Her
name, which has been long forgotten in the slurry of fatuous nicknames, is Miss
Moppet. She suits it—a pert gray cat with spotless white stockings and breast.
There are faint tracings of khaki among the gray, which give her a mottled
look. Behind her ears and under her front legs the fur is long and curly, with
a greasy appearance which might come from being hard to reach and mostly
unlicked.
She
blends with her people’s house—a soft-pawed princess among the deep browns of
antique wood and leather, the various shades of dusky green on the walls, and
the rough natural stone tile the color of her left eyebrow. Not only does Miss
Moppet blend with the house, but she rules it with an aplomb unknown to any
human except one who lives a life petted and adored, without pause, from dawn ‘til
dusk.
There
is a certain imperious glare she wears at times. Her long slanting eyes grow
round, deep yellow orbs divided in the middle by a slender slit of black,
ringed about with dark fur which looks like kohl, artistically applied. Her
subjects watch her and snicker, but this does not diminish the unmatched air of
hauteur about her. The fact that one of her white eyebrow-hairs has a kink in
it doesn’t either.
Her
life is one of alternate frenzy and indolence. Early in the morning when her
oldest human—tall, yawning, with big hairy toes and a yearning for
coffee—stumbles down the stairs she is waiting, throwing disdainful glances
over her shoulder but eager for a gentle massage, enjoying the feel of his
wide-knuckled hands entwined in her fur and the sound of his low rumbling
whisper.
There
is a brief spate of wildness then, a few high-pitched yowls and the keen
enjoyment of racing across the wide wooden-floored hallway with the sound of a small
thunder and leaping to the windowsill in the kitchen where she can gradually
allow her fur to settle and her bottle-washer of a tail to shrink and begin a
slight spasmodic twitching.
Sleep—fuzzy,
warm, engrossing sleep—strikes her then and she settles on the rose-colored
velvet of her woman’s antique chair where, unless disturbed by the descent of
adoring children, she naps in comatose oblivion for hours.
Lately
she has become an ornithologist, as the elements conspired together to bring
her a new hobby. Six inches of ice and snow outside drove hordes of birds to
the feeder outside the schoolroom window. She waits with rear end wiggling
until several of the winged mice have settled their frozen feet on the red
plastic of the feeder. And then with perfect timing comes the sudden leap, the hollow
thud against the window, and the startled birds streaking for the sky in alarm.
It is the thrill of her day.
Two
of her people are writers, and she enjoys curling up in the sun (which
highlights in perfect detail each strand of whisker springing from just above
her curving lip) to the music of the faint clatter of fingers on keyboard, the
long pauses for inspiration, and the occasional groan.
There
are two professional musicians among her people, and she has slept through many
a scale and arpeggio, many an anguished hour of slow practicing. Currently
there are all the octaves and broken thirds of the Beethoven violin concerto to
lure her into sleep, but last month it was the soaring melody of the Saint-Saëns’s
Rondo Capriccioso.
By her luxurious presence she brings much
light and delight into the lives of the people around her, one of whom, in a bleak
moment of writer’s block, decided to sketch the furry puddle lying beside her
in the sun.
An
easy task, and enjoyable.
We all feel the almost unbearable urge to fit in somehow, to pull together the fringes of the world into place around us in the shape of family, friends, job, entertainment, clothing. We also have a sense that this is a symptom of the herd mentality and to be scorned, a shame which causes us to apply and reject the labels so frequently used: hipster, ghetto, nerd. But it is a universal necessity to belong. We seek esteem of whatever qualities in us we deem estimable--a hair cut, our ability with computers, holiness like a patched and shredded garment. Who we are often cannot stand alone. And I'm not sure it should. Fellowship is the basic emotional/spiritual need, the cry that goes deeper than Maslow's hierarchy.
We fill our time with gawking at the lovely scenery--the craggy majesty of the Mission mountains, the bleak plateaus of Wyoming, the lush Columbia River Gorge, and take turns pointing out bumper stickers (like my favorite today, "Where the HELL is Wall Drug?"), dilapidated buildings, interesting people, and unique vehicles. We read out loud--or rather, I do, since Michael's driven all but fifteen minutes of the six weeks--from short stories, or poetry, or "The Picture of Dorian Grey." We listen to music ranging from Tool to Dylan to Oscar Carcamo. We share visions and dreams. We argue, and make up.
