A Tide in Cat Affairs

Thursday evening used to be the most boring night of the week at Chatsford Hall because even though it's almost weekend, it's not quite enough to be getting on with. That all changed when one of the staff recommended devoting the evening to cat pruning. 

I realize, now that it's too late, that she meant well but was undoubtedly suffering from one of those empty-calorie, sugary drinks, the kind that caused all that unpleasantness in New York a while back. Ms. Wonder took the suggestion seriously and that put an end to the quiet near-weekend evenings.

Last Thursday, as I was putting away a stack of vinyl records, I noticed the handle of Beignet's hair brush sticking out from a chair cushion where he'd hidden it along with some of his favorite light reading. 

This Beignet is a largish, ginger and white cat of about the tonnage of Muhammed Ali when he faced Joe Frazier in that Thrilla in Manilla.

When I tell you that he loves this brush I am understating it. He can't get enough of the thing. Wants to keep it all to himself too. I've tried to convey the wisdom of the Middle Way but he has no control over this aspect of his life. He's powerless over the brush. I fret that, by brushing him so often, I'm enabling him to continue his addictive behavior, but what can I do? He's my cat!

While I stood in meditative trance, my attention focused on the hairbrush, his sixth sense alerted him, causing him to give voice. I turned toward that trilling soprano and became aware that a drama was brewing somewhere in all that fur. 

There he stood, wider and rounder-eyed than usual, and the expression on his face spoke of his inner feelings, a swelling enthusiasm that is all too familiar to the Genome. And I'll tell you the inner thoughts he expressed:

There is a tide in the affairs, is the way the thought begins--Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how much this Beignet admires the work of the Bard. The thought doesn't end with the tide in the affairs but continues, which taken at the flood, and we know of course that having the brush in my hand becomes to this cat, the height of the flood. Then comes the payoff, leads on to fortune. 

At this point, he no doubt thought, Here is the tide in the affair and an opportunity for a brushing and no time to lose. He moved forward. I moved back. It's the natural reaction when being chivied in that strong, silent, ernest manner characteristic of this breed--a fine Raggamuffin kitty. 

When I collided with the chair in the corner of the room, I was immediately aware that resistance was futile. There was nothing wiser than to get it over with. I raised my eyebrows to signify, "What about it?"

To leap onto my chest and press me into the chair was with him the work of an instant. He placed his paws on my shoulders and gave me a series of head butts. Then he gazed deeply into my eyes and said, Let's do this.

You understand that I had no choice. As soon as the strokes began, moving from the base of the neck, down the spine and not stopping until the tip of the tail, his expression changed to one both grave and dreamy. 

This expression implies that he is thinking deep and beautiful thoughts. Quite misleading of course. I don't suppose he'd recognize a deep and beautiful thought if you handed it to him on a platter of sardines. No matter. Not germane. I just mention it in passing.

If I could only convince this cat to read Jimmy Buffet instead of Shakespeare, he might become more interested in road trips and less interested in brushing. Sort of an intervention. I'd like to hear your opinion on the matter. Worth a try do you think?

Little Cat Feet

"What's the problem?" asked Ms. Wonder when she came into the dressing salon. It may have been my slow, careful movement through the sea of cats that prompted her question. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I said, "I remain, as always, the pert and nimble spirit you see before you."

"Before I what?"

Eddy Peabody

"Before you think of your own adjectives," I said. "And no more of the high-order repartee, if you please. I'm practicing fierce living like the dickens right now so don't try me too highly because I have a very small reserve this morning."

"Anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Do you have any American standard wrenches?" I said. "I need to replace a couple of vertebrate in my lower back--numbers 4 and 5. But all my wrenches are metric."

"Sorry," she said, "no wrenches."

"Well, number 4 is moving like the North American tectonic plate and bumping up against number 5, which is moving like the Pacific plate, and if the pressure isn't released soon, California is going to fall into the ocean."

"Is that what's bothering you?" she said.

"Why do you insist that something is bothering me?" 

"Oh, just thought I would," she said. "Bad dreams?"

"Not particularly. I slew all my enemies in my dream, and the interesting part is that I did it with the jawbone of an ass."

"Just drifting off station then?"

"I fancy so, don't you? Can't think of anything that's gone especially wacky in the last 24 hours. I suppose Princess Amy is just bored and thinking of all the things that might possibly go wrong, which of course would be everything as far as she's concerned."

Now, if you regularly attend the Circular Journey, you are familiar with that little clump of grey cells sitting in the middle of my head who goes by the name, Amy. You are also aware that Amy follows a line through the Red Queen from Looking Glass World, and you understand that when Amy is discontent, the Genome is manic.

I wrestled a pair of socks from the dresser and began to upholster the outer man. This requires delicate acrobatics for those of us who lack the full cooperation of the lower back, and as I rolled back on the bed to bring the feet closer to the hands, Eddy the cat developed an acute interest in the socks. His intentions were good, but it was not helping.

"Are you going to wear knickers under these pants?" asked Ms. Wonder eyeing the clothes I'd laid out.

"Of course, I'm wearing knickers," I said holding Eddy back with one hand and attempting to don the socks with the other. "Do you think me wanton?"

"It's just that I don't see any on the bed."

"I'm wearing them now," I said, "underneath the robe."

"I'll give him a treat," she said and after some intense concentration, I realized that she was talking about the cat.

"Oh, sure," I said, "reward him for keeping me sock-less."

"What are you going to do about California?" she called from the laundry room where the treats are stored. Eddy heard them rattle in the bottle and catapulted himself from the bed and into the ether, in the general direction of the laundry room.

"I think the great Eureka State will have to take care of itself. I've got about all I can handle with the situation here at Chatsford Hall."

"What's the situation here," she said, "other than getting dressed I mean?"

"Oh, you know--ordinary life," I said. "It isn't always easy, is it? Who can say why, really? It could be that the path deviates sometimes from the dotted line connecting A with B. Or it could be that the Fate sisters, those Great Aunts of the Universe, are busy dropping banana skins in our path. I lean toward the second line of thought, don't you?"

"Well," she said, "if it means anything to you, I have all the confidence in the world that you will get the new issue of the Happy Cats newsletter published today. You are the Genome, descendent of Ortho Gherardini, and when you make up your mind, look out Princess Amy."

"Besides," the Wonder said, "you have people who depend on you. Big and small people. Some of the littlest ones are the most important."

She smiled at the cats gathering round me now that she'd placed the bottle of treats in my hand. They were all there. Ben, Sagi, and Uma were at my feet. Abbie Hoffman was sitting high atop the cat tree and, Eddy the kitten, was walking about as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.

"I do have people depending on me, don't I?" I said lifting the chin and swelling the chest. "Thanks, Poopsie."

"Not at all."

Beignet and His Magic Sunglasses

The remnant of tropical storm Jazz was full upon us as I drove through Duke Forest on my way to an appointment at the university. The trees tossed their heads and waved their arms in a frantic frenzy, if frenzy is the word, exactly the way Shaka Khan used to do on Top of the Charts.

Leaves swirled across the road in great profusion. Blustery is the way I would describe the morning, yes, blustery is the mot juste. Not a small army of squirrels could have been camouflaged in those leaves. I drove slowly.

As the pre-frontal cortex navigated the storm-strewn road, Princess Amy, that almond-eyed little gargoyle, was seated at a corner table in the darkened recesses of my mind. She was seated, not too  near the band, of course, where she could keep watch for danger. 

She reminded me that Fox lurked out there somewhere waiting to spring one of his practical jokes. I suspected it would come in the form of a broken limb falling across my path but Amy wasn't so sure. Never know what to expect from Fox was her opinion. 

Amy seemed to overlook the bigger issue, which was that something just as wild and far more dangerous than Fox was out here in this forest. That wild and dangerous thing was me of course.

Most days when Amy is worked up I practice my training as a qigong coach to relieve some of the pressure and keep Amy calm. Take a deep breath I tell her. But today I was in full agreement that the weather forecast was gloomy and full of v-shaped depressions. I speak of the emotional weather. Gale force winds with thunderstorms possible are about how it was lining up.

Duke Integrative Medicine Library

Then I arrived at the Center for Integrative Medicine and entered the library, a work of art in wood, steel, glass, and stone. My body sat in a chair near the windows and waited there for a clinical study coordinator to call for me. 

My mind was immersed in a wonderful, magical experience that had calmed my frantic mind as soon as I walked through the door. Muted light from an overcast sky and the soft notes of a Native American flute enveloped me, the sound of the flute barely audible above the soothing sound of falling water coming from somewhere deep inside the building. 

It was a tranquil refuge from the storm.

My coordinator came into the room with a stack of paperwork and even that didn't faze me. I wasn't ready to quote Ben the Cat when he puts on his magic sunglasses--"The sun is shining. The sky is bright. Birds are singing. Everything's alright." No, I wasn't feeling that good but I did have a sense that although Fox still lurked, I was in a safe place for the time being.

Ben the Cat

Elizabeth, the coordinator, talked to me about the clinical study we'd just completed together, and her voice was soft and strangely alluring. I could have listened to her talk all afternoon. Eventually, the paperwork was complete and Elizabeth offered to give me a tour of the building. 

Of course, we actually looked at all the rooms, even the "practice" rooms where I've already meditated, qigong-ed, and yoga-ed. Then we visited one I didn't know about.

The Quite Room is where acupuncture and massage patients wait to be called for their therapy sessions. It's large and open, two-stories tall with a large skylight that allows natural light to flood the floor space. 

A bamboo forest grows on the floor of the room. Not in pots, mind you. Pots I could understand but these plants grow right out of the floor, which is covered in round, dark gray stones. 

One wall of the room is formed by a sheet of water that falls from the craggy heights of the ceiling and creates a curtain separating the Quiet Room from the administration offices on the other side. This is the source of the sound of splashing water I heard from the library.

The Quiet Room

Elizabeth pointed out a toy panda, sitting amidst the bamboo shoots in the far end of the room. She told me, and I would have believed anything she told me, that no one in Integrative Medicine is sure who moves the panda nor exactly when it's moved, but it's in a new location every morning--even on the weekends. 

This news intrigued me strangely. I felt the need to get to the bottom of this. Do you feel it too? I mean this could be one of those overlooked phenomena that hold the key to fitting Newtonian physics with the quantum variety. I'll look into it and report back.

Well, everything is impermanent, the Buddha used to say, which is one of those annoying announcements, of course, and is the reason why all right-thinking people want to avoid his company. And so was my visit to the Integrative Medicine Center impermanent. I had to leave. 

As I drove away, I was conscious that Princess Amy was much calmer than when I arrived. Her hand no longer hovered over the panic button. That's right, Amy, take it easy. I've got this.

Moonbeam Celebrations

Moonlight, calling to all unsleeping to come out and revel in its pearly luster, poured in the screened porch of Chatsford Hall. It had a magical glow. But to the Genome, much as he appreciates the beaming countenance of Sister Moon, it brought no cheer. 

The cypresses cast shadows across the lawns and gardens and white camellias peeked out of the dark shrubbery with their laughing gnome faces. Still, when I mindfully scanned my feelings, all I found were the emotions belonging to something that has been prepared for stuffing by a taxidermist.

Years of living life on life's terms and practicing Fierce Qigong have prepared yours truly for any catastrophe that comes his way. Like the Russian peasant who endures long, cold winters haunted by hungry wolves and empty vodka bottles, the soul has a hard protective coating. Left alone to his own devices, Genome takes on the appearance of Fate's spoiled darling.

But I ask you, with a week of no sleep and an overactive limbic system, can we wonder that moon shadows make no appeal? As I sat watching a scattering of clouds moving up from the south, a voice spoke to me from the north, saying, "Whatcha doin'?"

It was Sarah Lupe Louise sitting atop the table on the outdoor side of the porch screen. My gaze softened at the sight of her and I felt a soothing sense of relief because this young cat considers the Genome a source of perpetual goodness. You might say that she can't get enough of the Genome bouquet. 

Well, I don't have to tell you how effective is the medicine of the kind heart. It's the stuff to give the troops, if you want my opinion, just before they take the field to face the prowling forces of Midian. It makes all the difference.

"Can't sleep," I said.

"Too bad," she said.

"Want to feed me?" she said doing that little figure eight dance of hers.

"Too early," I said but somehow it didn't seem enough in the way of explanation. "It's only 3:00 AM," I added.

"Oh," she said, and calmly accepting my decision, she sat and began inspecting a paw.

Still looking for a solution to remedy the circumstances that I found so unsettling, I said, "I just don't know what to do."

"Nothing for you to do," she said.

"You think not?"

"Not in charge," she said. 

"No," I said, "I guess I'm not in charge, am I?"

"Jungle cat in the sky," she said.

"In charge you mean," I said, and then, still musing, I asked, "So what's it all about? Why do we bother?"

"Well," she said, "I do my stuff because I'm a cat."

"I see," I said, "You do what you do because it's what you were meant to do. Like dancing. You're a good dancer."

"Thank you," she said, "I also kill voles."

"Let's keep this conversation out of the gutter, shall we?" I said.

"You do human things pretty good," she said.

Something in her words, if they were words, seemed to go to the heart of the matter. I ratcheted up the musing to full-scale pre-frontal cortex stuff and I noticed that the inside feelings were a lot more agreeable.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"I could eat," she said and began doing a passable Electric Slide. 

I entered the kitchen and selected a fine quality New Zealand venison and after bunging the medium dose for the average cat into a bowl, I walked into the garden to give her an early morning snack. 

Life comes hard and fast for cats and for people, maybe even a little harder for cats, and it occurs to me that cats, like people, have little real value when they're sleeping among the stars. So why wait? Might as well celebrate today and what better way to do that than by helping someone else celebrate?

Nothing Remains the Same

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling of fingers walking up the thigh. You know the feeling I mean. My first thought was that if fingers are ankling up the leg, then the hand doing the walking belongs to the ghost that resides on the third floor of the Inn of the Three Sisters in the Genome's ancestral home of Crystal Cove that lies beside the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2001 - 2004

To face this ghost requires a steeled resolve if that's the term. Resolve has been in short supply in recent days so I took a moment to muster the will. Be still, I said to Princess Amy. You remember her. She's that almond-shaped cluster of gray cells that sits on her throne in the middle of my brain.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

I would be misleading my public if I said that the prospects of late have been more than bleak. The birds sang out of tune for a while and I'm pretty sure I overheard the bluebird talking about cashing in and retiring to Miami. But nothing is permanent, as the man said. Was it the Buddha? Shakespeare? One or the other of them seems to say just about everything worth saying. Have you noticed?

The turning point for me came last weekend while attending the sixth-grade performance of The Wizard of Oz, at Carrboro Elementary School. My grandson, River, was one of the production crew and I admit, when the play began, I was prepared to be bored. It didn't happen. No boredom. I could have been in the audience of a Broadway theater. Excellent performance. I highly recommend it if it comes to your neighborhood. It was the beginning of a different way of seeing the world.

Where once the birds seemed to be in an unending argument, today they sing as though Spring were around the corner. Actually, Spring is just around the corner but you know what I mean. I read somewhere that birds bid over the best building sites with their songs. Their little heads are filled with thoughts of homemaking and raising a family. It's a positive outlook and it's contagious. I too have a positive outlook and it's due in no little part to paying attention to birdsong.

Wen, the Eternally Surprised, my once and future martial arts master, taught me that life comes hard and fast and that the prudent person is ready for anything. How to be ready he never said exactly but I gathered that it required acceptance rather than resistance.

Though things came within a toucher of falling apart over the last few weeks, the flame of fierce qigong never died and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

The details of the affair, which my biographers will probably call, "Down the Waterspout at Midnight" are quite involved and need not detain us here. Suffice it to say that knotted sheets did not enter into it. Memories played a big part. That's all I'm going to say about it. Memories of sunshine and blue skies and birdsong. Sometimes memories are all we have.

It's good to be home again. There's no place like it.