Chapter 12 – Suddenly
He had barely reached the next depression, barely caught his breath when another voice called out.
“Stewart!”
For an instant Stewart panicked, fear gripping his entire body. Now the voices knew who he was. Then, from somewhere deep in his mind he realized…he knew that voice. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look in the direction his name had been called. There, beneath a long ledge, behind shining silver sticks and branches, was the child.
The boy shoved some of the shining sticks aside. “Stewart!” he said again, his eyes wide and compelling.
Before he knew what he was doing Stewart turned and ran at the child. He no longer cared about the long whiteness, or the disembodied voice, or the people running around carrying things. Here was his child. Here was the one he wanted to find. Here were warm hands and kind eyes. Here was home.
The child reached down, spread his fingers on the floor and Stewart found speed in his legs that hadn’t been there before. His front feet touched the child’s palm, carried him up the boy’s wrist, and pulled him under the long white cloth that covered the rest of the child’s arm. He ran upwards until he found the child’s neck, to the warm, soft place where the boy's shoulder made the perfect spot to sit, and there Stewart stopped. He pressed himself tightly against the child’s throat, wrapped his body, his tail, everything, around the boy’s neck and clung to him.
He could feel the child’s heartbeat, could feel every breath the boy took, and the warmth, the safe warmth of him through his skin. The child reached up and laid his hand on Stewart’s back.
“Stewart, you’re so cold,” he said softly, his voice sending vibrations into Stewart’s body. The boy took the sheet he was wearing and pulled it up against Stewart and hid him from the cold air. “You’re too dry,” he said next. “You need water.”
He felt the boy look around, his chin brushing over Stewart’s head as he looked to the left and then to the right.
“There’s no water in here,” the child told him. “We’re gonna have to leave.”
At first Stewart didn’t say anything. He would stay or he would leave with the child. Where the child went he would go. As long as he was with the child the rest didn’t matter. Then he remembered the empty shadow and the man who had worn it. And he remembered the word the woman had used only moments before.
From deep in his throat he pulled the word out. “Ddddaannnggrrruuussssss.”
The child’s whole body went rigid. Stewart could feel the tendons on the boy’s neck stand out. He took another breath and tried again. “Ggggeetttttt ooooouuuutttttt.”
The child bolted out from under the ledge, shoving shining sticks in all directions. Several fell over and made a tremendous crash that rang painfully in Stewart’s head. The child stumbled forward, caught himself on his front legs and then got up and ran for the door, one hand held against Stewart, the other waving wildly in front of himself as he ran. A dozen steps and they were out in the bright white of the hall and Stewart closed his eyes in response to the painful light. He could feel the child look right and left and then run again. Running was good. Running meant leaving. Leaving meant grass, and fresh warm air, and water. Running meant life.
“Rrrruuunnnnnn,” he hissed and held on.
~ Peace and motivation
They say you should be careful what you wish for, and perhaps this can be applied to that which we hope to win. Be that as it may, I desire a writing life and so I am embarking on the journey, risking and writing in order to win it, a writer's life.
Showing posts with label need. Show all posts
Showing posts with label need. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Chapter 11 - Where Joshua and Stewart are in a tight place - started 11-24--09
Chapter 11 – Red Spots
The cereal bar had helped. Joshua was no longer starving, but he still had to pee. He glanced around himself trying to figure out how he could take care of that pressing problem. While he ate he had figured out that if he risked sticking his hand out from under the counter and waving it quickly the lights would stay on. He had forgotten to do it one time and the room had gone dark. On instinct he had shot his leg out, the lights flashing back on with his movement and he had worried that someone in the hall would notice. Nothing had happened, however, so he relaxed a little and tried not to think of anything having to do with water.
There was no other way out of the room except the door he had come through. There were no other doors at all, besides the ones that fronted the cabinets above the counters along one wall. They weren’t going to lead to a bathroom. Cabinets never had bathrooms inside of them. There were windows on the back wall, but he couldn’t see the latches and didn’t think he could open them anyway. In desperation he pressed his hands into his crotch and squeezed his legs together. There had to be some place. He didn’t want to have an accident.
That’s when he saw it. Sitting on the floor between a counter and the front wall was a wastebasket. A round black can with a white plastic bag lining it and tied around the rim so it wouldn’t fall in. If he was quick he could pee and be back under the table before anyone came. He stuck his hand out and waved it frantically to keep the lights on, then pulled it back under the counter. The wastebasket was three counters away. And there were stools pushed in around them like a forest of silver trees.
Joshua leaned forward and rested on his knees. His bladder didn’t like this new position and he pressed harder with his hands to keep from going right in his pants. He stuck his head out and listened for anyone coming down the hall, but it was quiet for the moment. He pushed past the stool and realized that if he didn’t make a run for it he was going to be very wet and very miserable. He scrambled to his feet and, with one hand still clutching his crotch, bolted around the counters and ran for the wastebasket. He was so desperate that the urine hit the crumpled up papers in the can before he was fully stopped.
He thought about how angry his mother would be with him for peeing in the trash. Then he thought about how much angrier she would have been if he had soiled himself and decided this was a better choice. Besides, he wasn’t going to tell her that he had done it. She would never know.
“Code seven, south entrance. Code seven, south entrance.”
The voice startled Joshua so badly he missed the wastebasket and peed on the wall.
“Code nine, men’s room, south entrance. Code nine, men’s room, south entrance.”
Joshua stuffed himself back inside his shorts and then pressed his back against the front wall. There were footsteps in the hall coming closer. Women’s voices floated into the room as they passed.
“Code seven?” he heard one of them ask.
“Yeah, that’s for the HazMat team. Someone’s had some kind of biohazard accident.”
Their voices grew softer as they walked further along the hallway and he could no longer tell what they were saying. He stared at the counters and wished the women would leave. He wanted to duck down under the counters and hide, but he didn’t dare move. They were still out in the hall. They could come back and find him. Then that man would try to take him away again.
“Yes, but I’m alive and I plan to stay that way,” one of the women said, her voice growing louder and clearer as she walked quickly back past Joshua’s room. The other woman clicked past, too, and then the hall was quiet once more.
Joshua waited a few more seconds before he stepped away from the wall and peeked at the doorway. No one was there. He ran for the nearest counter and shoved his way through the stool legs and underneath. As he turned around so he could watch the door from his new hiding spot he saw something small and dark run into the shadow of the door, just inside the room. His heart thudded in his chest and he strained to see what it was.
He could just make out small red spots along a smooth glossy black surface. He squinted. There was a head, flat and broad, with big staring eyes, and a long glossy black tail tucked tight where feet should be.
Joshua leaned out from under the counter, completely forgetting where he was. “Stewart?” he whispered.
The glossy black head ducked and then turned slowly in Joshua’s direction bringing sharp, clear red eyes to look into his own.
“Stewart!”
~ Peace and surprise
The cereal bar had helped. Joshua was no longer starving, but he still had to pee. He glanced around himself trying to figure out how he could take care of that pressing problem. While he ate he had figured out that if he risked sticking his hand out from under the counter and waving it quickly the lights would stay on. He had forgotten to do it one time and the room had gone dark. On instinct he had shot his leg out, the lights flashing back on with his movement and he had worried that someone in the hall would notice. Nothing had happened, however, so he relaxed a little and tried not to think of anything having to do with water.
There was no other way out of the room except the door he had come through. There were no other doors at all, besides the ones that fronted the cabinets above the counters along one wall. They weren’t going to lead to a bathroom. Cabinets never had bathrooms inside of them. There were windows on the back wall, but he couldn’t see the latches and didn’t think he could open them anyway. In desperation he pressed his hands into his crotch and squeezed his legs together. There had to be some place. He didn’t want to have an accident.
That’s when he saw it. Sitting on the floor between a counter and the front wall was a wastebasket. A round black can with a white plastic bag lining it and tied around the rim so it wouldn’t fall in. If he was quick he could pee and be back under the table before anyone came. He stuck his hand out and waved it frantically to keep the lights on, then pulled it back under the counter. The wastebasket was three counters away. And there were stools pushed in around them like a forest of silver trees.
Joshua leaned forward and rested on his knees. His bladder didn’t like this new position and he pressed harder with his hands to keep from going right in his pants. He stuck his head out and listened for anyone coming down the hall, but it was quiet for the moment. He pushed past the stool and realized that if he didn’t make a run for it he was going to be very wet and very miserable. He scrambled to his feet and, with one hand still clutching his crotch, bolted around the counters and ran for the wastebasket. He was so desperate that the urine hit the crumpled up papers in the can before he was fully stopped.
He thought about how angry his mother would be with him for peeing in the trash. Then he thought about how much angrier she would have been if he had soiled himself and decided this was a better choice. Besides, he wasn’t going to tell her that he had done it. She would never know.
“Code seven, south entrance. Code seven, south entrance.”
The voice startled Joshua so badly he missed the wastebasket and peed on the wall.
“Code nine, men’s room, south entrance. Code nine, men’s room, south entrance.”
Joshua stuffed himself back inside his shorts and then pressed his back against the front wall. There were footsteps in the hall coming closer. Women’s voices floated into the room as they passed.
“Code seven?” he heard one of them ask.
“Yeah, that’s for the HazMat team. Someone’s had some kind of biohazard accident.”
Their voices grew softer as they walked further along the hallway and he could no longer tell what they were saying. He stared at the counters and wished the women would leave. He wanted to duck down under the counters and hide, but he didn’t dare move. They were still out in the hall. They could come back and find him. Then that man would try to take him away again.
“Yes, but I’m alive and I plan to stay that way,” one of the women said, her voice growing louder and clearer as she walked quickly back past Joshua’s room. The other woman clicked past, too, and then the hall was quiet once more.
Joshua waited a few more seconds before he stepped away from the wall and peeked at the doorway. No one was there. He ran for the nearest counter and shoved his way through the stool legs and underneath. As he turned around so he could watch the door from his new hiding spot he saw something small and dark run into the shadow of the door, just inside the room. His heart thudded in his chest and he strained to see what it was.
He could just make out small red spots along a smooth glossy black surface. He squinted. There was a head, flat and broad, with big staring eyes, and a long glossy black tail tucked tight where feet should be.
Joshua leaned out from under the counter, completely forgetting where he was. “Stewart?” he whispered.
The glossy black head ducked and then turned slowly in Joshua’s direction bringing sharp, clear red eyes to look into his own.
“Stewart!”
~ Peace and surprise
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Little Fiction for You
The following is based on a writing prompt about 2 women in a cafe' talking. I'm searching for a title - What do you think I should call it?
“You know, I really don’t know what to do,” Sheila said as she dragged her finger through the condensation on her water glass.
Marie looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed with concern. “Okay, but you do have to do something. Anything.” She picked up her own water glass and took a long swallow then set it back down. “I mean, even if all you do is walk in and look him in the eye, steady for ten seconds, you know, hold your ground, well, then that’s something. Right?” She raised her eyebrows in an effort to look positive, even though she wasn’t, and supportive, even though she felt completely used up.
Sheila took a deep breath and let it out. “Look him in the eye,” she muttered. “For ten seconds. Hold my ground.” She snorted. “Maybe.”
A waitress walked over to their table, her fifty-something hair and make-up arriving a second ahead of her. “Ladies?” she said and gave them a well practiced, worn out smile. “My name is Estelle. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Cob salad, hold the egg, exchange the bacon for turkey bacon, house dressing on the side,” Marie replied without giving the woman a second look.
“Advice,” Sheila said and flushed as soon as the word was out of her mouth.
Estelle stopped writing Marie’s order on her pad and tilted her head to regard Shelia. “Man, money, love, job, dog, what?” sbe asked.
Sheila swallowed. “Yes.”
Estelle blinked. “He got money?”
“No.”
“Got a job?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Dog listen to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy then, honey. Kick the man to the curb and keep the dog. The dog knows what side his bread’s buttered on. You feed him, give him a good home, teach him who he can count on and watch how he keeps that man out of your house.”
“The dog’s a female.”
“Makes no never mind. Better even. She knows what you goin’ through. She’s been watchin’”
“I told her to stare him in the eye,” Marie put in. “For at least ten seconds.”
Estelle looked at Marie and nodded, then she turned back to Sheila. “Your friend’s right. Stand your ground. Nothing like long hard eye contact to put men and dogs in their place. They get that. Makes sense to them.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at those staring games. My eyes water the moment I try.”
“Look,” Estelle said and put her hands on her hips, boney, sharp things that poked out from her waist like armor. “Is he gonna stay if you do nothin’?”
“Probably,” Sheila replied softly.
“Oh, you know he will, Sheila!” Marie snapped, her limit nearly reached.
“That what you want? Him around all the time? Loafin’? Eatin’ your food? Messin’ your house? Addin’ to your list of things to be done every day and not helpin’?”
Sheila stared at the waitress and shook her head.
“Then you’re gonna have to do it. Otherwise he’s gonna fester in your soul.”
Sheila’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “He’s…he’s…he’s my son. He could never fester…”
The waitress rolled her eyes. “Honey, even the good ones can fester. You made him a good home, sounds like. Too good. He don’t want to leave. You got to be like a mother hawk. Push him outta the nest and make him fly. Stand your ground on the edge of your home and dare him to settle back down there.”
“Oh Sheila, the woman’s right. Kick him out already.”
“Pack his bags," Estelle continued. "Put them outside, walk him to the front door, hand the boy $300 and push him out. You stand in that doorway, you and that dog, and you look him in the eye and dare him to come back in. Tell him you love him. More now than the day he was born. But he was born, his rent on your body was done after nine months and he was out. Now he’s…”
“Thirty-two,” Marie sighed and shook her head.
Estelle looked down at Sheila and gave her a serious once-over. “The man’s thirty-two and you’re still taken care of him. Now that’s enough, honey. You tell him you love him, but you and the dog got things to do, people to see, and places to go, and so does he. It’s time for him to fly the nest and make something of himself. Then you stand there and you don’t let him back in your house. Stare him. And watch how that dog backs you up like nobody’s business. Cause she knows. She knows what he’s doin’ and I bet my paycheck she don’t like it either.”
“You know what?” Marie scooted her chair back and reached down for her purse. “Forget the salad,” she said, and pulled her wallet out and rifled through the bills tucked inside. “Here.” She slid a fifty across the table toward the waitress. “That should cover your time.” She turned to the other woman. “Sheila, get up.” She snapped the wallet shut and shoved it back into her purse. “Come on. Get up. I’ve had enough of this.” She reached over and dragged Sheila up out of her chair.
“Marie, wait.”
“No. No more waiting. I’ve spent years waiting for you to do this. Years, Sheila. I love you, but I’ve just about had it. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake.” She shook her head hard when Sheila tried to speak. “No. He’s your son, I know, but he’s my nephew and I can’t stand to watch him do this stupid thing to either of you any more.” She pulled Sheila in by the arm and pointed at Estelle. “The woman is right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. Enough is enough. I’m taking you home and we’re packing him out of there.” She turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.”
Estelle nodded, smiled. “Certainly.”
Sheila blinked and whispered, “Thank you,” as Marie escorted her out of the café.
Estelle looked down at the fifty lying on the table. She reached out and tried to touch it. Her fingers passed right through the bill, left it rocking ever so slightly in the ethereal breeze of her translucent fingers. “Certainly,” she said again.
She put her pad back in her pocket and turned away, walked past a young waitress keying in orders at a side kiosk and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The girl turned and looked around but no one was there. She glanced at the table she had just seated and saw that the two older women were gone.
“Hey, Shelly,” she called to the other young woman waiting tables. “Table seven’s vacated.”
“Great. I needed that table.”
Shelly finished serving her customers and then went to clear the used water glasses and wet napkins. The fifty was resting against one of the glasses, the edge of it wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.
“Holy crap,” she whispered and then added “Thank you,” to no one in particular.
“Certainly.”
She turned around, but no one was there.
~ ~ ~
“You know, I really don’t know what to do,” Sheila said as she dragged her finger through the condensation on her water glass.
Marie looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed with concern. “Okay, but you do have to do something. Anything.” She picked up her own water glass and took a long swallow then set it back down. “I mean, even if all you do is walk in and look him in the eye, steady for ten seconds, you know, hold your ground, well, then that’s something. Right?” She raised her eyebrows in an effort to look positive, even though she wasn’t, and supportive, even though she felt completely used up.
Sheila took a deep breath and let it out. “Look him in the eye,” she muttered. “For ten seconds. Hold my ground.” She snorted. “Maybe.”
A waitress walked over to their table, her fifty-something hair and make-up arriving a second ahead of her. “Ladies?” she said and gave them a well practiced, worn out smile. “My name is Estelle. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Cob salad, hold the egg, exchange the bacon for turkey bacon, house dressing on the side,” Marie replied without giving the woman a second look.
“Advice,” Sheila said and flushed as soon as the word was out of her mouth.
Estelle stopped writing Marie’s order on her pad and tilted her head to regard Shelia. “Man, money, love, job, dog, what?” sbe asked.
Sheila swallowed. “Yes.”
Estelle blinked. “He got money?”
“No.”
“Got a job?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Dog listen to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy then, honey. Kick the man to the curb and keep the dog. The dog knows what side his bread’s buttered on. You feed him, give him a good home, teach him who he can count on and watch how he keeps that man out of your house.”
“The dog’s a female.”
“Makes no never mind. Better even. She knows what you goin’ through. She’s been watchin’”
“I told her to stare him in the eye,” Marie put in. “For at least ten seconds.”
Estelle looked at Marie and nodded, then she turned back to Sheila. “Your friend’s right. Stand your ground. Nothing like long hard eye contact to put men and dogs in their place. They get that. Makes sense to them.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at those staring games. My eyes water the moment I try.”
“Look,” Estelle said and put her hands on her hips, boney, sharp things that poked out from her waist like armor. “Is he gonna stay if you do nothin’?”
“Probably,” Sheila replied softly.
“Oh, you know he will, Sheila!” Marie snapped, her limit nearly reached.
“That what you want? Him around all the time? Loafin’? Eatin’ your food? Messin’ your house? Addin’ to your list of things to be done every day and not helpin’?”
Sheila stared at the waitress and shook her head.
“Then you’re gonna have to do it. Otherwise he’s gonna fester in your soul.”
Sheila’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “He’s…he’s…he’s my son. He could never fester…”
The waitress rolled her eyes. “Honey, even the good ones can fester. You made him a good home, sounds like. Too good. He don’t want to leave. You got to be like a mother hawk. Push him outta the nest and make him fly. Stand your ground on the edge of your home and dare him to settle back down there.”
“Oh Sheila, the woman’s right. Kick him out already.”
“Pack his bags," Estelle continued. "Put them outside, walk him to the front door, hand the boy $300 and push him out. You stand in that doorway, you and that dog, and you look him in the eye and dare him to come back in. Tell him you love him. More now than the day he was born. But he was born, his rent on your body was done after nine months and he was out. Now he’s…”
“Thirty-two,” Marie sighed and shook her head.
Estelle looked down at Sheila and gave her a serious once-over. “The man’s thirty-two and you’re still taken care of him. Now that’s enough, honey. You tell him you love him, but you and the dog got things to do, people to see, and places to go, and so does he. It’s time for him to fly the nest and make something of himself. Then you stand there and you don’t let him back in your house. Stare him. And watch how that dog backs you up like nobody’s business. Cause she knows. She knows what he’s doin’ and I bet my paycheck she don’t like it either.”
“You know what?” Marie scooted her chair back and reached down for her purse. “Forget the salad,” she said, and pulled her wallet out and rifled through the bills tucked inside. “Here.” She slid a fifty across the table toward the waitress. “That should cover your time.” She turned to the other woman. “Sheila, get up.” She snapped the wallet shut and shoved it back into her purse. “Come on. Get up. I’ve had enough of this.” She reached over and dragged Sheila up out of her chair.
“Marie, wait.”
“No. No more waiting. I’ve spent years waiting for you to do this. Years, Sheila. I love you, but I’ve just about had it. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake.” She shook her head hard when Sheila tried to speak. “No. He’s your son, I know, but he’s my nephew and I can’t stand to watch him do this stupid thing to either of you any more.” She pulled Sheila in by the arm and pointed at Estelle. “The woman is right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. Enough is enough. I’m taking you home and we’re packing him out of there.” She turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.”
Estelle nodded, smiled. “Certainly.”
Sheila blinked and whispered, “Thank you,” as Marie escorted her out of the café.
Estelle looked down at the fifty lying on the table. She reached out and tried to touch it. Her fingers passed right through the bill, left it rocking ever so slightly in the ethereal breeze of her translucent fingers. “Certainly,” she said again.
She put her pad back in her pocket and turned away, walked past a young waitress keying in orders at a side kiosk and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The girl turned and looked around but no one was there. She glanced at the table she had just seated and saw that the two older women were gone.
“Hey, Shelly,” she called to the other young woman waiting tables. “Table seven’s vacated.”
“Great. I needed that table.”
Shelly finished serving her customers and then went to clear the used water glasses and wet napkins. The fifty was resting against one of the glasses, the edge of it wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.
“Holy crap,” she whispered and then added “Thank you,” to no one in particular.
“Certainly.”
She turned around, but no one was there.
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Compelling Blank Page
I sit here at my desk, the keyboard staring me in the face – yes, I look at the keys. I have no clue how to actually type – and the screen casting a white glow over the letters and I wait. Inspiration is a real b*tch. It often hits me when I can’t reach the computer, like while I’m washing the dishes, driving the car, using the..uh…facilities. My mind fills with a multitude of things, related and unrelated, that I can hardly contain, begin almost immediately to lose, and I ache for the keys to save my thoughts from the void that exists just this side of the screen.
Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.
I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.
It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.
~ Peace and passion
Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.
I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.
It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.
~ Peace and passion
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Kitty Fix
When I was young, about 6 years old, my family and I were adopted by a stray female American Short-haired Calico. She came out of the garden my mother had planted in our backyard, one that was supposed to produce vegetables but instead grew a flourishing variety of weeds and one young cat.
I was amazed to see her. I hadn't seen her before and we had lived in the house for about a year and a half. She meowed as she came, her tail high in the air, and headed straight for me. My heart raced and I could hardly believe my luck. Before I knew what else, she was rubbing her cheek and side against my legs, winding in and out in between them and purring. I reached out a tentative hand and stroked her back and she rose up on her hind legs and thumped her head into my palm. I remember the smile that filled my face and the joy that I had been picked by this cat to be her friend.
That was nearly 30 years ago. She was the first and last cat that I had and I missed her when our time together was over. Today I have my own home with a husband who is curious about what a cat is and what makes it tick, but is not interested in the company of one on a long term basis. Kitty fixes are few and hard to come by. Now I must travel west to Washington to visit Abby, my best friend's cat, or east to Maryland to knock heads and purr with Phantom. my brother's cat. I have one other cat that I visit when I can. His name is Maru and he lives in Japan. I wish that I could say I know him on a face-to-face basis, but I am not wealthy enough to travel to his home, nor do I know his person. I do, however, know his URL and am a fan of his videos.
Here is the one that introduced me to Maru and his wonderful light:
Maru's blog is mainly in Japanese, but his person has kindly added English to many of the pictures and videos posted there. Here is his URL:
http://sisinmaru.blog17.fc2.com/blog-category-1.html
So I have my kitty fix when I need it, though the lack of fur beneath my fingers is hard to accept. In time I may find myself adopted again, but for now I hop a plane and head for one of the coasts when the need gets serious and settle into a chair with a pile of fur and purr in my lap and breathe.
~ Peace and purring
I was amazed to see her. I hadn't seen her before and we had lived in the house for about a year and a half. She meowed as she came, her tail high in the air, and headed straight for me. My heart raced and I could hardly believe my luck. Before I knew what else, she was rubbing her cheek and side against my legs, winding in and out in between them and purring. I reached out a tentative hand and stroked her back and she rose up on her hind legs and thumped her head into my palm. I remember the smile that filled my face and the joy that I had been picked by this cat to be her friend.
That was nearly 30 years ago. She was the first and last cat that I had and I missed her when our time together was over. Today I have my own home with a husband who is curious about what a cat is and what makes it tick, but is not interested in the company of one on a long term basis. Kitty fixes are few and hard to come by. Now I must travel west to Washington to visit Abby, my best friend's cat, or east to Maryland to knock heads and purr with Phantom. my brother's cat. I have one other cat that I visit when I can. His name is Maru and he lives in Japan. I wish that I could say I know him on a face-to-face basis, but I am not wealthy enough to travel to his home, nor do I know his person. I do, however, know his URL and am a fan of his videos.
Here is the one that introduced me to Maru and his wonderful light:
Maru's blog is mainly in Japanese, but his person has kindly added English to many of the pictures and videos posted there. Here is his URL:
http://sisinmaru.blog17.fc2.com/blog-category-1.html
So I have my kitty fix when I need it, though the lack of fur beneath my fingers is hard to accept. In time I may find myself adopted again, but for now I hop a plane and head for one of the coasts when the need gets serious and settle into a chair with a pile of fur and purr in my lap and breathe.
~ Peace and purring
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