August 10, 2020

Tuesday. Sorry, journal, neglected you the last few days. Busy with Mouse King shit. Oscar kidnapped another mouse, and Mouse King was beside himself. I told him to chill. First, of all, I said, I will deal with Oscar. Secondly, what are you going to do, go to war with the cats? So shut the fuck up and let me deal with this.

For compensation, we let the mice run wild in Mr. Blivet’s house yesterday. Kill two birds with one stone, if you get my drift -- got the Mouse King off my back, and dealt out some payback to that perv.

Oscar, I dealt with through six-toed persuasion.

Mr. Bassett Horne visited today and gave Roderick another lesson. Overall it went well. They went over everything: scales, long tones, etudes, orchestral excerpts, and the Crusell. Roderick’s been practicing a lot lately, and it shows.

Roderick complained about the Crusell. He’s bored with it already and wanted to know if he could play a clarinet concerto by a more notable composer like, say, Louis Spohr.

Mr. Horne laughed and told him to stick with the plan. If he wants to ace the audition, he needs total command of the piece -- otherwise, nerves will kick in and he will make a mess out of it. He also let Roderick in on a secret -- Lake City has lots of Finnish-Americans, and those Finns really support the Philharmonic. So playing a piece by Uusikaupunki’s most notable composer will be points in Roderick’s favor.

I mean, you can only play Finlandia so many times.

Besides, nobody wants to hear anything written by Louis Spohr. Ever. Mr. Horne is full of useful advice like that.

Downstairs, Cora Anglaise chatted at length about making reeds and complained about Richard Strauss’s inability to write for the heckelphone. She bored the Smiths to tears.

Just five more days to Surströmming Day! I can hardly wait.

All for now.

August 6, 2020

Friday. The Smiths met the Blooms for dinner at the Red Trolley this evening, as they do every Friday. I didn’t tag along.

Instead, I met Pia in the hedge. No, we didn’t copulate, she’s not in heat. Mostly we chatted about Surströmming Day a week from Sunday. The Smiths accepted, and so did the Blooms. Megan Cupcake will be there -- her parents aren’t very sociable. The Witherspoons are coming, and so are the Clappers.

I shared the latest gossip with Pia. Ruffles, the gray Persian who lives with the Blivets told me that Mr. Blivet is banging the au pair. Pia laughed. 

She said that she keeps seeing Natasha hanging out with the Kulturpunkz, and what’s that all about? I explained: the Kulturpunkz dress nicely, eschew drugs and premarital sex and drive around town in their low riders playing the music of Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn. Drives their Boomer parents crazy. The parents think their teens should be snorting coke and sodomizing one another in the Beauneville Latin staircase while listening to Fuck tha Police.

I told Pia how Bibi slept over last month and in the morning walked into the kitchen stark bucko naked. We laughed and laughed.

“At least we know she’s a natural blonde,” I quipped.

Pia nearly wet herself. “The carpet matches the drapes!”

All for now.

August 5, 2010

Thursday. Molly came over today to practice the Crusell with Roderick. That went well. When they finished she did a little impromptu recital of Bach’s Toccata in F-Sharp Minor (BWV 910). It sounds so much better on a modern piano than on a harpsichord. Purists insist on using clunky old harpsichords that sound like shit because Bach didn’t have a modern piano. You know -- “muh authenticity.” Well, nobody cares about your authenticity. Just play the damn music and make it sound good.

She played the Fugue really fast. It was mesmerizing, really, watching her long fingers fly. She didn’t miss a note. When she finished I jumped in her lap. That was fun. Molly thinks cats are icky, and she acts really awkward when I do that. Like, she has to stifle the impulse to shriek because Roderick will laugh and call her a wuss.

All for now.

August 4, 2010

Wednesday. Still bummed about Dad’s exit from this mortal coil.

Dreamed about him during my morning snooze. I’m walking through tall grass somewhere, when I see Dad, just sitting at a bus stop. He chats for a while, pointing to some birds and talking about “his birds.” Then he stands up again and says he has to cross the river. A bus arrives, and he boards. At that point, I woke up.

I know, the symbolism is obvious. But there it is.

When you’re a kitten, you’re carefree. You know that Mom and Dad are there to protect you and see that your needs are met. Then you grow into adulthood and you figure wow, I’m independent now. I don’t need my parents.

Then a parent dies, and it hits you: you really are on your own. You knew this, but you didn’t know it. Dad’s not going to protect you from coyotes and small children, and Mom’s nipple bar is closed. You’re going to have to fend for yourself in a difficult world.

I spent a lot of time today staring out the dining room window. 

Grandma was here today, making applesauce. The early apples are coming in now. The orchards surrounding Beauneville produce a remarkable cornucopia of apples. For pink applesauce, Beauneville cooks use Early Redbirds; for golden applesauce, they prefer the ancient Yellow Transparent. Grandma uses the local Beauneville Golds or tart Gravensteins. 

For eating apples, Beauneville denizens savor the tender and juicy American Summer Pearmain; the cute Carolina June;  the beautiful and historic Chenango Strawberry; the modern Ginger Gold; the greenish-yellow Hightop Sweet, known to the Pilgrims; the Lowland Raspberry, a Russian apple known in Germany as the Lievlander Himbeerapfel; the patented Pristine; and the distinctively bright red William’s Favorite. 

Down at the cider mill, they take all of the Bell’s Favorite and Yellow Horse apples they can get. And, of course, there are plenty of apples for pie: the Moses Wood apple from Maine, the aptly named Spice Sweet, and the strikingly beautiful St. Lawrence.

Beauneville denizens are mad about apples.

Chatted with Pia later in the afternoon. The Ericsons have invited the neighbors over a week from Sunday to celebrate Surströmming Day. Pia says they have a can of Mannerströms, the Rolls-Royce of fermented herrings. They also have a couple of cans of Oskars​​​​ Surströmming. I believe that’s the Fiat of fermented herring.

Anyway, I can’t wait. I like to eat fish. Pia says I may be in for a bit of a surprise, though. I don’t know what she means.

Roderick practiced hard today. Lots of scales and long tones and orchestral excerpts. Mollie came over after dinner to play the piano reduction of the Crusell while Roderick played the solo. Lots of work to do, but they made it through the first movement without a complete fail.

All for now.

Journal Entry: August 3, 2010

Tuesday. They buried Dad today at the Kitty Rest Haven. I left some catnip on his grave.

Mr. Bassett Horne returned for lunch today, without Cora Anglaise. The Lake City Phils are doing Eine Alpensinfonie this weekend. She’s at the bottom of the double-reed pecking order at the Philharmonic, so she has to go get the lupophone.

Such a damn nuisance. All because Richard Strauss didn’t know how to write for the heckelphone.

There’s some exciting news: the Lake City Youth Orchestra has an opening for a clarinet this year. Auditions are in six weeks. Mr. Horne thinks that Roderick should go for it.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith think it sounds wonderful, but Roderick hesitates. He's never auditioned for anything and isn't sure if he's up to it. Mr. Horne says he'll coach him every week until the audition. He also let him in on a secret: he’s one of the clarinet judges, so he knows exactly what they will want him to play.

Ain’t meritocracy great?

After lunch, Roderick grabbed his clarinet and they set up again in the living room. I assumed my customary position on the ottoman. After scales and an etude, Mr. Horne showed him the symphonic excerpts he should work on for the audition: Beethoven Fourth, Brahms Third, Tchaikovsky Fifth.

Then they discussed what solo to play. Mr. Horne told him he should never bring the Mozart Concerto to an audition. Everyone's heard it a million times, and they’re sick of it. Also, the judges know it intimately and they’ll catch every mistake. Much better to pick some obscure piece by some composer nobody knows. He suggested the first movement of Crusell’s Clarinet Concerto No. 1.

I looked it up in Grove. Bernhard Henrik Crusell was the most significant and internationally best-known composer from Uusikaupunki, Finland. If obscurity is a virtue, Crusell is a goddam saint.

After Mr. Horne left, Roderick ran over to tell Bibi he’s working on something by a Scandinavian composer. As if she gives a shit.

Anyway, the die is cast and Roderick seems pretty excited. Six weeks to prepare!

Gets my mind off Dad.

All for now.

Journal Entry: August 1, 2010

Sunday. Still reeling. I thought Dad was going to pull through.

Chronic kidney disease. He should have adopted a better household. The Fulbrights are lousy cat-minders. They gave him way too much red tuna. That shit’s bad for you.

Why don’t they have kidney transplants for cats? Or dialysis?

Shit.

A few months ago Dad suggested that we go mousing down by the river. Just for fun, of course, we don’t eat the little fuckers. Mousing in town is off-limits because, you know, we have that treaty with the Mouse King. Mice down by the river are fair game, you just have to contend with the feral skanks that live there.

Anyway, I said no. I was “busy.” Damn. I don’t even remember what I thought I had to do. I should have said yes just to humor him.

Well, now he’s gone.

I didn’t even have a chance to say a proper good-bye.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 31, 2010

Saturday. I’m numb.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 30, 2010

Friday. Dad crossed the river this morning.

I always thought we would have a parting moment. I’d be right there with him, holding his paw with mine. And he would say something like “Harold, be a good kitty. Take care of your mother and sire many kittens. I’m crossing the river now. Some day, we’ll meet again on the other side.”

But no. When I got there this morning, he was already stone-cold dead. Dr. Kindly wrapped him in a blanket and put him in the back of his 1955 Nash Rambler Cross-Country station wagon. Mom meowed mournfully.

Dad will be buried at Kitty Rest Haven. There will be no funeral or memorial service, that’s not a thing with cats.

I don’t feel like writing anything else, so...all for now.

Journal Entry: July 29, 2010

Thursday. There was a break in the rain this morning, so I threaded my way past the puddles to see Dad. Really loopy today. He kept talking about “his bunny.” Mom explained that with Dad too sick to chase after rodents, a local bunny grazes in the Fulbright’s front lawn. In broad daylight. In full view of Dad, who thinks the bunny is a pet.

In the late afternoon, Mr. Smith drove Roderick and Molly out to Puddlewood for a chamber music concert. I decided not to go because I didn’t want to miss foursies, and the program didn’t sound all that interesting. Schoenberg, Webern, and Berg. Meh.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 28, 2010

Wednesday. Thunderstorms today. Pouring rain. It was so wet outside, I couldn’t go to see Dad. Hope he’s okay.

Roderick seems really inspired by his session with Mr. Horne. He’s played the clarinet for years -- he started just before I adopted the Smiths -- but he’s not as disciplined as Molly. Beauneville Latin is too small to have an orchestra. There’s a Washington County Youth Band, but no Youth Orchestra. Without an opportunity to perform, he hasn’t applied himself.  

Mr. Horne set him straight. Clarinets are a dime a dozen. Roderick has the talent to be a musician if that’s what he wants to do, but he must practice, practice, practice, practice. Scales, long tones, etudes, breath exercises, orchestral excerpts. Don’t waste your time learning the Mozart Clarinet Concerto, he cautioned. Nobody wants to hear that for the hundredth time.

That comment made me laugh. I used to like the Mozart before I saw Godard’s Breathless. 

Anyway, the boathouse closed today due to the weather, so Roderick returned home and practiced for hours. I supervised. While he worked, I snoozed. When he stopped working to putz around, I gave him a fierce look. He got the message.

He tried that passage from Beethoven’s Fourth again. Meh. He kept running out of gas midway through and had to sneak a breath, which messed up the cantabile. Mr. Horne gave him breathing exercises and cautioned him: lots of people can play fast, it’s the long and slow passages that expose the real musicians. 

Next, he tried the Scherzo from Mendelssohn’s Ein Sommernachtstraum. Total fucking mess. Gonna have to work on that.

I went back downstairs to see if anyone was doing anything. Checked the dining room alcove. Occupied by Chauncy and his catnip mouse. Still pouring out. Yech.

Mrs. Smith was in the living room, reading her new book, Una Felix Culpa. She told Mr. Smith it’s about a series of unfortunate events that turn out to be positive in the end. Whatever. Ordinarily, she just likes bodice-rippers.

Hope the rain clears up tomorrow, I’ll go and see Dad.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 27, 2010

Tuesday. Dad seemed a little better today. Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell because the meds make him sleepy most of the time, and loopy when he’s awake.

I wonder whether Dad will ever be himself again.

Spent some time with Shaggy and Chauncy this morning, after visiting Dad. They’re good kitties. Shaggy grew up with Dorabella and oh that lady has stories. Like the time she traveled all the way to Boston’s Gardner Museum twenty years ago just to see Vermeer’s The Concert. She arrived the day after thieves broke in and stole the painting.

Dorabella really likes Vermeer.

In the afternoon, Mr. Bassett Horne came to visit the Smiths. Mr. Horne is the principal clarinet of the Lake City Philharmonic. He’s a friend of Mr. Smith. They met at Old Ivy College -- Mr. Horne is on the faculty there. The Lake City Phils, as we call them, are in residence at Puddlewood every summer. It’s just down the road from Beauneville, so Mr. Horne agreed to drop by for lunch and listen to Roderick play the clarinet.

Mr. Horne brought his wife, Cora something. She’s in the orchestra, too. Uses her maiden name.

Oh, right. Cora Anglaise.

Lunch was actually dinner -- roast pork, applesauce, and little green things. I hung out beneath the dining room table and snared some tasty bits of pork.

After the meal, Roderick retrieved his clarinet from upstairs and Mr. Horne settled into one of the comfy chairs in the living room. I think he wanted to put his feet up on the ottoman, but I occupied it first and it’s my house.

Roderick did his usual bit on the clarinet: scales first, then Rose studies and an etude. Mr. Horne flipped through Roderick’s book of orchestral excerpts and asked him to play from the second movement of Beethoven’s Fourth, beginning at measure 81. I think they spent an hour going over those eight measures. 

Then he had Roderick sightread the riff from the third movement of Beethoven’s Sixth. Roderick hadn’t played that before and fucked it up badly, but Mr. Horne just smiled and told him to practice, practice, practice.

After the Hornes left I went to visit Pia. She’s not in heat so we just chatted about KulturePunkz and stuff.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 24, 2010

Saturday. Roderick and Molly returned from Lake City on Thursday. The lesson did not go that well. Molly says she played the Diabelli perfectly, but Maestro Chickarina, who is known to be a perv, was more interested in feeling her thighs.

I made my customary Saturday rounds along Main Street today. At Dorabella’s Bookstore, Megan Cupcake read aloud from her novella, Lust and Lustiness. Megan calls it a fusion of Jane Austen and the modern bodice-ripper. Here’s what I remember:

The next morning, Miss Emma Chillingworth stood in the grand foyer of Tamworth Hall, her gown slightly disheveled from events of the previous evening. She opined: “There are two things in life that matter, an income, and sex. And if I must choose between one and the other, I choose sex.”

I didn’t hang around for the rest.

Dad was having a hard time today. He didn’t feel like getting up when I visited. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s going to make it.

The KulturPunks are back in town. I was waiting for the crossing at Main and Fifteenth when a line of low-riders rolled past ominously, blaring Mendelssohn’s Das Heimweh: Was ist's das mir den Atem hemmet at full blast. That’s the song Fanny Mendelssohn wrote but Felix published under his own name. KulturPunks dig Felix and Fanny. This disturbs their Boomer parents, who think kids should listen to hip-hop, do drugs, and fornicate in the hallways.

Pia says the Ericsons got a shipment of Surströmming from Sweden. It’s fermented fish. She says they will open it on August 19. I can’t wait. I like fish.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 20, 2010

Tuesday. Roderick and Molly are off to Lake City. Molly has a master class with some famous pianist, and Roderick’s going along to provide moral support. They’re staying overnight at the Fourier Hotel.

Mr. Smith says the Fourier Hotel used to be a dump, but it’s been transformed.

Well, I thought it was funny.

Other than that, not much going on here. Dad’s still loopy from the meds. Pia’s not in heat, and I can’t find Tabitha.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 17, 2010

Saturday. Nothing much happened on Thursday and Friday. Visited Dad both days, but he was asleep. Mom said he should rest. I saw him this morning; he was awake, and lucid. He wanted to talk about the importance of having an heir for House Tabby. Believe me, I’m trying. I’ve sired several litters with different queens, but so far no pure tabby males. 

It’s difficult to find a good mate here in town. The people here spay and neuter cats. Monsters. There are unspayed strays down by the river, but I wouldn’t touch those skanks.

Mom says there’s a nice tabby queen on Fairfield, next door to Mr. Smiley. Her name is Tabitha, appropriately enough. Seems promising. I’ll have to introduce myself. There are no church socials for cats.

After visiting with Dad, I did my customary Saturday patrol up Main Street. I arrived at Dorabella’s Bookstore just as she began reading aloud for the youngsters. This week’s selection: the latest in the Michael Caterpillar series.

I got a saucer of milk at Cafe Venice. They don’t allow pets inside, but Catherine Bloom saw me and claimed me as her “comfort animal.” Imagine that. Me, a comfort animal.

I love Catherine Bloom.

Next, I went down to Railroad Avenue and sat outside the Red Trolley Diner’s kitchen door. I was expecting a bit of meat or fish, but no luck today.

My luck improved at Ackerman’s Market. Mr. Gutman threw me a chicken liver.

Nothing going on at the Beaune Estate. I explored the library and museum until Mrs. Greenwood threw me out. Bitch.

I checked out Zeppelin Drugs. Katie Zeppelin greeted me. She called me “Roderick’s Cat.” Obviously, she doesn’t know that I own Roderick and not the other way around.

Hungry, I returned home. Mrs. Smith had my foursies ready. I dined, bathed, napped, and gazed out the window.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 14, 2010

Wednesday. Bastille Day. Also Molly Bloom’s birthday. She’s sixteen.

This morning I was eating my breakfast -- the usual, raw chicken livers served at room temperature. Mrs. Smith was cooking the daily scrapple while Mr. Smith read his paper and Roderick read about bond valuations or some shit. 

Anyway, it was just a normal breakfast when Bibi strolled in stark bucko naked. Just like Pia said. It’s a Swedish thing, apparently.

Nobody batted an eyelash, except for Knuckles, who opened one eye. Mrs. Smith asked Bibi if she wanted some scrapple. Nay. She just wanted a piece of fruit.

Knuckles returned to his nap and I returned to my breakfast.

Roderick and Bibi left after breakfast -- dressed, presumably. I lingered in the kitchen while Mr. Smith made his sandwich. Mr. Smith styles himself to be a sandwich connoisseur, and there is an entire kitchen cabinet dedicated to his collection of mustards. It’s really kind of obnoxious. He can’t just slap meat and cheese between two slices of bread, he has to do this daily ritual.

Whatever.

I visited Dad in the early afternoon. Not good today. He just wanted to sleep. Mom was there, fretting. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

In the evening, Roderick threw a birthday party for Molly. The usual suspects came: Dickie, Megan, Amanda, Katie, Willard, Natasha, Bibi, Roger, Henry, and, of course, Molly. I went upstairs early to avoid getting fondled by that gang.

Bibi stayed over again, in the guest room. Molly slept over, too, in my bed. With Roderick. No sex, which is good; it was bad enough getting kicked in the middle of the night by both of them. 

It was hell, I don’t think I slept a wink. I really need a bed of my own.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 13, 2010

Tuesday. Visited Dad today. He seemed a little better. Still loopy from the meds. He kept talking about the time he and Grandpa Ralph went mousing down by the river and caught a chipmunk. I’ve heard that story a million times, but I pretended I hadn’t, just to humor him.

Dad says he wants me to have his collection of little foil balls. I don’t want it. I told him he’s going to get better and he’ll want to play with his toys.

After lunch, I had to go see the Mouse King. He was angry. Oscar, the mixed ginger who lives on Fairwood, broke the treaty we have with the mice. He kidnapped one of their young. 

This is the kind of shit I have to deal with. I let Mouse King squeak his frustration, promised him I’d take care of it, then bounced.

Oscar is a fresh motherfucker who doesn’t respect the rules. I had to resort to persuasion of the six-clawed variety. He got the message. Now I just have to figure out how to make restitution to the Mouse King. He doesn’t take little foil balls in payment.

On the way home I visited Pia. She shared a little herring  -- it was nice -- and the latest goings-on with Roderick and Bibi. It seems he’s been spending quite a bit of time with the young lady. Today they paddled to Wickle’s Island in Mill Pond and spent the day there. Wickle’s Island has a reputation as Beauneville’s Lover’s Lane, but Roderick is such a nerd I doubt that anything happened.

Good to see him spend time with someone besides Ice Queen Molly.

I returned home for foursies and a nap. Roderick and Bibi returned home around six, and Bibi slept over. In the guest room.

LOL.

Fine with me. It’s bad enough sleeping with Roderick when he’s by himself.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 11, 2010

Sunday. Went to see Dad in the morning. He seems a little better. It’s hard to tell. One day he seems fine, the next day he’s out of it.

The medication makes him loopy. Today he muttered about “chasing that red dot.” Disturbing to hear him talk like that. It was Dad that taught me the red dot is a mean trick that some humans play on kitties.

The Smiths never try to tempt me with the red dot. The Smiths are kind.

There’s a new kitty in town. Her name is Pia, and she’s gorgeous. Jet black, like a panther, with green eyes. Lean and svelte. You should see her move. Caramba. 

We met for the first time out back, by the old oak tree. She slipped through the hedge from the next yard over. We sniffed one another. She isn’t spayed, but also not in heat right now.

I can wait.

We chatted. Pia lives two doors down Elm Street, with the Ericsons, who just moved here from Sweden. Mr. Ericson runs sales in the Americas for a Swedish company that makes -- I kid you not -- composting toilets.

Mrs. Ericson is nice. She feeds Pia herring. I prefer my chicken livers but will eat herring once and a while as long as it’s not that awful fermented kind.

They have a daughter named Bibi. She’s Roderick’s age. Pia worries the Beauneville Latin boys will call Bibi a slut because she likes to hang out in the nude. Seems to be a thing among Swedes. They run naked through the snow and whip one another with birch twigs.

Supposedly.

I assured Pia that the Beauneville Latin boys are mostly harmless nerds.

Pia asked me to catch her up on the local gossip. It’s complicated, but I did my best. Every young man at Beauneville Latin is hot for Molly Bloom, but she’s icily determined not to give anyone the time of day except Roderick. Molly and Roderick are inseparable, but I don’t think they’re fucking. At least not yet. Not in Roderick’s bedroom, at least. I would know. I sleep on that bed.

Natasha flirts with Roderick and he thinks she’s hot but she really adores Henry Witherspoon. Roderick also likes Megan Cupcake because she’s buxom and bubbly and she throws herself at him, but he also thinks she’s batshit crazy. Katie Zeppelin has a secret crush on Roderick. It’s so secret he doesn’t know anything about it. Betsy Flapper also has a thing for Roderick, but only because she hates Molly and wants to break up Molly and Roderick. Roderick wants nothing to do with Betsy because he thinks she’s mean.

I invited Pia inside but she demurred. Time for foursies.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 10, 2010

 July 10th, 2006. Four years ago. That’s the day poor Little Willy met his demise. He was just a few days more than eighteen months old.

Willy -- short for Wilhelm -- was the youngest of six kittens in our litter. He had a deformed left front leg at birth. I don’t know why.

That handicap, together with being the youngest and smallest sibling, meant that he often lost out in the nipple scrum. Sometimes Mom fed him separately. Lots of times Mrs. Peacock fed him with a tiny bottle that Dr. Kindly gave her. Mary Bloom and Catherine Bloom used to come over and spend extra time with him. That’s how I got to know Catherine.

As we got older he figured out how to get around on three legs, holding his left paw up, and limping about. He could go where he wanted, but not as fast as the rest of us. When Mrs. Peacock had treats on offer he would be the last to show up, but she always held some for him.

We teased him sometimes. Missi, Sissi, and Loki would sneak up on him and nip his tail, then run away. Of course, he couldn’t catch them. “Willy’s a gimp!” they would taunt.

Willy was determined to do everything that other cats do. Unfortunately, that included crossing Dogwood Street in front of Zemlinsky’s at the exact moment Miss Pringle made the left turn from Fourteenth in her Prius. Dr. Kindly said Willy likely never knew what hit him.

He’s buried at Kitty Rest Haven, next to his sister Miss Adventure. I went over there today and left some catnip.

On the way back I checked in with Dad. He looks a little better. Mom was there. She groomed him, which helped.

Back home I spent most of the afternoon gazing out the dining room window. People think cats gaze out windows to watch the birds. That’s not true, nobody gives a crap about the stupid birds. When you see us gazing, we’re remembering family and friends who crossed the river. That’s cat-speak for passed away. Died. Kicked the bucket.

We don’t say that so-and-so “went over the rainbow.” Rainbows are spectral projections caused by reflection, refraction, and dispersion of light in water droplets. You can’t go “over” a rainbow. Cats are down-to-earth creatures, we would never say something that silly and sentimental. Only fake cats on social media say that. 

No, when a cat dies, they cross the river.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 6, 2010

No news about Dad today.

From the bedroom window this morning I spied Natasha in her garden, reading, and decided to join her. She wore a red silk sari and sat cross-legged on a stone bench, by the little pond, amidst the lilies and bee-balm. I greeted her with my best adorable kitty persona. She did not disappoint. She set aside her book and gave me a good rub.

I curled up next to her on the bench. She read aloud to me from her book, an English translation of the Panchatantra. Whatever. The only Sanskrit literature I know is the Kama Sutra. It has pictures of people fucking.

A tiffin boy from the Red Trolley interrupted our moment. Natasha thanked the boy, then opened the tin and offered me some Ringan Nu Shaak made with local eggplant. I declined. Curry’s not to my taste, but I’ve heard that the Red Trolley Diner has the best curry in Washington County.

Likely the only curry.

Natasha dipped her finger into a dish of Basundi and offered me some. I licked her finger. Nice. Sweet. Honestly, I could settle down with a gal like Natasha. She’s talented and kind. Not that I’m, you know, attracted. I prefer females with fur.

While Natasha tucked into her food, I climbed the woodpile and inspected her studio. Hopper, her fat Persian, sat in the alcove staring out the window at nothing. Probably wondering what happened to his balls LOL. 

I thought about this the other day. One day, they take a tomcat to the vet. When he wakes up, his junk is gone. Like something out of Kafka. One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that his pecker was missing.

Well, I thought it was funny.

I moved on to Molly Bloom’s house and listened to her bang away on the Bosendorfer. Finger exercises and scales, mostly. Boring shit, but kind of nice to hear someone play the piano. It’s a sign that somebody cares about culture.

Roderick got home from the boathouse around five-thirty. True to form, Laddie went all berserk as soon as Roderick arrived. Mrs. Smith served roast pork, applesauce, and little green things. I hovered by the dinner table and got my share of roast pork bits.

Off to bed for me as soon as I finish writing this. I hope Dad’s OK, going to see him tomorrow.

All for now.

Journal Entry: July 5, 2010

 The vigil for Dad went well. Mom was there, and Grandma, and quite a few of my half-siblings. I can’t remember all of their names. Several dozen kitties, all purring and kneading the earth, as we do when one of our own is in distress.

I’m sure it helped. I went back to see him this morning. He looked a little better.

Not much going on today. Roderick left early for his job at the boathouse. Mrs. Smith left the door open to her office. She looked like she wanted help so I jumped on her lap. Only I don’t think she wanted my help. After I rubbed my tail in her face a few times, she planted me in the hallway and slammed the door.

I tried to strike up a conversation with Knuckles. I like Knuckles, he’s a good dog. But he wanted to sleep.

Next, I tried to do something with Laddie but all he wanted to do was sit by the front door and wait for Roderick to return. With his tongue hanging out.

Outside, I tried to climb the big old oak tree. Still unable to make it to the first branch.

Lots of naps today.

All for now.