Blog comes on little cat feet
HELLO? MR. SCATTER? ANYBODY HOME?
to evewybody else: shhh! be vewy vewy qwiet. let’s see how long it takes mr. scatter to notice i’ve posted something.
(hey, what’s up with the dreadful new digs?)
*****
Behold. My own blog sign-in. Not that I have bloglegs to go with it. I’ve had the superblogpower for a while and have been mulling over the perfect first post. Big? Little? Not that the passing days mattered a wit because I didn’t have time. As I kicked around ideas and poked in the cobwebs of my inner files, I kept coming back to a quiet little place I think of as a beginning. It’s my cat, really. My timid, sneaky she-cat.
It’s not my he-cat. He often lies in a basket next to me as I work. That is, when he’s not rubbing his white hair against my black pants and clawing my thigh. By most accounts, he’s a demanding brat. He’s big. And loud. Though I find his penchant for carrying around little stuffed animals adorable, I’m not so keen about his nosings-around on the kitchen counter.
She, on the other hand, takes off for days. She goes back to the old stomping grounds a few blocks away. Sometimes she walks home with me at night. But only if it’s really black outside. Even in the dark, she skirts the edges and the byways. She comes to me sideways and looks up past me. If she lets out a soft little trill my heart skips. Because it’s so hard to come by.
I pick her up and hug her to my cheek and smell poetry. Elusive. Mysterious. A silence like no other. A wellspring.
She disappears. But she always comes back to me. She bumps her forehead against mine. I smell the rich loam buried deep in her fur. This is how we say hello. She lets out a soft little trill.
She is where I started to write a few years ago.
A sweet little poem came out. And then a funny thing happened. It became a prelude. This is how it went.
Two cats: A prelude
One is strong and cocky.
He jumps on the counter
when he knows it’s wrong
and dines fine
in a beam even,
meowing loudly.
He rubs my thigh
broadside
and laps my love
no matter what.
The other is quiet and shy.
She slinks in under shadow
and finds food
in the dark.
Curled in a hollow,
she sleeps in the small space
pressed next to me,
speaking nothing.
In the night
when all is silent
I touch her softness
slowly
stroking
and she carefully
turns her belly bare
to meet my hand.
February 11th, 2010 at 4:18 pm
The cat as muse — how grand! Wasn’t it Henry James who wrote with his cat across his shoulders?
About the new real estate holding — my question is why the big empty space in the upper left hand corner? If this were paper I’d use it for sketching.
February 11th, 2010 at 8:12 pm
Henry James? LaValle, are you baiting me? You are, aren’t you? You’re totally baiting me!
February 11th, 2010 at 9:54 pm
Voice and I both think a shoulder cat is in your future.
February 15th, 2010 at 3:18 pm
Mrs. Scatter neglects to mention that this timid little furball often demands to go outside at anywhere between 1 and 5 in the morning, and that often she makes this demand of Mr. Scatter, not his spouse.