Catless Sunday

Monday, Mar. 10?, 2008

Cold, clear, sunny. Temp. in the 30s.

Where the hell are the squirrels? They are never around when you need them.

Mornings are still a punch in the gut.

Sunday was bad. Sunday all day was bad.

Sunday, cats-on-your-newspaper day was bad.

Sunday be-lazy-cozy-homey-cook-watch-movies-and-nap-with-your-cats day was hard from start to finish. What was it that made Saturday seem heartlessly easy, and Sunday so miserably bad?

On Sunday, I never did get on track. Depressed on waking. Distracted by trying not to think, to just get going, work past it. Prepared to go out, do some errands, take a walk. Noticed the scratching post — the scratching post which is such a fixture in my life that I never notice it — it hides in plain sight — the scratching post jumps out at me and I notice it and think “That should go. Somebody needs that.” And the immediate reply, “Don’t even think of moving that!” A good long cry followed.

Got dry. Got out. Went to see if the local craft vendor had a tile that would be reminiscent of Toulouse. Like the one for Lily’s “The Shrine of the Sacred Tortie.” It depicts a cat gazing out the window. The cat’s silhouette nearly identical to Lily’s. It’s on the bookshelf next to a photo of her gazing out the window of our favorite Brooklyn apt.

No tile for T. at the craft store. Only one with a longhair cat — a fat smug cat. He was never fat and never smug. If I ever accused him of smugness, I was lying. I tried at the petshop, which carries some ceramic pet tags by the same pottery. No tiles there. But many dogs. I was greeted by a sweet old greyhound, huge, with a grizzled muzzle, who let me pet her. For a moment, she cured me of feeling awkward about being there.

I decided to skip the rest of the plan and just go get dinner and breakfast supplies at Whole Foods. “Get healthy stuff,” I thought. “No wallowing around in junk food.” Managed to get past the bank of potted herbs, past the display of blueberries (Lily’s favorite) and the lanes of apples (her other favorite), the fish (his favorite, after chicken and dairy). I did not turn down the pet aisle, but peeked at it, and hated everyone in it for having a reason to be there. By the time I got to the dairy section, I thought “why fight it?” and bought a whole slew of foods that are not healthy — a pint of tapioca pudding, a 1/4 lb. of olives, paté, a baguette, chocolate chip cookies — “but only because today sucks. Tomorrow, no wallowing . . .” Interior wagging of finger at self.

Now it’s “Tomorrow” and the sun is streaming in through the bedroom window. All I can think of is how beautiful he is was, how happy in the sun, how his fur shone with glints of copper and silver. His utter contentment. His busy bathing. His insistence that I come and take time to share the beauty of the sunny morning with him.

If ever a cat was a “family man” it was T., always sharing, always grooming Lily, always want to do things together, always concerned about and infinitely patient with Lily and with me. Until bedtime, when he’d go off by himself, have his midnight yowl, and then . . . who knows what then . . . was he prowling around? warding off mice and unwelcome spirits? while Lily and I slept?

He would not like this wallowing and would exhort me to cheer up and get on with the day. And he would be right.

A female cardinal is sitting in the dogwood tree. It is calling and appears to be looking about after calling, as though listening for someone’s response.

There was a beautiful nuthatch on the poplar a few moments ago — so bright and clean they always look. He seemed to have found something big and tasty in the bark and flew off with it.

No squirrels this a.m. Too cold this a.m. perhaps. Hopefully there’s a little squirrel brood brewing one of the hollows in the tree. Maybe a couple of broods.

I need to rearrange and dismantle the “Veranda.” It is making me much too sad first thing in the morning. I can’t draw the curtains without noticing the absence, the impatient muzzle pushing through to the window pane. Veranda has got to go.

Where oh where are the bloody heartless unreliable squirrels?