Saturday, September 4, 2010
I talk to plants. If I see a really lovely piece of pottery, I coo at it like it's a baby. My car has a name, (Basil), and so does my bicycle, (Bouncing Betty Bubbles). I would probably name my feet if that didn't cross over into some kind of disassociative disorder. (But if I were to...)
So it isn't much of a stretch to live with and witness Oliver and see a universe in this skinny little cat. Born behind a restaurant, he was sort of shoved into my mother's arms by a rescue organization, Here, Take Him. If you look at that face, his expressions, you have to think that there's something going on in there. I've lived with my beloved Solomon for eleven years and he is wonderful, a beautiful black and white creature who breathes in your face and rolls into your lap, offers his belly for rubbing, sits like a male version of the Mona Lisa with the same enigmatic calm. He's more "cat", if there is such a thing. Oliver, however, is like a cat made up from a distance by a space alien culture, part pet and part the strange kid you remember from Junior High. I know that I'm projecting, as we tend to do with animals that live with us, assigning all kinds of human impulses behind what they do. But with Oliver, well, I can't help it.