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This is Ozzie, Mom’s #2 cat. She got a calico kitten, which she named Sweetie-Pie, but Sweetie-Pie was crazy-go-nuts, wanting to play. When she leaped from a flat stand and bit Mom on the butt, I said, “That cat needs a playmate.”
Then one of Mom’s friends said, “I’m going on vacation. There’s this stray kitten I’ve been feeding. Can I bring him over to your house to keep?” Mom said, “Sure.” She figured she could try Sweetie-Pie out with a friend and, if it went well, she could get a permanent one after her friend got back from vacation.
The friend got back from vacation and said, “I didn’t mean to keep while I was gone; I meant TO KEEP.”
So Mom had a second cat. Luckily, he and Sweetie-Pie are bestest friends, so it worked out great. His original name was Oliver, but that changed to Ollie and that changed to Ozzie. Or, you know, Ozzer or Ozzie-mapozzie or Ozimandias or, from Mom, Honey-Bun. Sometimes I call the calico Snickers and this one Dreamsicle.
Mom got these cats after Grandpa passed, but this guy’s favorite place to nap is on the lining of Grandpa’s coat, which is my coat, now. Grandpa would have loved that–he had a special rapport with animals.
MomGoth has so many little sparks o’ joy! 🙂 And the sparks show up brighter in the darkness, you know?
writing prompt: Write a paragraph about somebody who doesn’t like cats. Now write a paragraph about the same person, only make him/her like cats. What does it matter? Make it matter!
This is my mother’s calico cat, Sweetie Pie, as a kitten. As you see, she was a kitty evangelist, laying a healing on my camera. The lens aperture closed miraculously and I haven’t been able to take pictures since. Okay, that’s a lie.
Here’s the truth, though. You know how, if you somehow acquire two of something, everybody thinks it’s a collection and gives you additions to it for all possible occasions? Well, with my mother, it’s stuffed animals. Ever since Sweetie Pie was a tiny kitten, she’s loved those stuffed animals. She gets them off shelves and carries them around. There’s one, sent to Mom from the National Wildlife people, called a Blue-Footed Booby and which Mom calls The Goony-bird, which was three times Sweetie-Pie’s kitten size, and which Sweetie-Pie dragged all over the house by its neck.
Her two other favorites are a set of small polar bears and a marmalade cat. These are the beneficiaries of her religious fervor. She baptizes them in her water dish. Frequently. At first, not a day went by that Mom didn’t find at least one of them near and wringing wet or actually face down in the “baptismal font”. Religion seemed to have finally taken root, though, and nobody has had to be brought to Jesus in many months.
We were saddened to see that the marmalade cat has apparently been backsliding. Sweetie Pie’s foster brother, Ozzie, is also a marmalade, and we’re wondering if the stuffed cat is the actual offender or if Sweetie Pie is baptizing Ozzie in effigy. Personally, I think the stuffed cat is getting its own come-uppance. I mean, look at that face. If that isn’t the face of an unrepentant sinner, I don’t know what is.
I keep telling Sweetie Pie that her mother is a Lutheran, and Lutherans don’t dunk, they sprinkle. Mom tells me to let her alone–she’s entitled to her own religion.
Another reason why I love my mother.
Writing prompt: Have you ever been to a christening or baptism or other ceremony signifying membership in a religion? How did it feel? How did it seem to change the life of the person inducted (if it did)? If you haven’t been to one, look up an explanation of one online and imagine it.
When I went in to pick her up, she told me her cat would only sit on her lap in the bathroom, not in the living room. So I said, naturally, “Have you tried dropping your drawers in the living room?” She didn’t think that was a very good idea, and she hasn’t even tried it!
So then we got in the car. There were tire tracks close to the entrance to our drive, so Mom says, “You lay that rubber?”
“Sure,” I said. “I have drag races with the other quintanarians. I’m almost too old for the category. Next year I’ll be a sexagenarian. Be some fun next year! Ten years of it–man!”
Mom said, “I’ll be an octogenarian. What’s ninety?”
I said, “Nonogenarian.”
“Yeah? And after that, I’ll be a centurion.”
“Cool! Commander of Roman soldiers. That’s sooo cool.”
“Yeah. They talk about how people didn’t live long in the old days, but the Bible has lots of centurions in it.”
“True,” I said. “But they were all Romans. Must be that Mediterranean diet. All that olive oil.”
And that’s a typical conversation. See why I love to be with my Mom? See why I grew up to be the way I am?
Writing prompt: How old are your main character’s parents? Are THEIR parents alive? How old are THEY? How do they get along and why?
Don’t feel like posting today. I have a friend who looks out for a couple of pods of wild cats, and one of them passed away. He came to her yard to do it, I think to be near somebody who cared. She said he showed no symptoms, just a slight change in his regular habits. Next thing she knew, he was Gone.
She’s very sad, and so I’m very sad.
Also, #3 daughter lost her job. Sad, sad, sad.
Writing prompt: Connect those dots–job loss, animal death, sorrow.
We got up this morning to find a glass of water knocked over on the kitchen table and water pooled on the wood floor (not a Good Thing). Also found that Charlie’s jeans, which were (if you said “on the floor”, you get a gold star) on the floor, soaked with feline liquid waste. Al was curled up on the couch, where he’d been all night. So, even though Al WAS caught in flagrante (Latin for: peeing right in front of us), Katya is busted as the one who’s been christening my husband’s floor wardrobe.
Also, I am STUCK on my NaNoWriMo book! I need something bad to happen, but I can’t think what or why….
Writing Prompt: Make something BAD to happen to your favorite character! Yes!
When I got up this morning, Charlie was cussing the cat.
“I left my shirt on the floor last night and when I picked it up to put it on this morning, Katya had pissed on it. Every time you leave something on the floor, she pisses on it!”
By that he means that every time he leaves something on the floor, she pisses on it. I’ve noticed it before. If he leaves a wet towel on the floor, or a piece of clothing or a discarded sheet of plastic on the floor, Katya pisses on it.
The moral of that story is: It’s easier to train a cat than a man.
Writing prompt: Write of tension between your pet and your significant other.