The World Wide Wail

(If you're just checking in, I'm in process of moving I Call It My Art to http://theh2obaby.wordpress.com/  For a bit, I will continue to post in both places.  Wordpress isn't all brownies and hot fudge either, but they're both free, so I'll settle down again with whichever is less crazy-making.)

Is it a wonder we aren't all of us head-in-the-oven, falling apart, heart-broken zombies?  As if into each of our own lives enough sorrow does not fall, there is hardly a tragedy in the world to which we might not be privy.  The most recent globally mourned devastation, the earthquake in Port-au-Prince, is certainly a catastrophe and it is right to reach out from our wealth to their poverty.  The web and other modern technology make it not just possible, but easy and immediate.  Any one of us can spare what it takes to save a life there right now.  Hundreds of thousands have died, uncounted more are without a roof, food, water.

Sure, I've sent money to the Salvation Army (who are doing great work there in Christ's name), but I've shed no tears for those pitiful people who have just lost everything when they had nothing before.  Do you know what pulls at my heartstrings this week?  A cat.  A cat I don't know who belongs to someone I've never met.  I follow the owner's Twitter feed because it's interesting to window-shop the life of a successful author, whose work I generally enjoy.  So I, a complete stranger, am watching Neil Gaiman lose the sweetest cat ever.  Her name is Zoe.  She is fourteen years old, blind, was given a hip replacement because of her arthritis, and now is being taken by an inoperable tumor.  She will cross the Rainbow Bridge tomorrow.  But not before her human soul-mate, a girl called Olga, took a red-eye from the west coast to Minnesota to say goodbye.

Is it the details, the cat, or the scale of the drama which jerks tear?  The population of a sizable city is crushed beneath its own dwellings, but that is so far removed from one's own experience that the news reels look like just another movie.  But a sweet little old cat walking feebly out of this world?  I've been in that movie.  I empathize.

empathy |ˈempəθē|
noun
the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.

Empathy has been a buzzword in recent years for the media and others.  They insist we empathize with all the victims in the world.  Who can understand what it feels like have loved ones flattened under cinder block?  Let alone share that feeling.

sympathy |ˈsimpəθē|
noun ( pl. -thies)
1 feelings of pity and sorrow for someone else's misfortune

Sympathy is the word they're looking for.  I would never presume to share the grief and horror of people who are injured, dying of thirst, and mourning the sudden deaths of so many.

So, while I sympathize with those Haitians, I empathize with Neil and Olga.  And still I miss desperately a little old frail cat called Wordsworth-Fireproof-Chutney-BulletTrain-SignorBisogno-InternationalIncident.

NextCat: ThisCat

NextCat(tm) has arrived and become ThisCat(tm), whom we are calling, for the time being until she reveals another name, Kiwi. She was born July 17th, making her 12 weeks old Friday. The adoption didn't go quite as I had imagined. The woman has a cat she won't spay because she "doesn't like to," so she quite often has kittens in need of homes. She lets them all live out in the garden, so while not feral, they are poorly socialized with people. None of them cared a whit for me, let alone decided to choose me to take one of them away. Two the woman had never caught at all. I watched them play and sat on the terrace until they'd all gone off into the hedge. No, not the scenario I had in mind at all. So, of the ones she could catch, I chose the friendliest and away we went.

It is unsettling to have a stranger move in to our home. It's been so long since Mango and Wordsworth were new that they were part of me, I knew and loved them so well. Now I've chosen to love a bouncy, silly kitten who doesn't have an indoor voice. But she seems to be a quick learner, from needing and accepting further instruction on the uses of sandbox to picking up Craig's games with her to extracting herself from places she shouldn't have gone to begin with; I have great confidence in her.

Kiwi's first visit to the doctor went just fine last week. She is in good shape and behaved quite well. For her age, she has very long legs. We may be raising a panther. I've often bemoaned the size range available in dogs but not in cats. Of course, we can only "domesticate" the cat up to the point where he can stop us. Dogs want to be part of a pack. As long as it's clear who is alpha, they are happy. Cats don't care. If there is disagreement, there is no submission because they believe we are equals. It is with careful thought to that future panther that I am cultivating relationship with Kiwi. Kitten teeth never belong on human flesh, all the more so when the 3 month old kitten is proportioned like a cat already. I forget that she truly is still an itteh bitteh kitteh until I look at her face, see her tiny nose and over-large ears.

For now, she is little Kiwi, dual-phase kitten: on/off. "On" demands constant play, having grown accustomed to siblings and outdoors. "Off" relishes a warm lap. There is no intermediate state. She is either shouting for attention or purring as though life has never been this warm and dry and full-belly.

A Chapter Closes

For 18 years, they were my constant companions, my first consideration, my beloved responsibility. Life was built around the framework of their needs. That framework has disappeared; life has lost its shape and strength to stand upright.

Not long after agonizing over leaving ChutneyWordsworth here with friends during HomeLeave, I knew no one could give the obsessive care I lavished on him. And the best itinerary for us came on Lufthansa, the only airline to allow animals in the cabin flying trans-Atlantic. So, the little old well-traveled man would go with us. At least then, no matter what, we would be together. He always enjoyed new places and would be seeing old friends.

But so soon after that he began to fade more quickly than ever. I prayed fiercely, continually, that he would be comfortable and not suffer, that I might be spared that decision one time. He was the thirstiest thing, and even as his appetite continued to decrease, what he did eat stayed down. That is surely a blessing to the renal patient. But every day he was thinner, even when there seemed nothing left to lose, and more frail yet still getting around.

Then one Wednesday, when I returned home, he mustered the strength and will to zip out the door between my feet. I scooped him up and brought him in; we both knew. But I would never let him go find a cold, dark corner to leave this world alone. He would have a hospice ~ heating pad and water bowl on the couch, sandbox and unwanted food on the floor. Even Thursday evening, he was conscious when I bid him "goodnight" and moved himself from blanket to heater. I slept on the other couch. At about 2:00, I heard a little hitch in his breathing. He hadn't moved. His eyes were open, but unseeing. The tenseness which had filled his little body for the last couple of days was exchanged for limpness. He was never one for laps, so I stroked him and rubbed his ears, talking and singing to him. Maybe he knew or maybe he was already crossing the Bridge. But 15 minutes later, he gave just a few little sounds, his jaw relaxed, one paw twitched, I felt the strangest buzzing go through his ears, and my little old man, reaching the end of his excellent life, walked out of mine. It was as peaceful as I had asked for, just him and me alone, at home. Apparently no pain, no fear. I miss him like my own heart, but God is good. He knows how much we can bear, what will make us stronger, and what will only break us.

When it was Mango's time to go, as much as she left gaping holes in her wake, Wordsworth was there to take up the mantle of "home is where the cat is." He still held down a cat's space on the bed, demanded my attention for cherished rituals, required primary position in any plans to be made. Life maintained its central character of being inhabited by cats. Suddenly, it is no longer bounded and supported and tied to my furry little wards. When my mother died, it felt as though someone had pulled up one tent stake, letting the canvas whip in the wind; the weather roared through. Now the tent is gone. The weather isn't roaring, but the overwhelming silent presence of options leaves me gasping, grasping for the anchor of those small creatures to show me the safe edge of boundaries.

But now is a season to embrace those options. After providing a lifetime for those I first took in, before I start over and give myself to a new generation who will need a roof and kibble and love, I will mourn and escape and become strengthened again. Some time unencumbered to travel with my husband, and perhaps discover a bit more of who I am, apart from being one owned by cats.

I'm Not "The Crazy Old Lady with 100 Cats"

Putting my time where my mouth is (see previous post), today my art is a line of designs for clothing and accessories. It's called 97 Cats...More or Less, because, you know, people always talk about the crazy old lady with 100 cats. Most of the pieces have this name on the outside somewhere because Italians love English writing on their clothes and bags which makes no sense.

It began with my general inclination toward buying plain clothes, solid colors, basics. But I bore even myself. I was tired of my clothes, but if it's in good shape, why get rid of it only to be buying something else? However, if it's already too dull to wear, that gives me absolute license to do something to it. Its fate couldn't be worse than neglected in a drawer.

So out come the Jones Tones (fantastic fabric paints available at Dharma Trading) to meet with old T-shirts for a second chance at love. Starting with simple, iconic (yeah yeah, I've heard the word has been banned by newspaper editors as over-used to the point of homeopathic dilution, but literally, how cool would it be to see 97 Cats in a desk-top theme?) line drawings, the first pieces were born:



Now, doodling on old or inexpensive clothes is one thing, but it would take more confidence to lay out my brand new $50 PacSafe purse and put the paint to it. This bag is awesome for wandering cities, uber secure (as described in detail on their website), and I wouldn't carry another ~except my larger version when I just can't go without a sweater, water bottle, umbrella, phrasebook et al~ but while its stalwart character is deeply embedded, the poor thing lacked charisma. Jones Tones comes through with... dare I say it? flying colors. It took to the nylon like brown on rice and is so flexible, not stiff and cracky at all.

What's in your closet that isn't really "you"? Giving to charity is always a great option, but if it's still a keeper, you could make it fabulous, dig it for a while, then circulate your art to the less fortunate. Who wouldn't love finding that one of a kind, hand-made piece in the thrift store?