Last night, she hopped down out of her sick bay cozy, and wandered the house, took a whack at the ever annoying Peeman Sam, reclaimed her coveted pillow on the window shelf, watched out that window for awhile, in case something interesting transpired, but we do live on a cemetery dull street. The dullness and deadness of this street quickly bored even her, a cat, so she left that perch to snuggle with me on the bed, as I read, and finally, drawn by the memory of warmth, went back to her heating pad.
Big huge sigh of relief.
With the Olympics dominating the only channel that really comes in here, on my antenna, I've been reading more. Not that I don't like the Olympics. I just get tired of the drama, hype and games after awhile, and already know who won what by the time the coverage begins in the evening.
I did watch an interesting PBS show about crows last night. I always knew they were very smart and very socially organized. I already knew they talk and tell stories and pass them along. Who doesn't?
But scientists are now trying to prove these things. It's not enough to know, I suppose, for the skeptics who never look to the sky or let the birds be the guards when out in some sketchy situation.
You never want to cross the crows.
I want the crows with me and not against me, in this life.
I'm reading another Steinbeck. East of Eden. I LOVE it! The guy has insights into our human condition that I've felt but never could have put into words. More about it after I finish.
Life is slow and alone here. Me and the cats. I spent my wad on vet visits this month. It's hunker down and survive mode for now and that means no little extras. My car's tank is nearly on empty but may hold just enough gas to get me by. And that's ok because Electra is still by my side, alive and well in catland.
A few days ago, I was startled by the rattle of a car engine pulling up my driveway. I rushed for the garage to peek out, excited for a visitor, and forgot completely to close the door into the garage behind me. I rushed back to do so, and Jim was exiting his old beater car by the time I threw open the garage door to welcome him inside.
"I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you," he said. He meant for Christmas. He began unloading boxes of Fancy Feast cat food. My eyes were bugging out. Times are a little dicey for me and this was making my heart sing. Jim's had an experience. His first grand daughter, Olivia, came into this world not very many weeks ago and he was there, back in Ohio, his home state, to welcome her in. Gave him a new lease on life, he said. Jim and his partner have adopted what is it, four cats from me? Or is it five? He worked his life as a scientist, still is one, although officially retired, and his partner is a very talented artist who has mastered many mediums. She's given me many potted bowls she crafted, says they're seconds that she can't sell, but I can't find a single flaw. Maybe it's my eyes.
Life is good. My brother survived that stroke. Electra is still alive. I have a roof over my head. The rain has returned to Oregon, vanquishing worries of drought. I've got my morning coffee and my evening cup of tea. I've the cleaning rituals to keep me busy. I take my break and eat some hot home made soup for lunch. Nothing better. At night, now, I dream of fat strawberries. They're coming, you know. Then the cherries, if my tree is not in a mood this year, and the blueberries, then the blackberries.
Who, I might wonder, born here in Oregon, does not dream of summer berries, fish jumping evenings in a mountain lake, and the waves crashing at bare feet toes squished into the sand?
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