Today my son Zebu and I washed all our windows, inside and out. As we traveled room to room, Marcel the cat followed us. At one point he got up on the sill next to a newly-gleaming window and proceeded to sneeze. On the glass.
I’ll admit, it wasn’t quite as bad as this Pexels photo. Marcel didn’t shower the entire window with his snot. Instead, it was contained to a rather orderly row along the lower portion of the window. Zebu and I were mildly annoyed, but laughed about our silly feline friend as we recleaned the window. Then Marcel followed us to the next room and sneeezed on another window. Zebu and I were less amused.
And when Marcel sneezed on the third window Zebu stated the obvious: “This is feeling deliberate.”
This could’ve been a truly awesome photo. Imagine a large white cat stretched out on the backside of the hanging shirts, staring through the multi-colored plastic hangers with yellow-green eyes. Imagine a self-satisfied expression on that white cat’s face as you struggled to understand how he got there. Imagine being frozen in place as he stared you down.
By the time I snapped out of my Marcel-induced reverie and returned with my camera, this was all I got. In fact, this subpar photo was staged. Marcel had already extricated himself from the hangers and jumped down before I could get a shot so Zippy picked him up and put him back on the dresser. (Confession: I was hoping he’d jam Marcel back through the hangers, but apparently my mate and I have different cat-wrangling sensibilities.)
Loki, true to form, remained chill throughout the activities.
This afternoon I was hanging out in the basement with Zebu, Wildebeest, and Wildebeest’s friend, Kyle. We were sitting on the carpeted floor before Wildebeest and Kyle left to play soccer. When Wildebeest started doing stretches, I asked if he’d done his daily plank yet because I hadn’t done mine. He replied that he hadn’t and begrudgingly agreed to do one then. I hollered upstairs for Zippy to come join us and he (also begrudgingly) came downstairs.
Wildebeest set the timer on his phone and turned up some music as the three of us got in the planking position. Then Kyle joined us. Zebu, feeling the peer pressure, set down his container of mixed nuts and assumed the position. (Emma and Marcel were also in attendance although their planking form was suspect.)
Verdict? Group planks are more fun than solitary planks. Maybe next time we’ll up the ante and try building a human plank tower.
Not sure whether Marcel is keeping my revision notes warm or hatching a whole new plot line. Either way, I’m always grateful for his editorial input.
Every time I pass by my dresser and see Marcel in his new favorite place,
the cat-aquarium, a Beatles song comes to mind:
I’m looking through you,
where did you go
I thought I knew you,
what did I know
. . . to take this photo of Marcel (the cat who generously repositioned himself on the floor so as to be visible to me in the mirror as I lifted weights) and Emma (the pup who ran in and plopped down next to my feet).
Who says weight-lifting has to be a solo event?
Lately when I leave something on the bed, Marcel curls up on whatever I’ve left behind. Two days ago he spent much of the day sleeping on top of my basket of assorted workout clothes and yesterday he got cozy with my running socks. I assumed the theme was my powerful stink. But today he’s thrown me a curveball.
How am I supposed to interpret this behavior?
As I hooped this morning, a bunny came into view. The furry beauty remained in that same spot, calmly chewing and staring into space, despite the fact that I spun and twirled nearby. And then Marcel, sensing something outside, jumped up in the window. The bunny casually glanced toward where the big white cat stared longingly, and immediately returned to her bunny business.
I’d like to emulate that self-confidence during this coming week. Me and the bunny, not overly concerned with matters outside our personal spheres.
Marcel is the four-legged member of the family voted Most Likely to Open a Closet, Drawer, or Food Canister. Which is why it was particularly dumb for me to leave only a sliding screen door between him and the great outdoors before I left today for a lunch date. To make matters worse, it wasn’t until a couple hours after my return that I noticed the screen door open about six inches.
Zippy and I began dashing about in a panic, calling Marcel’s name. Zippy checked under furniture and in closets as I ran around the front and back yards looking under bushes. I ran across the street (which hosts a fair amount of traffic) to ask the neighbors if they’d seen him. They hadn’t, but promised they’d let me know if they did. I started to wonder how I’d ever break it to Zebu that Marcel was gone.
I was making another round of the back yard when I heard something. I stopped and listened. I heard it again and followed the sound. There was Marcel, curled up in a corner of the neighbor’s yard, crying and frozen in fear. Zippy climbed over the fence and brought him home.
The good news is that Marcel’s already gotten over the trauma from his big adventure. Just a few moments ago, he was messing with the latch on the food canister.
Update: And right after I posted this, he opened the closet in my writing room and climbed into a box filled with bubble wrap.
Revisions going so well, Marcel is just a blur in the rear-view mirror.
Now if I could get him to stop drooling on me, my notebook, and my mouse pad. For whatever reason, he knows better than to drool on my keyboard.
That’s a good boy.
This morning I pulled some manuscript/project boxes out of the closet to see if there’s anything in there worth salvaging for my next writing endeavor. (My little writer brain has to have something to noodle on, so while I await my critique group’s feedback on my work-in-progress, I’ve started thinking about what comes next). Well, those boxes proved irresistible to the cats.
Marcel claiming his literary territory
Later this afternoon, Emma and I went out on the trails. Although it was warm enough for me to wear shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, there were still a few patches of snow along the way. We stopped running so that Emma could do her thing.
I laughed as she scooped snow with her snout and dug holes with her paws and slid down the slope on her tummy.
Emma + snow = happiness
I took a total of two photos today. First, I crept up on wild and crazy Marcel. SNAP!
Then, I pivoted to capture the rambunctious Loki.
National Geographic, you know where to find me.
Exactly one year and one day ago Emma came to stay. Not a whole lot has changed since then, except that we still haven’t mastered not-blurry photos of her AND elder-dog Zoey now has one more “damn millennial” to shake her head at AND cat-brothers Loki and Marcel have mostly put aside their differences to join forces against the high-energy pupster AND strangers now stop Zippy and me on the street to inform us that Emma is so very cute.
As if we hadn’t noticed.
We’re headed to Zippy’s sister’s home for a belated Christmas gathering. I was wrapping some gifts in my writing room when I looked up to see Marcel wedging himself in the box of ribbons. I carried the box out to show Zippy, and asked him to take a photo.
That face is a Christmas miracle all its own.
It’s been a low-key day.
A good day.
For that, I’m grateful.
This box a year old,
their favorite habitat.
Cats and kids the same.
. . . if your cats won’t even look you in the eye
I was just getting ready for bed when I realized:
(1) I’d neglected to blog today and
(2) it’s National Cat Day.
So, here’s Marcel from two years ago:
I can’t imagine life without the lovable drooler.
(The curtain opens to a calm scene. Woman reads in bed with Loki (black cat) on lap and Marcel (white cat) against her leg.)
Loki’s tail begins to whip Marcel in the head, which Marcel can ignore for only so long.
Woman: Come on, you two. Really?
“Why, yes. That was me prying the lid off the food canister.
Is there a problem?”
A click will enlarge the image, not the remorse.
Any place is good for eavesdropping, if you know how to eavesdrop.
~ Tom Waits
The male muse is an unaccountably rare thing in art.
Where does that leave female artists looking for inspiration?
~ Kate Christensen
Well, I’m a female artist currently working in close proximity to my male muse who is apparently lost in thoughts inspired by his whiteboard-muse. Inspiration comes in many forms.
Gotta respect the process.
Here are two cat butts
their feline heads gone missing.
Marcel gets between the camera and the bunnies.