Entry tags:
The state of the felines
As with everything, i write more when i'm trying to sort out issues and less to observe the joys of day to day. The past few weeks, every time i drive down Middlefield Rd to Palo Alto i rejoice in the autumn colors of the ginkos and sycamores* and the other immigrant trees. Christine and i discussed yesterday how the colors seem even more persistent this year. I think it's because we haven't had much in the ways of storms since the October one, and the leaves stay hanging on the trees long after they change, allowing a palette of colors to build up.
* the ones folks around here call liquid ambers but i just called sycamores or gum trees growing up because we didn't have plane trees.
So, the cats.
We still miss Greybeard and Greybrother. Greybeard died a year ago at the beginning of October: it seems longer than just a year ago.
As i watch Mr M moving around, sometimes i see Greybeard in the curve of his back or how he settles down in a bed. Mr M seems to be shrinking a little, but i don't know if it's just that the youngster cats are shooting past him. He is still our Romeow, with rituals of affection, visiting us as Christine and i stand and kiss or hug, visiting Christine in the morning with his wonderful bass purr rumbling. I realize the tenth anniversary of his joining us is upon us: we brought him in off the Philly streets right after Thanksgiving, 1999. We didn't know how old he was then. We guess three. So Mr M is possibly thirteen. He rarely meows, only in complaint when being chased in off the deck or picked up when he wants to be left alone.
When he was sick earlier this year, i realized just how much his loving purr buoys me.
Greycie Loo has been with us two years, and it seems just like yesterday she was that tiny young cat. She's grown into a tall, leggy, bossy thing. She has the cutest way of yawning while meowing for breakfast in the morning, her triangular jaw opening wide to show her sharp, needle-like teeth. Otherwise, the meowing for breakfast is insistent and loud. She adores Christine, sitting or sprawling across Christine much of the day it seems. In the evenings Greycie guards the front door landing, paw prints cover the tall window where she stands and bats on the window, "Hey You, You Orange Cat, That's My Concrete Steps!" She's discovered that she can sit in my lap in the mornings and will come and ask to sit in my lap. She squirms around so that she can reach up and tap my face with a front paw. "Pay attention to me." I'm so delighted to have her pay attention to me that i do. If Christine walks in, though, her eyes go to Christine and i'm forgotten.
Edward is still a mystery, and Christine's motto towards him is, "He won't make me cry." He's not really our cat, no matter what we try. He's happy to have breakfast in the morning, but is often ready to go. He's got a very large vocalization range, barking and quacking and and long merrhoows. He's heavy and solid: it doesn't seem like he has an ounce of fat on his body. He's not as graceful as other lighter, more lithe cats. While he is quite strong, when he leaps to the roof it's not the teleportation that our neighbor's cat manages, but more human scale. So each morning, there's breakfast, and then a growing interest and urgency about getting out. (This morning, perhaps, he might be thinking about how it's been relatively cold.) I take him in to see Christine and get her blessing on his departure: i suppose we have a sense that it really might be the last time we see him. I let him on the deck, trying to keep Greycie Loo from charging at him, chasing him off prematurely. Sooner or later, he's on the rail, on the roof, and off to what ever he does all day.
Evenings are unpredictable. We've tried to train him to recognize a dinner and breakfast bell. Sometimes he does show up on his own, often he's playing near by and is NOT ready to come in. Playing with him we coax him to the stairs to the unit, where he finally gets the idea that it's time for dinner, and trots up. After eating, he often spends the evening luxuriously sprawled on our empty bed, while Mr M and Greycie Loo keep us company in the living room.
* the ones folks around here call liquid ambers but i just called sycamores or gum trees growing up because we didn't have plane trees.
So, the cats.
We still miss Greybeard and Greybrother. Greybeard died a year ago at the beginning of October: it seems longer than just a year ago.
As i watch Mr M moving around, sometimes i see Greybeard in the curve of his back or how he settles down in a bed. Mr M seems to be shrinking a little, but i don't know if it's just that the youngster cats are shooting past him. He is still our Romeow, with rituals of affection, visiting us as Christine and i stand and kiss or hug, visiting Christine in the morning with his wonderful bass purr rumbling. I realize the tenth anniversary of his joining us is upon us: we brought him in off the Philly streets right after Thanksgiving, 1999. We didn't know how old he was then. We guess three. So Mr M is possibly thirteen. He rarely meows, only in complaint when being chased in off the deck or picked up when he wants to be left alone.
When he was sick earlier this year, i realized just how much his loving purr buoys me.
Greycie Loo has been with us two years, and it seems just like yesterday she was that tiny young cat. She's grown into a tall, leggy, bossy thing. She has the cutest way of yawning while meowing for breakfast in the morning, her triangular jaw opening wide to show her sharp, needle-like teeth. Otherwise, the meowing for breakfast is insistent and loud. She adores Christine, sitting or sprawling across Christine much of the day it seems. In the evenings Greycie guards the front door landing, paw prints cover the tall window where she stands and bats on the window, "Hey You, You Orange Cat, That's My Concrete Steps!" She's discovered that she can sit in my lap in the mornings and will come and ask to sit in my lap. She squirms around so that she can reach up and tap my face with a front paw. "Pay attention to me." I'm so delighted to have her pay attention to me that i do. If Christine walks in, though, her eyes go to Christine and i'm forgotten.
Edward is still a mystery, and Christine's motto towards him is, "He won't make me cry." He's not really our cat, no matter what we try. He's happy to have breakfast in the morning, but is often ready to go. He's got a very large vocalization range, barking and quacking and and long merrhoows. He's heavy and solid: it doesn't seem like he has an ounce of fat on his body. He's not as graceful as other lighter, more lithe cats. While he is quite strong, when he leaps to the roof it's not the teleportation that our neighbor's cat manages, but more human scale. So each morning, there's breakfast, and then a growing interest and urgency about getting out. (This morning, perhaps, he might be thinking about how it's been relatively cold.) I take him in to see Christine and get her blessing on his departure: i suppose we have a sense that it really might be the last time we see him. I let him on the deck, trying to keep Greycie Loo from charging at him, chasing him off prematurely. Sooner or later, he's on the rail, on the roof, and off to what ever he does all day.
Evenings are unpredictable. We've tried to train him to recognize a dinner and breakfast bell. Sometimes he does show up on his own, often he's playing near by and is NOT ready to come in. Playing with him we coax him to the stairs to the unit, where he finally gets the idea that it's time for dinner, and trots up. After eating, he often spends the evening luxuriously sprawled on our empty bed, while Mr M and Greycie Loo keep us company in the living room.