Apologies to my livejournal watchers, as this will be a repeat for them. :3
I decided to clean out the images on my phone memory card last night, in a desperate attempt to give me something to do. I’ve always loved stumbling across pic dumps and a couple of these gave me a chuckle, so I figured I should follow kindergarten rules and share! You’ll have to forgive the quality of some of these, my camera phone is just one step above a daguerreotype.
Well, you didn’t think we weren’t going to have at least one picture of an animal, did you? Flora’s morning kitchen shenanigans now include table top supervision.
It’s time for the Oil Change from HELL!!
Alright, I find this hysterical, but I’m not sure who else will. This is my elevator at work, made by the Schindler company. Schindler’s Lift! HA HA HA HA HA!
This is my Grandmother. As you might be able to guess, she would probably kill me if she saw this picture. I snapped this one while helping her out one day. She’s waving at Melissa in Canada.
I took this pretty much just to brag. I took this about a two-and-a-half weeks ago. This is a shot from the table where I usually eat lunch when I get a chance to go outside. Obviously it’s looking back into the parking lot, but it;s under a great open concert shell like covering and those aren’t just random woods back there, that’s a nature preserve here. We have Owl, Dear, Hawk, Sandhill Cranes and pretty much every small bird in the area. When I took this it was about 78 degrees (25.5 C for you metric folks), dry (for Florida) and with a nice breeze. Yeah, it might suck in the summer, but it is freakin’ awesome the rest of the year!
This awesome pic is also my current Cell phone wallpaper. This is what happens when you leave your phone unattended at your desk while you’re working on your wife’s computer. Love you, baby!
And last but not least: yours fatly. The next time you feel the need to unload your frustration on some poor, unsuspecting Customer Service Rep, remember this.
Our once-shelter cat, Flora, brings me so much frustration, kitteny-cuteness and laughter everyday.
Flora is not at all like Cleo, who still lives in our hearts and minds long after her heart breaking battle with CRF. Cleo was the accordion cat; pick her up, flip her to her back, squish her a bit and she’d lay there lazily with a rather let me know when you’re done, ‘kay? expression. She was the sleep-under-the-covers-knead-your-arm-pit cat. She was also fond of sticking her little cat-mouth and nose in your eye or on your forehead after spending seven hours licking it, to sleep.
Flora is not a cuddle-cat. You have to handle a few friendly bone-deep bites and artery seeking claw swipes on your way to scratching her to turn her into melty-purr kitty. Flora doesn’t like to be picked up too much either. Unless, of course, it’s to pick her up and hold her to our kitchen doors so that she can see the outside.
She’s very much atypical Siamese in some of her behavior. There are some pretty insane boughts of energy where she’ll tear through one end of the house to the other as if the devil himself were on her tail. She sproings, too. Random things that startle her—you cough, sneeze, make a noise or something moves she isn’t expecting? SPROING! Up several feet goes the kitty cat.
And play. Lawd, does she play with everything. With feet, with my hair, with toes, with the strings on my pajamas, with the fifty some odd cat toys sprinkled all over the floor, with wires, attempts to play with the bird, pouncing on Raven’s tail. It is all very little-kitteny behavior that makes me grin like an idiot and laugh.
But there’s one little thing…One heart breaking little thing she will do from time to time that just makes me almost turn into mush.
You see, when we found her at the shelter, she was in a cage like every other cat there. In these cages, there is enough room for a cat to sit up, lay down, and enough room for them to use a tiny little paper litter box with water and food bowl near a wall. That’s it.
A lot of the cats were laying in their litter boxes, old ones and little ones alike. I guess that age-old mysterious attraction. Cat + box = bed of win!
Flora was no different when I came to her cage. She was all cat-muffined in her tiny little make-shift paper litter box, giving me sleepy/pretty eyes through the bars of her cage. She was so bastet-poised beautiful when she sat up and stretched when I said hello, I fell in love with her on sight.
But you see, on occasions after I change the kitty litter I will catch her sitting in it. She’s not using the bathroom, she’s not digging about or any of that—I will come ‘round the corner and peer down to see her giving me half sleepy/pretty eyes as she is either muffin-laying on, or sitting bastet pretty on the litter. Part of my heart squeezes a little when I see it and I am taken back, instantly, to when I found her on the shelter.
My mind wonders: Does she do it because she remembers the shelter? Does she do it and think back to her tiny little cage? Does she remember the sound of other cats meowing all around her, the smell of them and the sickness? Does she sometimes hear the sound of phones ringing and hold the memory of people passing by her cage everyday?
I think about this every single time I catch her sitting in her litter box looking so very far away. I bend down and pet her and tell her what a good kitty she is, but I cannot help but feel a knot in my heart.
I keep seeing all those other cats and kittens, sitting in their litter boxes, waiting for someone like me to come along and take them home.
Early evening Florida light streaming in through the dirt-stained glass of our kitchen’s double doors. Since it’s summer, Florida’s early evening light generally tends to waddle from bright through clouds, or bright yellow sun though clouds. It’s a particular shade of the sun too that you don’t see in the morning or afternoon due to the angle of things, all the shadows are long except for those in the kitchen. Electric lights above chase them away.
My cat comes silently stalking from around the corner with her tail straight but for the very tip, which always quirks to the left or suggests the shape of a stretched out question mark.
If I am at the kitchen window she will wind around my legs and make a high pitched, short kitteney sort of meow at the window. If I am not, she will make the same sound and then tilt her head over a dainty shoulder then up, expectantly at me.
I pad over in my bare feet and scoop her up from the bare terrazzo floors, letting her front paws dangle over me left fore arm and letting her tail and butt be supported by my right.
She’s tall enough to look out the window now and her pupils grow predator-huge. Her tail starts swishing back and forth, thumping over my stomach and hip as she stares at our back yard. Some times there are birds or squirrels and she’ll lift a paw excitedly to the window and chatter her teeth to make little purrrt-mew-meh-mew-mew? noises at them. Some times, there’s nothing in the back yard but she still watches it like it’s the best thing evar.
She’s warm and heavy in my arms. I always take the time to remember how pencil-thin and skinny she was when we got her from the shelter and compare it to how round, sleek, and solid she is in my hold now. She’s incredibly smooth; I imagine this is what silk or satin might have been created and fashioned after and her fur is always spotless. I am probably messing up the seven hours of licking she does every day to get her fur to lay just so but at that moment I don’t care and she doesn’t appear to, either.
And then she purrs. It’s not a loud purr like our other cat Raven, who sounds like she’s swallowed a diesel engine with some wheezing. Flora’s purr is deep in her chest and belly, more often felt than heard. You have to be very close or it has to be very quiet for you to hear it. She purrs and it travels up and down my arms, rumbles ticks lightly against my chest and that is when I wonder if this is what true peace feels like.
There are no expectations. There are no arguments. There are no judgments, she doesn’t care if I’m lumpy, having a bad hair day, or forgot to brush my teeth after eating something heavily sprinkled with garlic. There are no misunderstandings, no heated words by mistake, no yelling, no expectations, no broken dreams, no self-hatred or regrets. She is not human, there fore, I have no faith to lose in her.
People often wonder why I don’t have friends or wish to go out or wish to go through the rigmarole of finding them–I think it’s because I’d much prefer my kitchen window and the rumble tick of a contented cat.
September 30, 2017
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