Goin' Down to Mama's

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #26

What's that you were "just wondering"?
Wouldn't it be "super fun" to have another cat?
Wouldn't I "just love" a new buddy?

Let me say this very slowly—feel free to write it down:
I DON'T DO SHARING.

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #25

As a blissful summer afternoon fades into early eve, and birdsong gives way to the chirping of cicadas, you can hear the laughter of children at play, the conversation of neighbors coming together for a chat over the fence.

 

In moments like these, I like to pause, take it all in, and say, from the innermost depths of my heart . . .

 

 

KNOCK IT OFF!

I'M TRYIN' TO SLEEP HERE!

Charlie Bird, Where Are You?

Daddy and I had a little time to visit late Sunday afternoon, while Mama was off helping with Vacation Bible School. (Their theme is "The Wild West," and she has been stressing over how to create cowboy-themed refreshments. I told her it's all in the name. Kool-Aid becomes "Texas Tea,"  and hot dogs become "Bunk House Dogs." It's all about language.) Anyway, Daddy asked me why I've never written about Charlie—not Charlie the horse (may he rest in peace) but Charlie the bird. (One more digression, and then I'll focus. Daddy names everything Charlie. It is his very favorite name. When my baby cousin Dane was toddling around, Daddy would look at him and say, "Now, ain't he the cutest thing in the world? Reckon why they didn't name him Charlie?")

Back to the bird. Years and years ago, a baby bird fell out of its nest—near my parents' driveway, I think. Daddy being Daddy, he initiated rescue procedures. The bird wasn't injured—no broken wings or anything—he was just too little to fly. Until Daddy reminded me, I had forgotten that we had to wait for him to grow up a little before we realized he was a robin. I say "he" because Daddy named the bird . . . Charlie. Of course. He made Charlie a nest out of a plastic margarine bowl and put it in the window sill in the kitchen, I guess so the little bird could see out and watch the big boys fly around the yard, thus learning how to flap his wings. At first, we hand-fed him tiny pieces of bologna dipped in water. It took him a little while to catch on, but soon he would see one of us approaching his nest and pop that little beak wide open. As he grew bigger, he graduated to fishing worms (Daddy's effort to acclimate him to his natural diet.)

We would cup Charlie in our hands and pet him and help him out of his butter-bowl nest so he could hop around on the kitchen table. Then one Sunday, we came home from church and he was on top of my old upright piano. Mama, Daddy, and I all said it at about the same time: "Charlie can fly!" Soon he was flying all over the house, so we took him outside and gave him a gentle toss up in the air, and away he went—but just for a second. Those first flights were short hops, as Charlie did a turn or two very close to us and quickly returned to the safety of his family:) But we kept it up, and his flight plans became more adventurous. With every takeoff, he flew wider and higher circles. For several weeks after Charlie moved outside, we could go out into the yard and call him, and he would fly down from wherever he was and light on the nearest shoulder. 

Eventually, though, the call of the wild called Charlie, too. He stopped coming when we called. No more flapping of wings as he sailed down from high in a pine tree to greet us. But that's how it should be.

Epilogue: My mother is a certified "bird lady." She sets a full buffet for them on her deck every single day. And when I watch them nibbling away at that bird seed, I like to think they're Charlie's friends and family. I like to imagine him telling them, "It's a family-owned place, and the food is great, but you better get there early to beat the crowd."

[Image by Dwight Tracy at Freerangestock.com]

Welcome Home, Catsy

Meet Catsy, the newest member of our household. Actually, she won't come any closer than the deck—yet. But gimme time. As you may know, my beloved Hank the Cat is respectfully named after Mr. Hank Williams, Sr. When he started getting regular social calls from this raven-haired beauty, I told Dave we should name her Patsy Cline. He said "Catsy" would be more appropriate. There you go. Catsy was rail-thin when she showed up, and as for her coat—well, let's just say this scrappy kitty was in serious need of a trip to the Tres Semme hair salon. But now she has discovered the joys of Fancy Feast and is looking fitter by the day. Catsy does not have a dainty appetite. Even now, when she knows she can count on me for breakfast, dinner, and dry food in between, she will eat anything that isn't moving—all of her food and anything Hank leaves over, along with any snacks she can cajole out of me with that stare. One of my cousins is surely laughing at me right now. I don't believe in calling loved ones out on my blog, so for the puposes of discussion, we'll just call her "Kathy Rowe Elliott of Daphne, Alabama, mother of two, grandmother of one-and-a-half, graduated from CVA." There. I think I've done all that could be expected to protect her anonymity. Kathy says I have turned into Aunt Eva, who was the most devoted animal lover in our family. Aunt Eva had a dog named Poochey, whom she adored. Every time Kathy hears me carrying on a conversation with Hank the Cat, she'll say, "Well, listen to Aunt Eva talking to Poochey!" I would defend myself if I had a leg to stand on, but I don't. Several years ago, Hank had another stray friend, even more skittish than Catsy, whom I named Leota. I tried everything to coax her into the house. One summer night, I had left the kitchen door open so she would come in for supper. Our kitchen opens into the living room, where I was playing the piano. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leota slowly walk toward the music, lie down at the edge of the living room, and do something she almost never did in the presence of humans . . . relax. As I recall, she was particularly fond of "Harlem Nocturn." Once you've played the piano for a cat, there's really no helping you. I guess I just think there's a special kind of joy that comes from making an animal happy, from watching a dog or a cat transform from hungry and scared to couldn't-eat-another-bite and ain't-it-good-to-be-here. And as for Kathy? Who is she kidding?! That woman has personally given medical attention to a wounded SQUIRREL! I guess the two of us were destined to serve on the board of trustees at Club Poochey. And that would make Aunt Eva mighty proud.

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #24

Whenever I encounter those who fail to see my point of view, I find it's always best to take the high road, to give them all the respect and validation they deserve.
It looks something like this . . .

"I'm OK, you're OK"? Yeah, right. Try "I'm OK—now go away." 

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #23

In moments like these, one must paws, look deep inside oneself, and say, without judgment or regret:

"Seems like a big waste of energy to walk all the way to my litter box."

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #22

Who knew a 4 a.m. breakfast would totally wipe me out? Lesson learned.Always commence ye ole poke-her-in-the-face-with-paws routine at 3. That way you can squeeze in a longer nap before lunch. And she probably needs to get up early anyway.  

Daddy Says: "He's Cunning"

Daddy recently experienced the famous Hank Psych. Clearly, he wasn't ready for it. He's used to dealing with dogs—those loveable, glad-to-know-you-and-how-can-I-please-you creatures. No match for a cat of Hank's caliber. It all started with kindness, on Daddy's part. (Immediately, Hank picked up on this sign of weakness.) We can't leave the cat door open at night because of raccoons in the neighborhood, so Hank has to stay in or out. (And he knows he can count on me to make sure he gets inside before I go to bed for good.) Like me, he is intensely claustrophobic and can't stand to be in something (even a house) unless he knows he can get out. So when we have to be away, I make him multiple warm, roof-covered beds on our deck—some down low, some up high, so he has choices—and our sweet neighbors see to all his dining needs. But near the end of this trip, the temps were scheduled to dip down into the 20s, and Daddy knew I had enough on my mind without worrying about "a cat." So he came over and spent the night at our house—and set about trying to coax Hank to come inside with him. With the exception of Mr. McKinney next door, whom Hank adores, this cat doesn't care for men. So Daddy has never been able to persuade him to come inside for guy-bonding over Animal Planet. This time, though, he was determined:

Daddy: It took a while, but I finally coaxed him inside with his food and some cat treats, and the minute I had him, I covered up that cat door. And I thought to myself, "I've gotcha now! You ain't goin' nowhere!"

Me: Mm-hmm. How'd that work out?

Daddy: That cat is cunning. You can't believe how cunning he is. He's the cunningest cat I've ever seen in my life!

Me: Do tell.

Daddy: Well, first he stood at the cat door and did this pitiful meow. So I tried baby-talking him, trying to settle him down. Then he came in here with me, and of all the purring and rubbing his head against my hand and ACTING like we were FRIENDS. I mean, he had me believing he LIKED me. 

Me: Sounds about right. Then what happened?

Daddy: Well, then he went back to the cat door and looked back at me with that pitiful meowing. So I figured, now that he really likes me, I can let him out and he'll come right back in the house—you know—because we're friends now. So I opened the cat door.

Me: Didn't see him again, did you?

Daddy: Shot out of there like a rocket and never looked back. 

The moral of this story: Never trust a cat who suddenly behaves like a dog; he's up to something.

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #21

You will encounter, as you journey through life,
those who would seek to impose their will on you, 
to mold your thoughts . . .
to control your behavior . . .
to dump a big ole' rain on your parade.
In such cases, I recommend 
a polite "no, thank you." 
Allow me to demonstrate:

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #19

Never underestimate the power of nonverbal communication. Here, for example, I, Hank the Cat, am transmitting a message to The Help:
"Enough with the typey-typey. It's ME TIME!"