Another One Like Me

In which we set out on a small journey, encounter a sage, and receive a gift.

I have never known a cat, or a toddler, who would not greet one of their own. The greeting may not always be friendly, but always there is acknowledgment. A fellow cat, a fellow toddler, is never ignored.

Watch two toddlers encounter each other in a room of adults. Each child may be oblivious to the other adults, save their own caregivers. Or not. Some children seem quite gregarious, greeting and interacting with everyone in sight, true sanguines. But even the shyer, more reserved toddlers will seek out other toddlers, will want to play, to interact. It's as if there's some deep recognition: another one like me.

In my decade of feral cat watching, I've noticed the same phenomenon amongst my feline neighbors. Let two cats pass one another in  yard or alley. They will acknowledge one another.  The greeting may be friendly: tails held vertical, at right angles to the body, happy sniffings and rubbings. It may be grisly: backs arched, yowlings and growlings and hissings, a display of force, a statement of territory. Or it may be something in between: an ear twitch, a rump wiggle, a tail flick. There are many gradations, and the language of cats is subtle.

Only humans know to shun their neighbors.

What Does Depression Feel Like?

• Everyone, will at some time in their life be affected by depression -- their own or someone else's, according to Australian Government statistics. (Depression statistics in Australia are comparable to those of the US and UK.)

When I was in my mid twenties, I read a novel called "Smart Women" by author Judy Blume. I don't remember, now, much of the plot. Something about three divorced women who became friends, the adventures and misadventures that resulted. Here's what I do remember: one of the characters, one of the women, had a complete and total nervous breakdown (as they called them then. Today, the preferred term seems to be "major depressive episode.")

At the time, I was divorced, living in a small town with three small children, juggling dating and parenting and career. I had a bright, shiny new bachelor's degree, and was working as a junior accountant in a public accounting firm, pursuing the CPA designation for all I was worth. From within that context, I read about this character's breakdown.

Morning of the Lynx

In which we consider a secret which some would keep from us.

Thursday's Child

You know, Gentle Readers, that I am not "a morning person." I may have mentioned that a time or two before. And yet mornings are often so full of wonderful surprises. I really should do morning more often.

This morning, I had no choice but to do whatever had to be done to get the carcass upright and rebooted and at least partially functioning by the really scandalous hour of seven a.m. At the latest. For things to work out optimally, I really, REALLY needed to be out the front door by six. A.M. Ante-meridian. Before noon. Morning. Oh my god.

How do people DO this? I used to do it, back in the day.

To Bear With Unbearable Sorrow

Don Quixote by Gustav Dore

"I come in a world of iron to make a world of gold." ~~Don Quixote de la Mancha

It's cold today; cold and gray. It feels more like November than March. I look out of my second story window, out across the street. Bare and bony tree limbs still reach towards a winter sky. Today that sky is devoid of color; thick clouds conceal a sickly sun. Where is the sun? Where is spring?

I know this feeling of chill today has more to do with my mood than with the season. It's forty-two degrees Fahrenheit today, not balmy by any means but certainly not bitter. Only a few weeks ago we were rejoicing when temperatures rose into the forties. Today that same degree marker seems cold, uninviting, unfriendly.

Spring is on the way. My perception of today as a cold winter's day is an illusion. My perspective from the second story window is flawed. Downstairs, outside, out in the garden and in the yard, signs of life, signs of spring are everywhere. The forsythia is covered with buds, about to explode into bloom. The lilac is likewise bursting with buds. Two timid purple crocus in a sunny spot have already lifted their brave faces to the southern sun. Daffodils and hyacinth have pushed green leaves up through the mulch. Even the mystery potted plant which lives in my upstairs south window has put out a little red, five petaled flower, the first after winter. Life is rich and wriggling down in the garden. It's only up here, facing north, facing the darkness, where things seem so dead and cold.

Saving Sasha

In which we read of fearful giants, the courage of a cat, and kindness richly rewarded.

Sasha in bed

He was starved. I have never seen a cat so thin, nor so afraid. Today as I write, he sleeps in a basket, on a cushion, long gray fur fluffed out, and a contented smile gracing his elegant face. His beautiful tail, a truly glorious tail, long and fluffy and fat, drapes across dark gray paw pads. He is a vision of catly contentment, and I smile, seeing him so. The sight is like healing oil on a parched and cracked heart.

Two years ago things were very different. It was late October, perhaps early November, when I first noticed him. It was feeding time for the feral colony, and there he was, in the biting autumn wind, hanging around at the edge of the group, crying. He was clearly terrified. Only his hunger drove him to us.

That tail, which now is so magnificent in its fat, furry glory, was like no tail I had ever seen. The fur was almost gone; it looked more like a possum's tail than the tail of a cat. Worst of all, it was ridged and lumpy. What I mean is there was so little flesh over the bones of the tail that you could see and count the vertebrae. He was starving. In his desperation, somehow he found us.