lonely Mudd girl over to play, but we were two, and therefore forgotten.
**
At night, sometimes, I look across the room at the empty twin bed, the pillows like giant marshmallows, fluffy and white and inviting, and the pale satin bedspread shining dully in the darkness, and I can almost hear her breathing. She always fell asleep before me. Habitually troubled by insomnia, I would lie awake at night and listen to her breathe, match my breaths to hers until I finally fell asleep. My sister, my oldest lullaby.
Margaret took her first breath seventeen minutes before me in a hospital room in London, Ontario. Bloody and red-faced, she screamed to the world her anguish at our separation, and when I emerged, small and slippery, after her, I joined her in her howl, cacophony in stereo. Two days later, our parents, Bill and Barbara Mudd, took their identical writhing pink bundles home to Old South.
Old South is an established neighbourhood near the city’s core, consisting of mature trees and cracked sidewalks and Korean-run variety stores. Houses are restored and stately or old and in need of repair, with peeling porch paint and overgrown barberry bushes. Ours is one of the latter, a small brown brick bungalow set back from the road. Dandelions thrive on the lawn, and the concrete steps are crumbling, but I hardly notice anymore. You can learn to live with pretty much anything.
I live with my mother and father in the house I grew up in, in the room I shared with Margaret. Twin beds separated by a nightstand, one lamp, one dresser for us to share. On the dresser, matching pink jewelry boxes, the music box kind with the tiny dancing ballerina inside. Mine contains the gold cross necklace I received on our confirmation; Margaret wore her necklace to her grave. Above the beds, matching Jesuses die for our sins, and dirty lace curtains let the moonlight in.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.
Thy will be done.
At night, when I lie awake listening for the breath-lullaby that is no longer there, I wonder how such an ignominious death could be God’s will, and I hope that Margaret is up there, happy amongst the marshmallow clouds.
**
We walked the two blocks to school together every morning. Margaret and me, the Mudd sisters. Matching brown jackets, matching black boots. We rarely spoke. We lived identical lives; what was there to discuss? Alone together in a corner of the schoolyard until the bell rang, Margaret would look wistfully at the games of four-square and hopscotch while I picked at my hangnails.
Once inside, we were separated into different classrooms. Luckily, we were neither brilliant nor stupid. Solid Cs for the Mudd girls, and that suited us just fine. Better not to stand out any more than we already did. We were never late, and we never raised our hands in class. It was better to be ignored than to be called out.
Dirty Mudd sisters.
Why don’t you take a bath, Mudds?
And when Margaret would protest,
Shut up, Mudd, with such contempt that I would pull at her, plead with her, please Margaret please let’s go. Please.
There were no birthday party invitations, no sleepovers, no weekends at the cottage in Grand Bend. If we were one, some kind mother may have noticed, might have urged her daughter to invite that lonely Mudd girl over to play, but we were two, and therefore forgotten.
**
Apr 21, 2011
Poker and Boobs
On Tuesday evenings, Ryan and I go downtown to a bar to play poker for points. I figure this is a good way for me to gain valuable poker experience and avoid the need to take out a second mortgage. I understand the rules of the game. I know what hand beats what. I can even figure out how many outs I might have, although I don't bother figuring out the odds. Math was never really my thing. (I always say that, and while it is true that language has always come more easily to me than the sciences, I was never terrible at math. A bit of trouble learning to tell time, and word problems continue to boggle my brain, but I always got As. Today, I can count out change and figure out how much to tip at a restaurant. This is pretty much all the math I currently need.)
Anyway, I can outlast some of the more erratic players just by playing conservatively, but what I suck at is reading people. I have no idea if you raised with a suited 6-7 or pocket aces. I can't tell if you've hit your flush. Ryan is a lawyer. He is good at reading people. Last week he won a tournament of 40+ people. I didn't even place (although I wasn't out first.)
I did, however, knock an entire pint-sized glass of iced tea into my lap. I took a sip, placed the glass in the black plastic cutout designed for that purpose, but missed the edge and ended up wearing it. It was distracting, because I yelped and stood up, and because I was wearing a white t-shirt that also got wet. Luckily, I was also wearing a sweater. I zipped that sucker up posthaste after one of the fellows hollered, "Wet t-shirt contest!". Being one of the few attractive girls in this particular league garners me some attention but so far it hasn't seemed to help my game. Ah well. The regulars get irritated at such mishaps because time is ticking and those blinds will go up at any minute. No money is at stake, but it is serious business nonetheless.
A few hands later, the frightfully irritating older gentleman to my left dropped the entire deck onto the floor. Regular eyeballs rolled. We picked them up, counted them, and came up one card short. We scoured the floor anew, and I discovered a card stuck to the bottom of my boot, suctioned there by spilled iced tea. It turned out to be an ace. Regular heads shook in disgust. Yes, this is my diabolical scheme: to soak my jeans in sticky liquid and afix aces to the bottom of my shoe in order to cheat. I am a villain.
A few hands after that, during my deal and after the first round of betting, the deck slipped from my fingers and spilled onto the table. Re-deal. Time wasted. More rolling eyeballs. It was not my night. Short-stacked, I went all-in with suited ace-queen and lost when my opponent hit his jack.
Having joined my fellow losers as spectators at Ryan's table, I shared my woes. "Tonight was not my night," I tell Ryan, and the heavy-set woman sitting to his right responds, "Hey, if the worst that happens to you is you spill your drink, you're doing alright." This blonde woman in her pink tracksuit shows me a cell phone photo of her daughter. "This is my daughter," she tells me proudly. The photo is of a grown woman, blonde, not particularly pretty. I don't know what to say so I say, "She looks like you." "You think so?", clearly pleased. When pink tracksuit shows the snapshot to Ryan, he concurs.
Later, sitting across from pink tracksuit, eating my plate of half-priced nachos while Ryan continues his comeback, she tells me that she was diagnosed with breast cancer in January. Both breasts. I can't imagine telling such a thing to a stranger. We hadn't even established the rapport that comes from playing against someone, as we had been seated at different tables. "I almost told the doctor just chop 'em both off," she tells me, but since the cancer had also spread to the surrounding tissue, this treatment would likely have been ineffective, so she was going the chemo/radiation route.
I became aware of the power of the boob in grade eleven, when mine suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, as my mother has never needed to wear a bra. Whether my own C cups were urged forth by the synthetic estrogen/progesterone pills or my paternal genes finally kicking in, I'll never know, but I have grown to count on them. It took a few years before I became entirely comfortable with them, though. Breasts, any breasts, wield an odd power. Endlessly fascinating, endlessly sought after. Male friends have explained how important the female breast is, how 95% of their day is spent hoping to catch a glimpse of even one naked boob. Tits for tits' sake.
Sometimes at night I will cup one breast in my hand in order to fall asleep. This soft pillow that is only mine, comforting in its familiarity, a built-in security blanket. My boobs are an integral part of my physical identity, like my size 8 feet and the dimple in my chin. I don't know what I would do without them.
I don't know if, faced with the horror of disease, I would confide in strangers. But maybe there is relief in the telling. Maybe admitting it out loud, to strangers, makes it real, and therefore beatable. Maybe she has already accepted her death as an inevitability and the fact of her cancer is just small talk, like the score in the hockey game or the way she should have played that last hand. There has been sickness in my family; my mother almost died from a ruptured brain aneurysm and my father is mentally, physically, and spiritually ill. But I don't know how to read this strange, possibly dying, pink tracksuit-wearing woman. I can't tell if she will fight or if she has given up. I don't know if she will live or die. She was right, though: if the worst that happens to me is that I spill my drink and lose a poker game, I'm doing alright.
Anyway, I can outlast some of the more erratic players just by playing conservatively, but what I suck at is reading people. I have no idea if you raised with a suited 6-7 or pocket aces. I can't tell if you've hit your flush. Ryan is a lawyer. He is good at reading people. Last week he won a tournament of 40+ people. I didn't even place (although I wasn't out first.)
I did, however, knock an entire pint-sized glass of iced tea into my lap. I took a sip, placed the glass in the black plastic cutout designed for that purpose, but missed the edge and ended up wearing it. It was distracting, because I yelped and stood up, and because I was wearing a white t-shirt that also got wet. Luckily, I was also wearing a sweater. I zipped that sucker up posthaste after one of the fellows hollered, "Wet t-shirt contest!". Being one of the few attractive girls in this particular league garners me some attention but so far it hasn't seemed to help my game. Ah well. The regulars get irritated at such mishaps because time is ticking and those blinds will go up at any minute. No money is at stake, but it is serious business nonetheless.
A few hands later, the frightfully irritating older gentleman to my left dropped the entire deck onto the floor. Regular eyeballs rolled. We picked them up, counted them, and came up one card short. We scoured the floor anew, and I discovered a card stuck to the bottom of my boot, suctioned there by spilled iced tea. It turned out to be an ace. Regular heads shook in disgust. Yes, this is my diabolical scheme: to soak my jeans in sticky liquid and afix aces to the bottom of my shoe in order to cheat. I am a villain.
A few hands after that, during my deal and after the first round of betting, the deck slipped from my fingers and spilled onto the table. Re-deal. Time wasted. More rolling eyeballs. It was not my night. Short-stacked, I went all-in with suited ace-queen and lost when my opponent hit his jack.
Having joined my fellow losers as spectators at Ryan's table, I shared my woes. "Tonight was not my night," I tell Ryan, and the heavy-set woman sitting to his right responds, "Hey, if the worst that happens to you is you spill your drink, you're doing alright." This blonde woman in her pink tracksuit shows me a cell phone photo of her daughter. "This is my daughter," she tells me proudly. The photo is of a grown woman, blonde, not particularly pretty. I don't know what to say so I say, "She looks like you." "You think so?", clearly pleased. When pink tracksuit shows the snapshot to Ryan, he concurs.
Later, sitting across from pink tracksuit, eating my plate of half-priced nachos while Ryan continues his comeback, she tells me that she was diagnosed with breast cancer in January. Both breasts. I can't imagine telling such a thing to a stranger. We hadn't even established the rapport that comes from playing against someone, as we had been seated at different tables. "I almost told the doctor just chop 'em both off," she tells me, but since the cancer had also spread to the surrounding tissue, this treatment would likely have been ineffective, so she was going the chemo/radiation route.
I became aware of the power of the boob in grade eleven, when mine suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, as my mother has never needed to wear a bra. Whether my own C cups were urged forth by the synthetic estrogen/progesterone pills or my paternal genes finally kicking in, I'll never know, but I have grown to count on them. It took a few years before I became entirely comfortable with them, though. Breasts, any breasts, wield an odd power. Endlessly fascinating, endlessly sought after. Male friends have explained how important the female breast is, how 95% of their day is spent hoping to catch a glimpse of even one naked boob. Tits for tits' sake.
Sometimes at night I will cup one breast in my hand in order to fall asleep. This soft pillow that is only mine, comforting in its familiarity, a built-in security blanket. My boobs are an integral part of my physical identity, like my size 8 feet and the dimple in my chin. I don't know what I would do without them.
I don't know if, faced with the horror of disease, I would confide in strangers. But maybe there is relief in the telling. Maybe admitting it out loud, to strangers, makes it real, and therefore beatable. Maybe she has already accepted her death as an inevitability and the fact of her cancer is just small talk, like the score in the hockey game or the way she should have played that last hand. There has been sickness in my family; my mother almost died from a ruptured brain aneurysm and my father is mentally, physically, and spiritually ill. But I don't know how to read this strange, possibly dying, pink tracksuit-wearing woman. I can't tell if she will fight or if she has given up. I don't know if she will live or die. She was right, though: if the worst that happens to me is that I spill my drink and lose a poker game, I'm doing alright.
Ode to Charlotte, the best cat in the world
Earlier this evening, my dude called to me from downstairs, "Hey! Can you let Charlotte out the front door?" and I told him sure and opened the front door, walked a couple of steps downstairs and called to Charlotte with the special kissing noise we use and an encouraging "C'mon!". Charlotte, excited by the prospect of outside at night, came galloping across the floor, intending to leap up the stairs and (probably) plop down immediately outside the open front door. But her claws found no purchase on the cold concrete floor and instead of making the leap to freedom, she slid and smashed her little calico face into the bottom step, momentum pushing her body forward and to the side, where it, too, thudded into the oak.
It was like that time at school when I saw a girl on rollerblades attempt to go down a too-steep hill and wipeout at the bottom in a heap of bruised body and ego: my concern about her potential injuries did nothing to prevent me from laughing my ass off.
Charlotte stood up and took a step to the side. Sneezed six or seven times, delicate kitten sneezes, then laid down on the unforgiving concrete. Chuckling still, but concerned, I knelt beside her. Are you okay, muffin? I crooned, running my hand over her skull and down her back. Poor honey. C'mere. And I scooped her up and pressed my nose into her fur.
I took her upstairs to the open front door and, as predicted, she walked outside and promptly plopped down on the porch. I stayed with her for awhile, stroking her face, wondering if it was possible to tell if a cat was suffering from a broken nose.
It is hours later and she seems okay now, if rather more on the snuggly side than usual.
Charlotte is the best cat in the whole world. Many cat owners will tell you this, but let me assure you that only I can make this assertion with certainty. She was a skinny little stray (or so we thought) when we discovered her loitering around my mother's fourplex apartment. She was already ours when we learned that she actually belonged to a neighbour in the building next door. Happily, said neighbour was moving and had planned on getting rid of the cat anyway. Her name is Charlotte, he told us, and we approved.
My mother's cat, Caesar, also approved of the new edition, as evidenced by the day he stood in front of her, raised his tail, and splashed a spray of urine into her face, marking her as his.
One winter, Charlotte tore her left Achilles tendon while playing outside in the snow. Equipped with a heavy plaster cast and under orders not to jump or manoeuver stairs for a month, Charlotte was forced to spend her days in a cage. Giving in to her kitten protestations, I slept on a mattress on the floor of the spare bedroom with her for four weeks while she healed. At night she would walk across my face, dragging the cast behind her, crying at the injustice of her captivity, her boredom. I gave up sleep for Charlotte, and you know that that means something.
As a kitten, she once got stuck in a tree and I climbed up and rescued her, her claws digging into my arms and back as she clung to me while I climbed down.
Charlotte still walks across my face at night before she curls up around my head, purring contentedly. She likes people and parties, and she'll steal your chair if you get up to refill your drink. She wigs out and tears up her scratching post when we play rock 'n' roll. She has never bitten or scratched anyone in malice, or used the couch as a scratching post, or peed anywhere other than the litter box or the neighbour's flowerbed, and she doesn't walk across the kitchen counter or sit on the table, so if she sometimes chooses to throw up a hairball on the carpet rather than the hardwood, I can't really complain. She sometimes wanders around the neighbourhood, doing whatever it is that cats do, but mostly she curls up in a chair in the backyard, or rolls around in the sun on the front porch, or hides beneath the bushes and watches the robins. (There was a time when she was a pretty decent hunter, but the Achilles injury has left her less nimble than in her kitten days. A little fatter, too.) She comes when we call her with the kissing noise or a high-pitched "Chaa-ar!", and if she is hesitant to come in, the promise of bacon gets her every time. We don't even have to have any actual bacon; we just tell her "bacon" in a sing-song tone, and in she comes.
I am a cat person. I find little use for the loyal and attention-seeking nature of dogs, for their constant need for approval. There were always cats in my house when I was growing up, but there has never been a cat as awesome as my little calico muffin, Charlotte.
It was like that time at school when I saw a girl on rollerblades attempt to go down a too-steep hill and wipeout at the bottom in a heap of bruised body and ego: my concern about her potential injuries did nothing to prevent me from laughing my ass off.
Charlotte stood up and took a step to the side. Sneezed six or seven times, delicate kitten sneezes, then laid down on the unforgiving concrete. Chuckling still, but concerned, I knelt beside her. Are you okay, muffin? I crooned, running my hand over her skull and down her back. Poor honey. C'mere. And I scooped her up and pressed my nose into her fur.
I took her upstairs to the open front door and, as predicted, she walked outside and promptly plopped down on the porch. I stayed with her for awhile, stroking her face, wondering if it was possible to tell if a cat was suffering from a broken nose.
It is hours later and she seems okay now, if rather more on the snuggly side than usual.
Charlotte is the best cat in the whole world. Many cat owners will tell you this, but let me assure you that only I can make this assertion with certainty. She was a skinny little stray (or so we thought) when we discovered her loitering around my mother's fourplex apartment. She was already ours when we learned that she actually belonged to a neighbour in the building next door. Happily, said neighbour was moving and had planned on getting rid of the cat anyway. Her name is Charlotte, he told us, and we approved.
My mother's cat, Caesar, also approved of the new edition, as evidenced by the day he stood in front of her, raised his tail, and splashed a spray of urine into her face, marking her as his.
One winter, Charlotte tore her left Achilles tendon while playing outside in the snow. Equipped with a heavy plaster cast and under orders not to jump or manoeuver stairs for a month, Charlotte was forced to spend her days in a cage. Giving in to her kitten protestations, I slept on a mattress on the floor of the spare bedroom with her for four weeks while she healed. At night she would walk across my face, dragging the cast behind her, crying at the injustice of her captivity, her boredom. I gave up sleep for Charlotte, and you know that that means something.
As a kitten, she once got stuck in a tree and I climbed up and rescued her, her claws digging into my arms and back as she clung to me while I climbed down.
Charlotte still walks across my face at night before she curls up around my head, purring contentedly. She likes people and parties, and she'll steal your chair if you get up to refill your drink. She wigs out and tears up her scratching post when we play rock 'n' roll. She has never bitten or scratched anyone in malice, or used the couch as a scratching post, or peed anywhere other than the litter box or the neighbour's flowerbed, and she doesn't walk across the kitchen counter or sit on the table, so if she sometimes chooses to throw up a hairball on the carpet rather than the hardwood, I can't really complain. She sometimes wanders around the neighbourhood, doing whatever it is that cats do, but mostly she curls up in a chair in the backyard, or rolls around in the sun on the front porch, or hides beneath the bushes and watches the robins. (There was a time when she was a pretty decent hunter, but the Achilles injury has left her less nimble than in her kitten days. A little fatter, too.) She comes when we call her with the kissing noise or a high-pitched "Chaa-ar!", and if she is hesitant to come in, the promise of bacon gets her every time. We don't even have to have any actual bacon; we just tell her "bacon" in a sing-song tone, and in she comes.
I am a cat person. I find little use for the loyal and attention-seeking nature of dogs, for their constant need for approval. There were always cats in my house when I was growing up, but there has never been a cat as awesome as my little calico muffin, Charlotte.
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