Archive | Cat Lady Matters

The Church of Healing Paws

It is a gorgeous fall Saturday but I don’t mind writing all day. I like holding the world slightly at bay as I type by the window, the wind drifting in, gently smoky. It is, however, difficult to finish an essay while Gracie is holding my hand. I’m no complaining, though. It’s hard to resist a cat who likes to hold hands. And she does, she really does. She holds my hand when she is proud of me. She holds my hand when I am sad. She holds my hand when she is afraid of the thunder. She holds my hand just to establish I’m her person. She held my ex’s hand, until she began to sense she needed to emotionally protect me. It always broke my heart when I’d encounter the two of them watching TV and calmly holding paws. It broke my heart more when they stopped.

I honestly think this predilection of hers stems from the reiki certification classes we attended when we were trying to help Max, my now-departed white tiger. It sounds far-fetched but during those sessions she sat on my lap and listened closely. She even has a little reiki diploma now. She’s a reikitty! Imagine the possibilities: She could open a business. She could call it Healing Paws. She mewed indignantly when I typed that last sentence but why not? It’s about time Little Miss started contributing financially to our household. We Rosman Girls aren’t meant to just sit around and look pretty.

The Ecstasy of Influence and Figs

September Saturday morning: Dressing like a camel lady (flannel plaid shirt; long print skirt; beat-up Birkenstocks, albeit silver ones). Digging on Prince channelling Bonnie Raitt through my kitchen speakers. Carmelizing figs with honey and sliced almonds and sea salt and thyme. Spooning it all in with a splash of sheep’s milk yogurt on the fire escape. Trusty grouch-kitty sitting pretty by my side. My early-morning life, thus framed.

Nobody Died in Today’s Paper

It’s the last day of summer, unofficially at least, and only now have I tackled enough of the shadows looming over me to relax. That’s life, I suppose, and as much as I don’t mind work—as much as I love work, even—I’m aware a change of pace would do me well. My patience is worn to the bone; I can scarcely suffer anyone, let alone fools; and I’ve become a Grim Jim, a Prince Charmless, a true Pill-ar of the community. Still, it’s nothing a break wouldn’t cure, and when I pay off all my debts and refill my bank account, I plan to take one—a good one, a long one, a very, very quiet and briny one.

In the meantime I travel within my finely feathered city, orchestrating the sort of adventures that have been the mainstay of my existence here since I was but a lass. Yesterday I wandered through the flea market on 76th and Columbus, a neighborhood that typically gives me nose bleeds. There, among the throng of normcore nudniks and old ladies in purple hats, I excavated an art deco pocket watch, a spangled parrot brooch, and a tiny painting of sea and sky whose beauty was obfuscated by a homely brown frame. This morning I painted it white and cream while watching an old screwball comedy. (And after you shot your husband, how did you feel? I felt hungry!) Grace supervised, her tail twitching in my face. The neighborhood pigeon with a neon stripe yapped outside the window. And the wind blew in, setting aflutter the curtains I hung myself.

Small pleasures, all of them, but no less real for their scale and certainly no less mine. And thus this season comes to a bittersweet end. Here’s to a brilliant Fall for us all.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy