Let's try to reset the last month. Perhaps narrating my daily progress will wind up looking like Tristam Shandy's autobiography--getting further behind every day. But I will attempt it anyway.
About a month ago, I was in a frenzy of packing and sorting. Having returned from England (a lot more that needs to be posted retrospectively, I see), I now had to get ready for back-to-back journeys, to California and Michigan.
The young are light and frivolous and can journey halfway 'round the world with what they can put in a backpack. But as I age, I overpack. I imagine that by the time I am ready to journey to the next life, I will have to take most of the earth with me when I go--or, at least, 30 cubic feet of it.
Any way, when they detect signs of impending travel, the cats like cluster about for reassurance. Remedios, if she can, will sleep on my lap; Shiva will curl impossibly into his wicker basket. But when I am also typing, Remedios can't claim the lap, and has to settle for the basket on the dresser.
Herein lies a humorous tale.
For she had put herself happily to sleep in this location, when Shiva wandered in on what the poet once alluded to as little "cat's feet." So softly did he pad into the room that I never heard him. Nor did, apparently, Remedios.
But Shiva did not curl in his basket. Instead, he waited patiently for Remedios to move. And when she didn't . . . he--lightly, quietly--jumped up next to her.
This woke her just enough to scare the hell out of her--while leaving her in no position to argue, or even move much. Check it out:
I am not sure if you can see how vigorously (albeit, passively) Remedios is announcing her displeasure with this arrangement, but after taking a photograph, I thought it would be a good idea to wander over and offer comforting reassurance.
I was repaid with a reciprocation from Shiva, who wanted me to know that he was, himself, utterly and completely innocent, and had never in his life contemplated anything more menacing than peaceful coexistence. Really. Look into my eyes if you doubt me, he said.
Like a sensible cat--and I realize how strange an epithet that seems for Paxil--Remedios's brother had followed a prudent course of action. When Remedios first voiced her panic, he did what any intelligent male sibling would do. He ran away as fast as he could.
But four or five minutes later, the sounds had subsided. And, indeed, there were no raucous chase sounds. All in all, one had to admit, it was quiet . . . perhaps TOO quiet . . .
And, so, with the stealth for which he is famous (the only cat I know who has managed to fall off a table while sleeping at least six inches from its edge), he too padded into the room.
And, of course, he too wanted me to know all about his innocence. Look in my eyes, if you don't believe me, he said.
I took this as a sign that detente had succeeded, that there would, indeed, be peace in our time; and that I was free to travel west in order to renew old friendships and make new acquaintances.
These shall have to be narrated in subsequent posts.
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