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 A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| The Cat of a Thousand Names Yesterday I had what the medical people call "a procedure." Whilst not as draining as an operation, this particular procedure was still enough to dispose of any energy left after so long a life and I am unlikely to write anything of real import today. I still feel the nagging insistence of the blog, however, and it so happens that I have an old essay that enables me to continue the series about cats I have known. This is longer than usual for this blog but its subject was rather large for a cat, which makes it fitting, I think. Hopefully you'll enjoy it the more as a result. The Cat of a Thousand Names Fritz came to us from some old Zimbabwe friends, Patrick and Eleanor (not their real names). They lived in Milton Keynes at the time and so were the reason I came to know that fair city. Patrick was a little older than myself and belonged in what I think of as "the Alcohol Generation" whereas I am firmly in the "Psychedelic Generation". Which is all entirely off the point, since I intended to speak of the Cat of a Thousand Names. When Patrick and Eleanor decided to emigrate to Tasmania, we were chosen as the lucky winners in the contest to receive their cats (actually, we were the only entrants and did not realize that we had entered until informed of our prize moments before the cats arrived). The cats were named Fritz and Annie. As in most pet names, there were reasons; Annie because she was an orphan, Fritz because Patrick loved the film Fritz the Cat (not the old cartoon character but the much later pornographic version). I was never happy with the name Fritz, partly because I had not seen the movie and so did not get the joke, and also because I felt that anything with the name Fritz ought to have at least a tenuous connection with things German. The whole family set to work on devising a more apt handle for the unhappily-named one (Annie escaped this, probably because she was completely indescribable). At first, we tried out mutilations of the word "Fritz". "Furtive" was an early attempt that stuck, even though the cat was not furtive at all, being rather large and indolent, certainly never energetic enough to think of hiding his great bulk. "Ferdy" followed soon after and was accepted immediately. An aberration was "Frrt", an attempt to imitate the sound he made when asking a question (he was a talkative cat), rather than anything to do with his given name. "Frump" had a brief period of popularity. There were variations on a theme, "Firtle" supplying alternatives like "Firtleheim" and "Firtlebaum", and even "Fritz" produced the odd but attractive "Fritzenjammer". But none of the growing list ever managed to win out over the others and be adopted as the ultimate name for our tabby friend. As the list expanded with fresh inventions and variants, all became quite acceptable and were recognized as referring to the feline presence amongst us. This process continued for his entire life and I could not vouch for their being no new suggestions on the day that he died. It was a few years before that sad time that I gave recognition to what was happening by christening him with the title "The Cat of a Thousand Names". It was no exaggeration. Perhaps the most amazing thing about Fritz (I use the original name from now on so that no confusion arises) was that he knew instantly when he had been given a new name. He would come to any of them and never took offence at this game that we played. And this led me to the realization that he resembled a dog in many ways. Very few cats ever learn their own names, let alone come to them. Fritz did both, in spite of the severe handicap of constantly changing goalposts. He was definitely canine in his ability to understand human speech. It came to me then that, with a little training, Fritz could be helped the rest of the way and become a real dog (yes, Pinocchio, now you are a real boy). We began with the easy things like food. And Fritz responded with a will, happily accepting any food that he saw you eating, just as a dog will do. Every dog I have owned has enjoyed a banana and Fritz was no exception. He tried potato chips and, in spite of some difficulty in getting them to an edible state, he professed a great liking for them. His favorite was yogurt, however, and it became a crime to lick your own yogurt top, Fritz being recognized as chief yogurt top licker of the household. We progressed from there to more complex behavior. The game of "fetch" never appealed to him on account of his laziness, but you could see in his eyes that he understood the principle perfectly. It was just too much trouble to demonstrate his grasp of the game by physical activity. "Chase the cat out of the yard" he was good at, however. His technique was unusual but just as effective as the frantic barking and rushing about that a dog will do. Fritz relied more on his impressive bulk to achieve the same end. He would lie in the yard, apparently asleep, and wait for the offending cat to approach. At the moment when the prey was close enough to appreciate just how large he was, within a foot or so in other words, Fritz would wag his tail once, thumping it down on the ground with suitable aplomb. Most cats never recovered from the fright and would not enter our yard again. There was one lesson that Fritz never managed to get right, however, and so failed in his valiant attempt to be a dog. It was "barking" that defeated him. Fate had decreed that he should have a light, squeaky voice, totally unsuitable for producing the gruff and staccato sounds that a dog makes so effortlessly. He tried, poor fellow, but was defeated every time by the curse of his vocal chords. Never did he manage to achieve more than a pathetic mouse-like squeak. I gave up in the end and allowed him to live out his life, far above the normal run of cats but just short of dog-hood. He was happy enough with what he'd achieved, his good nature letting him smile at how close he'd come. And there was always one thing about being a dog that he got right every time. He would greet you at the door and let you know that you were the most important thing in the world to him. Not many cats ever get that right. Word count: 1,019 |
| The Wild One I don’t remember how we acquired this cat. All I know is that he came to us with the assurance that he was the result of an affair a domestic cat had with a bush cat, the wild cat of Africa from which all our tamed cats came. This was supported both by his size (he was not enormous but considerably larger than most cats) and his character (we did not appreciate initially how wild he was but it became apparent in time). He was certainly different from other cats. He had that aloofness of all cats but added to this was a complete disregard for the rules. This became apparent when several steaks disappeared from the kitchen. It was an impressive feat for a cat to carry them off, let alone devour them. I must admit that I have forgotten the name we chose for him. It hardly matters anyhow, since he never acknowledged it any way. This was a cat that went his own way and made few compromises with his alleged owners. He appeared at mealtimes and occasionally would submit to being petted for a while, but that was it - in the main he was still wild. At the time, we were living in a cottage in the grounds of a larger house where lived the landlady and her family. She also had several labradors trained as hunters and these became our cat’s playthings. There was a thick hedge that ran from the cottage to the far side of the property and the cat had several holes at the base of the hedge where he could get through. He would saunter up to the big house, tantalise the dogs into chasing him, and then run down to the hedge. In a flash he would be through one of his holes. The dogs would crash into the hedge but could not get through the small holes that the cat had made. That was embarrassing enough but the cat would sit just out of reach on the other side, looking back at the dogs and smiling. And I must admit that I was a little proud of our tough and devious cat. Eventually the dogs gave up and ignored the cat in his expeditions into their home territory. This became important later on. The landlady kept rabbits in a row of hutches against the fence at the far side of the yard. These were used in training the dogs. I never witnessed how this was done but am fairly sure that it didn’t end well for the rabbits. And then the rabbits started disappearing. We received a visit from the landlady and she claimed that our cat was killing and stealing her rodents. I couldn’t see how the cat could break into the hutches, extract a rabbit, and then carry it off to be eaten. The rabbits were almost as big as the cat, after all. We promised to keep an eye on the culprit even so. Yet those rabbits continued to disappear and never did anyone catch the cat in the act. It was not until there were no rabbits left that the landlady managed to prove her assertion. The evidence was undeniable. I was really impressed. What a cat we had! But we did have to find somewhere else to live. Landladies can be so unreasonable at times. And that meant finding another place to live. I changed jobs at the time and had managed to find work in another town, so it was going to be a long move. When the time came, the last thing we had to do was catch the cat. This was not that difficult and we duly inserted him into the cardboard carrying case the veterinarian had given us. It took the cat all of thirty seconds to burst his way out of one end of the case and head for the trees. We had to give up on him that day. The next day, we were back with catfood and succeeded, after hours of trying, to get him back into a stronger case we had bought for the task. Then, at last we could set out for the new town. Three hundred miles with a cat yowling in protest in the back is not a pleasant experience. We followed all the rules of moving a cat into a new home, keeping him inside for over a week. But you have to let them loose eventually and, when we did, he was off into the blue distance and we never saw him again. I’ll bet he made his way back to the old place and continued his war with those labradors. They get very attached to their territory, cats. Word count: 794 |
| The Nameless One Soon after my first marriage, we were living in a small apartment in the city. We had no thought of acquiring animals and I don’t know now whether they were allowed in terms of the lease. But one evening there was a quiet scratching at our front door. We answered what appeared to be a request to be let in and so came to know a large, battered old warrior of a cat. He marched into the place as if he owned it. Scarred and tattered as he was, it was clear that this fellow had seen life and understood how to survive the worst it could throw at him. We fed him dutifully. From the apparent ease with which he took us as his staff, it seemed to me that he had done this kind of thing before. In fact, I suspect that he had a whole series of households on which to call when he felt the need for some comfort. He may well have progressed regularly from one to the next, never living on the street unless he felt like a bit of roughing it. His battle scars proved that he knew how to take care of himself, that was obvious. He stayed with us just three days that first time. We did not even have time to think of a name for him before he disappeared one day. And he did not reappear for several weeks. When he did, it was in the same way as the first - the scratching at the door, the imperious entrance, a brief stay, and then silent and unannounced departure. This became the pattern of the few months in which we stayed in that apartment. When we left for greener pastures, he was away and so the question of his coming with us never arose. We knew he would be fine. That fellow could handle himself, that’s for sure. Word count: 321 |
| Jinx Jinx was our first family cat. Not only was she the first of our cats, she was also family in that she didn’t belong to anyone. I was very young when we acquired her and I don’t think I ever knew who had introduced her to the household. But I’m certain she came before the first of our dogs. She never chose one of us as her special person. Essentially aloof in character, she would accept petting from any of us but only for short periods. Mostly, she kept to herself. In a way, she was the most catlike of our cats in this acceptance of our usefulness to her but rejection of too much interaction. As a Manx, she had no tail but, once you were used to this, it became obvious that she was quite pretty. She was an attractive mix of white and grey in stripes, almost like an albino tiger. This gave her a smokey, misty look that is quite rare in cats. I have no idea where the name Jinx came from. She showed no tendency to bring bad luck and proved tough enough to outlast many of our dogs. They accepted her as the prior occupant of the household but kept her on her toes with frequent rough and tumble games. She put up with these in spite of her obvious dislike of her dignity being ruffled so often and the dogs never did any physical harm to her. You could say that she had the last laugh, spending her last few years in a brief interlude when we had no dogs. She lived about sixteen years. In the end, she went in a way that was typical of her ghostlike quality, disappearing quietly one day and never being seen again. Writing about her has made me realise just how important her colouring was to the whole concept of Jinx. Being the colour of mist, she lived a life slightly apart from us, always present but barely noticeable, a faint impression of a wraithlike shadow at the edge of the family. It’s almost as if she didn’t live with us - she haunted us. And that was Jinx. Word count: 364 |
| Cats I am very picky when it comes to dogs. I’ve known many breeds owned by others and quite a few that my father had when I was a child. That was when he was experimenting, however, and he eventually came to the same conclusion that I had reached at a very early age. It has to be a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. Preferably brindle although a red will do. And, if you really want the very best, go for a bitch. They are very slightly less trouble than males. Strangely enough, the story is completely different when it comes to cats. My life has been lived with many cats and I never took much notice of what breed they were. It didn’t seem to matter, apart from how fluffy they were. Not really into fluffiness in either cats or dogs. I like to see the true shape of the animal and that you’ll only get with the shorthairs. So I’ve known and owned a fair variety of cats, beginning with a Manx. But it’s the last one that has made me take notice. She’s from Florida, a stray picked up by the Girl and brought to us on return from her vacation. An unwanted addition to the family that has turned out to be a bountiful gift. But more of that in some later post. It occurs to me that I should write about the various cats I have known. This is more possible for me than the dogs because each of those is worth a book and I just haven’t the time these days. The cats could be dealt with in a blog post each, however. So I’m not promising anything but the intent right now is to write about those cats, a post for each. The first was a Manx, as I mentioned, and her name was Jinx. We’ll see how long I can keep the series going. Word count: 319 |
| Sleep I read somewhere that Churchill hardly slept at all at night. Instead, he made up for it by snatching ten minute catnaps during the day. At moments when the pressure was off, presumably. Apparently, Maggie Thatcher did the same thing. In fact, it may be that many of the high-powered folk who run the corridors of power, influence, and money have similar habits. It’s a lifestyle that most of us ordinary folk find hard to understand or even believe. We can’t imagine doing without a good night’s sleep to recover from the rigours of our days. So we put it down as an urban legend and wonder how these stories begin. And then we get old. I’ve heard it said that old people don’t sleep as much as they used to because “they don’t need it as much.” But now I’m in a position to disagree. We sleep just as much as we always did but not in one great big lump. Our nights are divided into a few hours of sleep separated by frequent visits to the bathroom. It’s the decreased capacity of the bladder that decides these things and when a man has to pee, he’s gotta pee. During the day, of course, we catch up by short naps in front of the television or sitting in a chair with the book we were reading slipping out of our hands. It all adds up and I can say that, putting everything together, we most likely get the same amount of sleep as the younger ones around us. Admittedly, my test sample is very small. In fact, it consists of one person only - me. But, as Andrea says, “Everyone does it.” So nod off, gentle geriatric friends, you’re just catching up! Word count: 292 |
| Inheritance It’s true that we all become our parents as we get older. In my seventy-seventh year I have ample evidence to prove the theory. So many of the things I say with regularity are echoes of my father’s outdated and sometimes mysterious sayings. An example is, “Nobody here but us chickens.” The reason for that one came out when I was watching a Laurel and Hardy movie on the television. There’s a scene in which they hide from the sheriff in a chicken hutch. When the sheriff arrives and calls out, “Anybody here?” one of the guys answers, “Nobody here but us chickens.” It’s not only my father that shapes my old age. I realised very early on that I’d inherited one of my mother’s most irritating features. She would listen to whatever explanation (usually long and complicated) I was giving her and then gradually her eyes would glaze over. I could tell she’d stopped listening. This happened so often that we’d accept it without comment, finish whatever we were saying and rush off without bothering to hear any reply she might invent. I have the same tendency. I’m not sure how noticeable it is but I’m often just thinking of other things when someone is droning on about something or other. It’s rude, I know, but I can’t help it. The old brain just refuses to hear any more and wanders off into its own pursuits. So, if I get that glazed look in my eyes when I’m supposed to be hearing your latest theory, I’m sorry but it’s all my mom’s fault. Hey, are you still reading this? Word count: 270 |
| Getting It Said I actually caught up to the Promptly Poetry Challenge today. A poem intended to be read as a chant, meter all-important, meaning merely incidental and vague. I write more chants as time goes on. Anyway, when I’d finished, I read through the new poem and several of the ones I’d written to catch up. And realised that they were all about the same thing, in spite of the different prompts. I was reminded of Claude Monet, who spent his last few years painting endless pictures of the waterlilies on his pond. I’ve never understood how people can get stuck on one subject (or job) like that but I think I get it now. Old age has a lot to do with it. In the end, we write or paint what we’re thinking about. Word count: 133 |
| Wishful Thinking Here we are near the end of October and it seems only a few days since it was barely begun. This acceleration of time with gathering age becomes ridiculous. Were I able to run as fast as the years speed by, I’d arrive before I set out. True conservation of energy! |
| Rupert QOTD asked recently about our favourite comics. This morning I realised that I’d not answered with complete honesty. In my haste, I’d selected two comics that were both American. The full truth is that this ignores the impact of European cartoons on my development. Although it’s true that, as an adult, I love Peanuts and Calvin & Hobbes, more influential on my childhood was a bear known as Rupert. I knew him as a white bear (probably polar as a result) but he was originally brown. More importantly, he was set apart from his fellow bears by his clothing - red sweater, chequered scarf and trousers, white shoes. Rupert was the creation of a husband and wife team, Herbert Tourtel (story) and Mary Tourtel (illustration). He was born in 1920, which makes him older than the other famous British bears, Winnie the Pooh and Paddington (yes, I know Paddington was supposed to be from Peru but he behaved as a Brit). That makes Rupert 105 years old and his longevity is caused by a list of successor writer/illustrators over the years. He began as a regular item in the newspaper, the Daily Express, and has continued thus right up to the present. I never had access to the paper series but was given several copies of the hardback annual of his adventures that was published each year. These had four ways to read the story. At the top of the page, would be a title for the events of that page. Then there would be the illustrations, four to the page. Under that would be two lines of verse describing what happened in the picture. And, finally, there was a block of text at the bottom with a full account given. It was this that made Rupert so special. The title gave you a quick summary of the latest development in the story, the pictures showed it happening (ideal for those unable yet to read), the verses expanded the story in nursery style rhyme and meter (perfect for reading aloud), and the text gave the literate child all the details that complete the story. The illustrations were so very English in style and content. They are completely realistic, not obsessively and exquisitely detailed, like Hergé’s Tintin stories, and without the verve of Uderzo’s work in Asterix, but evidence of a love for the British countryside. The verses were impressively true to their nature as being for the very young, but the stories were delightfully strange and inventive. There was none of that strict attendance to reality as in Tintin - Rupert’s adventures took place in a world of magic and imagination. Yet always with that English country background. So Rupert deserves mention if we’re talking about cartoons. I was always on the lookout for any annuals that I lacked in those days and seized upon them when found. Even today I wish that I still had those annuals I collected and I happily read every word of any new Rupert story discovered. He’s like that other more recent phenomenon, Wallace and Gromit - a British institution. Word count: 513  |
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What if it stayed because it liked the taste of rabbit? Good grief 
