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.

Journal Entry: July 4, 2010

 Fourth of July. Coolidge Day here in Beauneville, in honor of our thirtieth President. Also Independence Day.

Mrs. Smith put out a box of Coolidge Cakes from Cafe Venice. Coolidge Cakes are regular cupcakes, but with a small portrait of Calvin Coolidge drawn with icing. I don’t eat cakes, but they look artful.

Megan dropped in for breakfast. She brought her new weapon, a Glock 36 "Slimline.” It has an ultracompact frame and chambers a .45 ACP cartridge. She didn’t fire it or anything. Town ordinance. It’s illegal to discharge a weapon inside the town limits unless you’re shooting a burglar.

I went to see Dad. He did not look good. He was on the Fulbright’s front porch and didn’t get up when he saw me, which is unusual. His fur looked scruffy -- a bad sign because Dad is very meticulous about grooming.

We chatted awhile. He said he saw the vet yesterday, and the prognosis wasn’t good. Something with his kidneys. That can’t be right, he’s only seven. The vet must have mixed up the tests.

Mom’s organizing a vigil. Dad's friends and baby mamas will gather in the Fulbright’s hedge and offer a purring presence. I’m going after I finish this journal entry.

On the way back from Dad’s, I paused at Dorabella’s Bookstore for snacks. Dorabella is always good for snacks. I would have stayed longer, but Tina Snitwood was there, browsing teen fiction. Tina is a Sagittarius, the one sign I can’t abide, so I left.

Later in the afternoon, I met with Beauneville’s mouse king at a vacant lot on Birch Street. Tiresome ritual, really, the annual “mouse hunt.” Every year, on Coolidge Day, the local mice hand over one of their dead. Beauneville cats accept the dead mouse as a tribute and leave the corpse in some prominent place. That way, people think we’re doing our best to keep the mouse population in check, and it saves us the trouble of chasing the little fuckers. Win-win-win.

Why do people think cats like to eat mice? Mice suck as food. Hardly any meat, and what’s there is tough and gamey. I’ll take a nice warm dish of chicken livers over dead mouse any day.

Mouse King felt chatty, but I just wanted to get the damn thing over with. I made polite inquiries about the departed -- her name was Eunice, and she left 37 living pups. The moment Mouse King finished his prayer I grabbed Eunice by the neck and bounced. The less time spent with a dead mouse in my mouth, the better.

On the way home I passed Molly Bloom's house. She was practicing the 24th variation of the Diabelli, and still missing that note. Cutting through Zemlinsky’s yard, I spied Natasha in her studio. She stood before a mirror dressed in nothing but an ankle bracelet. She looked nice. Zaftig, but nice. 

I dropped Eunice on the front porch and went inside through the cat door. Gargle, then naptime.

After dinner, Roderick and Molly left for the Bell Tower to watch the fireworks. I checked the porch. Nothing. It figures. When cats leave a trophy at the front door, the people are supposed to stuff it and keep it forever. They never do. 

Well, I’m off for Dad’s vigil.

All for now.