Beignet Lafayette

I have the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year for three years running. He's nine years old and at 15.25 pounds, he's in mid-season racing form. If you think he's a bit heavy, then you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Ben, that's his name, Beignet Lafayette, is a child of the Neva River--that's my theory anyway. The Slavic soul requires a substantial body.  Not that there's anything wrong with felines that lack Slavic ethnicity. To be sure, all cats will keep the zombies away. Why even the kittens too small to walk straight and having tails that look like lint brushes will send the brain-eaters herky-jerking back to the cemetery if they come from a cemetery. 

So by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance there is that they will all be sleeping when the zombies start prowling.

When we were at the cat hospital earlier today, the vet suggested that we begin routine yearly lab workups to make sure Ben is around forever. None of us can imagine what life would be like without him, so he donated a little blood to keep us happy. He got one of those stretchy little bandages around his leg to prevent bleeding. Ever tried to remove one of those? Not as simple as it seems. The material gets all wrapped around and makes it hard to find the pull tab.

When we arrived back home, Ben had an agenda that included lots of socializing with the other cats. This takes a while, of course, sniffing, licking, marking, you know the drill. It must have been the same for Napoleon when reviewing the troops.

I cornered him and pretended to be interested in brushing him, which generally puts him in good humor and distracts him from what the other hand is doing. I found the bandage and began feeling around for the end of it. Ben tolerated about two seconds of this before changing position. I tried again with more determination. He matched my efforts with his own determination, which spoke volumes about leaving his leg alone.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I decided that bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves and took a deep breath.

Cat wrestling, like alligator wrestling, is best done sparingly and only in season. I lay on the floor for the best orientation and applied a hold that I call the front leg pass-through. Ben seemed to consider this a sign of affection and began purring. Then I reached for that bandage and pinched the leader solidly between the thumb and the first two fingers. I have a lot of practice at this and it was a good firm grip. I tugged.

It must have been the tug that did it. Ben shot out from under me like a crazed weasel and made straight for the doorway, keeping the body close to the floor and using the back legs for the heavy work.  Like the Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along by that bandage and slid smoothly along the hardwoods. Then he made a sharp right-hand turn and headed down the stairs.

Now, if the cherry floors were smooth, then the oak staircase was bumpy. And there are fourteen steps. I have, over the years, acquired the wisdom to know the difference in situations where I have control and those that I don't. I took the stairs with fair calm. Not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower levels, I would have more options. 

Now, some years ago, I went in for rock climbing, a sport that I'm sure you remember from your own youth. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I was thinking that the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with to stop or slow our forward movement, giving me a chance to free my fingers from the bandage.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath a sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast and that it sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, of course, and always keep in mind something I learned from our veterinarian... "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

The Witching Hour

It was the hour of the morning break and we had stopped at the Mill in Pittsboro to do a little tissue restoring. We had not planned to stop here. It was a spur of the moment thing. We'd come to check out the Roadhouse, which is in the space that was the General Store, but it was closed for the day. The African Art and French Antique's store wouldn't open for a couple of hours yet. The situation was one that threatened to have the Genome walking around town watching the big clock in the tower of the restored courthouse, which as I'm sure you don't have to be told is not a Genomic thing.

Wynd Horse was carrying us toward Southern Village when Ms. Wonder suddenly spoke. "Turn in here," she said and I did because the Genome is accustomed to making last second course corrections when the Orlov descendent is navigating. Never be surprised at anything life throws at you following an impulsive change in plans. When the path is abandoned, the stuff between the worlds spills out and gums up the works. It happens every time. It just goes to show that we are only toys in the hands of Fate. It's occasions like this that give people the feeling that the gods use us as pawns in a game of cosmic chess. They don't play chess of course. Monopoly is the game of the gods and they like nothing better than the card that reads, Do not pass go but go straight to jail.

A few minutes after making the turn we walked through the pollinator garden and entered a little room filled with cafe tables and original art. The original artist was hanging the last of her paintings. That she was the artist was evident from her conversation with one of the cafe patrons. That she was a witch was evident to me, given my experience and training--I earned a certificate of completion in Witch Finding at Durham Tech. It's true that it's sometimes difficult to distinguish witches from employees of the co-op in Carrboro but I have a knack for these things.

I don't often engage strangers in conversation but you remember that I am writing that book and I seem to have misplaced my witch--the Woodcroft one--and I desperately need some advice and suggestions on the selection of the precise words. Nothing more important than the mot juste for a writer. Words have power, you see. When you express something, you put your energy into it and that energy grows and becomes manifest in the physical world. Take the words, let there be light, for instance. Simple enough if you're looking for simplicity and in the right context, very powerful.


I'm not new to writing or anything like that. I've been published many times and so I'm confident that my words are good enough but good enough isn't gong to make the ideas in my book contagious and that's what I want--viral ideas. A book must have sex appeal to become popular today. It must have a sexy theme or be set in a sexy locale. My words just aren't sexy enough.

I've trained myself through fierce living to stay grounded in the here and now and interrupt the limbic system and the stuff that filters up from the sub-conscious. I remain rooted in the cingular cortex and the ideas that get dredged up through analysis just aren't sexy. Witches, on the other hand, are connected to the ground of all knowing and they're in touch with the stuff that lives between thoughts. My witch, the Woodcroft one, just happens, as Fate would have it, to be a writer.


You can easily understand then why I took action so out of character. I said a quick prayer, commended my soul, if it is a soul, to God and spoke:

"Nice work," I said.

"Thank you."

"I especially like the night gardens. Love the one with red poppies and full moon," I said.

"One of my favorites, too," she said, "They were fun to paint."

"Allows you to enjoy the nighttime gardens even in the daytime," I said.

She gave me a look. Quizzical might describe it. Made me feel the moment for applying the old oil was past and time to roll up the sleeves and get down to it.

"I wonder," I said, "if you know Gladdis of Woodcroft?"

"Who?"

"Gladdis," I repeated, "Witch of Woodcroft."

"No, I don't. Is she an artist?"

"Writer," I said. "She and I have a little support group for word-craft and I seem to have misplaced her. I thought you might have heard of her. You know, small world and all."

"I don't get it," she said and I noticed that her voice had taken on a bit of frosty timbre. "You seem intelligent enough for a man, so why are you asking me, a total stranger, if I know your friend?"

"It's just that I've written this book and reviewers are waiting but it lacks something. It speaks the truth and all that, just as Stephen King advises, but it lacks that certain something, which Seth Godin says makes all the difference. In Hugh McLeod's words, it just isn't sexy enough."

"Sexy?" she said and the jaw seemed a little tight, the lips a straight line. It wasn't going the way I'd hoped. In my mindfulness practice I've come to notice when feelings first begin to stir and what was stirring now felt like hell's foundations quivering. I was conscious of doing a little dance.

"Witches seem to have a way with words," I said, "and I was hoping that Gladdis could offer some help with my wording to give it some zing."

"Ah," she said as though she'd suddenly found what was lost, "are you Genome?"

I stopped dancing. Now it was my turn to wonder what the hey. Before I could put a response together, she began laughing and shaking her head.

"She's told stories of you at the local gatherings. We only allow her to attend if she doesn't talk about Rogue Star. You won't find her though. She's not around. We did an intervention?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "did you say intervention? Is Gladdis a drunk?"

"Oh no, she doesn't drink much. It was that book of hers. It's past 1200 pages and still going. She's powerless to stop writing. We had to do something. Carrboro said her family did one for her brother and it worked for him. So we did a spiral dance, confronted her and convinced her to get into rehab."

"Carrboro?"

"A witch's work is specific to her location. We know each other by the communities we serve."

"Oh, right," I said, "but where do you send someone to recover from writing addiction?"

"She's staying at the Inn at Something Falls," she said.

"But that's not a real place. That's in the world she created in her book."

"Oh, it's real enough," she said. "There's no such thing as fiction in a witch's words. Just speaking or writing them make them so. You should know that. Anyway, she's staying there under the watch of the innkeeper who thinks it's a great idea. If it works, it could mean a new market for the inn.

I had a strangely disconnected feeling. Napoleon must have felt the same when his attaché gave him the news that Nelson had sailed into Cairo with the British fleet and set the French ships on fire.

"I can get a message to her, if you like but she can only reply to your via twitter," she said.

"A tweet?" I said.

"Yeah, we think it's the safest way for her to communicate. With 140 character limit we hope it won't trigger her to indulge her habit. It's the first page that does all the damage."

"I see," I said but I didn't really. "Would you ask her what I can add, some little story maybe, to make my book sparkle. She's read the draft." I added as though that explained something.

"I'll pass it along," she said. "You might expect a tweet later this afternoon."

Just as she predicted, later in the day, the first few bars of Inigota Divita alerted me to the receipt of a tweet. It was from #gladdis@roguestar.

"Save child from runaway horse."

I replied, "What do you mean, save a child from horse?"

Her response came right away, "Can't miss. Huge box office."

I tried to get further clarification but nothing came back. She must have a limit on on tweets from rehab.