Tie me up and bite me

This true story was related to me today by Ilanka:

" Less than a week ago, on Saturday, I've adopted a cat called Kika, but she's already residing deep in my heart. Listen to this: Tuesday evening I came out of the Cinematheque in downtown Herztlia and started walking homewards. Standing on the sidewalk and waiting for the pedestrian traffic light to turn green by the city center junction, I saw Kika standing on the opposite sidewalk. Rapidly I crossed the street and approached her, though the traffic light was still red. I managed to lift her up but then she fought me and bit me. I was forced to put her down again and she immediately buggered off. Right after that, I phoned my daughter, Shani, asking her to bring along the cat carrier because Kika had apparently escaped and was now trying to find her way back home on her own. Shani retorted that I must be off my head since Kika was sitting just next to her as we spake. I felt enormously relieved and resumed my walk homeward. I walked slowly because I was still weak after the struggle with the cat and the bites I've incurred. Upon reaching home, I called up a nurse at the health clinic to ask for her advise. She recommended me to get to the emergency room for an anti tetanus vaccine. And that's just what I did, homies. So now I know, Kika has a relative in downtown Hertzlia who looks just like her; someone you don't wanna mess with. Just saying."

A tail of five cats

As the years go by, the tale grows taller. A tail of five cats. It may be too short for many and too long for many more. It's hard to satisfy all. But this is it:

Bonnie - Bonnie's tail has been stumped, be it by nature or by misfortunes of nurture. She never disclosed to me the exact circumstances. I like to run through her unnaturally short tail with my fingers. You can feel the ending is abrupt, lacking the usual arrow head tip. The tail itself may be short, but still fully functional, especially when it comes to restful positions. You's gotta love that lazy tail.

Wimbelina - A much more graceful tail, has all the necessary bits and parts. A very agile and versatile tail. It can stand fully erect when needed and can bend in all directions at rest or while performing exquisite balancés and brisés. Can also be tucked away elegantly under the owners trunk. A tail for all seasons.

Joely Pants - Thick as a rope and long as a whip. A frightful member. And yet, you see it mostly a tergo, when its owner is fleeing the scene. Any scene, that is. As the saying goes - God gives nuts to the toothless.

Norsky - Wonderfully designed splashy tail, grey like the overcast weather this time of year, indispensable to the overall structure of Norsky. On the down side, it's a high maintenance tail, difficult to keep clean and knot-free. Causes a lot of discomfort and grumpiness when you try to brush it. So you tend not to.

Aerial - A twitching and quivering tail, when the owner gets excited. Bendy like Beckham Victoria. Appears like a horizontal question mark while walking and at times almost broken, like a stick in water. The most intellectually challenging tail.

Aerial the mixer

Yesterday afternoon, while utilizing the last rays of sun this season can possibly offer to the noble purpose of sweeping the dirt off the sidewalk, I noticed a lady with two small dogs approaching. I immediately stopped sweeping to enjoy this rather rare sight and she too came to a halt, perhaps because I was blocking her passage. Be that as it may, we soon developed a nice little rapport despite being complete strangers to one another. While I was holding on to my broom she was keeping her hands busy with the leashes of two buzz cut and checkers colored lap dogs. Before long it emerged, we have indeed mutual friends; none other than our own special Aerial happens to be a frequent guest at the lady's home, not more than a few houses down the road. What is more, Aerial seems to get along surprisingly well with the two dogs. Naturally one is led to speculate as to why, if so, he has so many social issues with his fellow felines back home.

According to one far fetched theory, Aerial enjoys mixing the races and the genders and the species. Partly for fun and partly to enrage the clerics and the high priests of purity.

Another theory purports that Aerial has made a diabolic deal with the enemies of his enemies. But such a lovely cat would never ever do that. No f..... way

A third theory maintains that Aerial is suffering from some cat version of Capgras Syndrome that is turning life among his feline friends into a tormenting experience. And as a corollary, makes life among a different species soothingly cozy.

Lastly, it could be argued that Aerial is the eternal meanderer or a Wandering Willie, bored with the familiar and excited by discovering new territories and long lost branches of the family tree. At least in evolutionary terms...

Let us all applaud him!

Newly (and never before) publicized cat poem by TS Elliot in the Sunday Times

The gourmet cat was of course Cumberleylaude

The gourmet cat was of course Cumberleylaude,

Who did very little to earn his dinner and board,

Indeed, he was always out and about,

Patronising the haunts where he would find,

People are generous and nice and kind,

Serving good food to this culinary lout!

With care he chooses his place to dine,

And dresses accordingly, if he has time,

Tasting all that Neville Road offers,

With never a thought for anyone's coffers!

The best is only fit for the best he opines,

When he wants salmon, or duck, or expensive French wines.

Until one day when he will find,

All of the doors closed and the windows blind,

Then monocle and cane he will have to discard

And realise that hunting isn't so hard,

That mouse is tasty and starling sweet,

And that Neville Road is a bounteous street!

From dusk to dawn

Last night I for once slept soundly and uninterruptedly until like five twenty in the morning, no mean achievement  for a bloke of my seniority. Only gradually did it dawn on me, upon waking up, that the house had been turned into a site of carnage during my sleep. 
What finally emerged, without delving into too much of a traumatic detail: three different disaster locations around the house, contaminated with rodent blood and rodent leftovers and three matching piles of cat puke, some of it quite fresh. What a nasty awakening to the realities of death. It is in mornings such as this that the lack of servants becomes acutely felt. I was compelled to re-enact the part that Harvey Keitel aka Winston Wolfe "The Cleaner"  performed so well in Pulp Fiction, in want of a loyal domestic workforce. But although I had to clean up the sordid mess by my self, I was hardly alone. A bunch of impassive felines with a criminal record kept me company, eyeing my every movement with their disinterested interest. You get the picture, I presume.

The great exodus

Quite recently, we had a couple of visitors - Kim and Anne Britt who came to stay the night over on their way to snowy Norway, a country they partly originate from and partly inhabit. We are still munching on the chocolate, they kindly brought along. Thanks a lot guys! The cats, however, didn't take this sudden influx of strangers lightly. There was a short frenzy of activity amongst them that you might characterize as the big dispersal or the great exodus. I saw with my own eyes Wimbelina mount the fence and dash without looking across the street. She was totally incommunicado and oblivious to my attempts to halt her escape. The other cats just disappeared in the bush previously known as my garden. And Aerial is still going feral, haven't seen him for many days now. Hope you are good out there, mate. The cats kept low profile for the duration of the visit. Only Norsky came in close contact with the visitors slash invaders. He went so far as to thrust himself against Anne Britt's exposed leg. Perhaps he had an inkling that she too was a norse, just like himself. In any event, Anne Britt didn't actively resist his advances but instead just waited patiently for him to finish his business. Later, she avowed not really being into cats. But then, denials often contain the seeds of admission. Like exile and repatriation.



                                               

Truth and straying act signed

A truth and straying act was signed by Aerial this morning as a prerequisite to him being released into the open, where motor vehicles and other perils reign supreme. It was a short ceremony before a house of commons or differently put, a common house in the countryside, and it was performed with a wet paw. There was only one witness. The exact wording of the bill is still being worked over by the staff at the justice department. But its spirit is unambiguous: having a good time outside is arguably a feline right, but truancy will be not be tolerated ; conduct disorder is cute but getting real is cooler. So, do you think you can you do this for me? Well, do you, punk?

Balmorally speaking

Aerial strayed again for almost a week. I went out looking for him several times, but each time he kept his radio silence expertly. I found myself envisaging him in the past tense and composing all kinds of obits. Thinking how lovely he always used to be while still around. Just as I do now. But he chose to join the present tense last night, may the Lord be thanked.
This morning he was lying on my blanket and squeaking joyfully as I slowly descended the Glasgow Coma Scale. Then he threw himself supine at me and let me rub his hairy tummy. And then it happened: Without warning he performed a full blown Hitler salute with his right foreleg.  There was absolutely no question about it. This incident brings to mind the recent revelations regarding the English royals during the thirties. It appears, they all liked to do the occasional Hitler Salute during the hot summer days, when mounting a horse or shooting a fox was too demanding and they were all hard hit by stiff boredom. I don't think we should put much else into it. After all, sometimes, a Nazi salute is just..a Nazi salute... And besides, in the thirties, the Nazis where just a bunch of jolly and neatly shaven young men, who could beat up communists and jews all day long and still have a good time with their girlfriends in the evening. And those uniforms!
As to where Aerial had picked up his salute we may only venture a conjecture - there are several biker groups with Nazi sympathies in this area. He could have become a supporter in his absentia. Another, more remote possibility - he could have payed the English royals a visit at their dear paradise in the highlands. This is admittedly a far out conjecture. Yet, only border police can disprove it conclusively. If at all!

Freedom or food

Aerial is our sole freedom fighter at the moment. The warmer weather awakens in him the auld Wandering Willie. He will gladly renounce his grub for lengthy periods, even for days on end, to preserve his liberty of movement. I'm letting him personally out through the main door because he is so adamant about it. He displays his urge to leave the house so clearly that I feel it morally wrong to keep him within the confines of the house or the cat enclosure in the garden - with the other four cats. Whenever I move around the house he'll rush to the door, to let me know how intent he is on getting out now. His tale erect and crescent moon shaped and quivering a little with excitement. Once I'm about to let him out, he'll scratch the mat and arch his back in ritualistic fashion. Then he'll sniff in the air while standing by the door opening as if to get the latest molecular news carried by the wind from near and afar. Properly updated, he'll sneak stealthly along the walls and dissolve into one of the adjacent gardens.
Meanwhile the other cats are way more interested in a steady supply of food.  So much so, that they have forgotten all about the wider world outside. Frankly, they couldn't care less about it and are content with the occasional stroll in the garden between the all too frequent meals. And as for freedom, they seem to think of it as much overrated or as just another word for nothing left to eat.

Obelisks and pyramids

When we once in a blue moon have a visitor to this cat blog the visitor is represented graphically on a special stats display curtsy of Blogger, from the house of Brin and Page (first dynasty of Google). Sometimes the graph looks like a snub-nosed pyramid and sometimes like a pyramid still intact. From time to time the graph peaks like an obelisk or like an array of obelisks for no apparent reason. In case the obelisks are standing shoulder to shoulder on the display they create a kind a primitive pylon. A lot of freaks and Pharaohs enter the gate of the pylon when nobody is around watching. The wind also comes through and the desert sand. Lethe, the goddess of oblivion is doing her thing bit by bit and Bastet the cat goddess seems powerless to prevent it. What a dismal state of affairs!

Being and time

Whenever Wimbelina settles on my lap, she's settling there for good. To the uninitiated onlooker it may appear as if she only stays on it for a wee while, while the truth of the matter is, she never leaves it. Not if she can help it, that is.
In her own green green eyes, there are at most minor interruptions, some inconsequential matters on her to-do list to sort out and be done with ASAP before getting down to real business. That's when she'll settle and camp on and colonize my lap, tail, teeth and talons.
So sure is she of her vocation in life, that she'll react vehemently against any change to status quo. And so I can forget all about moving my limbs or stirring a muscle while she lounges on me, even at the peril of a blood cloth in my veins.
Should you thus find me someday right here, strapped to the same seat of torture, cramped in the same catatonic posture, you can guess the reason why.
The same way a thousand years are but a flickering moment to God, so are all unlapped moments to Wimbelina. They simply don't amount to anything much.BEING equals being on my lap. And having the good times while having them.