There is actually a Moscow Cat Circus with one Russian ringmaster and 120 cats. He says that the secret of his protégés' performance is that he watches them, gets to know what they do, and builds their acts around that. He also acknowledges that you can't make cats do what they don't want to do.
He has discovered two simple principles, both of which could be the basis of a whole new approach to a better world for all.
Consider. The first point is observation. Quietly watching other beings as they go about doing what they do, without interfering or trying to spread democracy on them. Refraining from intervening to achieve one's own ends. Withholding criticism of their way of life, their beliefs, their preferences and their way of doing things. Admiring them for being who and what they are, and seeking to understand them better without criticism or complaint. Offering encouragement and applause for a job well done.
The second point is acceptance. Realizing that cats have staff, not owners. Understanding that cats dictate the terms on which you shall live with them. Knowing that cats will respond to open hands and arms and laps: that an occasional can of tuna will restore their faith in human kindness and you in particular.
Ah yes, but is the Moscow Cat Theatre exploiting the very nature of cat life for monetary gain? If the cats are as happy and cooperative as they seem to be, who can argue that anything cruel or untoward is happening? It must cost a fair amount of money to maintain 120 cats. They earn their keep, and the entire enterprise probably never has to deal with mice.
Our cat, Kaboodle, has always greeted me at the door after work. Lately, she has added a couple of tricks to her repertoire of attention-getters. In addition to meowing in response to my verbal affirmations, she sits back and raises her right paw. I take this to be her offer to shake hands, but if I'm not very quick, the paw is replaced on the floor.
The circus-worthy moment, however, comes when she stands on her back feet, even for only a few seconds, and extends her front feet into the air. So far as I can see, she does this in response to my bending down slightly, reaching out, and offering to scratch her ears.
One of these days, Kaboodle, you'll be ready for the Big Top. But please, don't run away to join the circus. We'd rather you be a barn cat than a Barnum cat.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
The Evil Eye and the Susceptible Ewe
Whenever Dusky, the senior male cat in the household, decides that he wants a particular place or seat, he simply jumps into it. Usually, the place he lands is on J's lap. But whenever the place has an incumbent, he takes a different, much more subtle approach: he gives the occupant the Evil Eye.
Invariably, staring at the opposition with an unbroken gaze is sufficient to force the abandonment of such a prized location. The loser, usually Kaboodle, slinks away, scarcely daring to glance backwards, but clearly mortified and somewhat angry at having to relinquish the venue. The more comfortable the resting place the more resented the victory.
What is most intriguing to me is that more often than not, he will stay in his new-found eyrie just long enough to establish his seniority. Then he will jump down again and wander off in search of new conquests. It is not that he particularly wanted the spot in the first place. It is more likely that he needed to boost his sense of self by maintaining his rights as he sees them.
His method, however, does not transport easily. I have tried it once or twice on the grandchild, but the fact that I have eyes of slightly different colors tends to fascinate rather than intimidate. It does not work on the cats, because they either do not know what I'm trying to do, or they are such excellent practitioners themselves that they are immune to its effects, or they get bored and look away.
According to Wikipedia, the origin of the evil eye is in the envy that one feels when others have good fortune. You may be casting it unintentionally on the person whose good luck you envy. But there is a defense: paint a blue bullseye on yourself or your house, and the Evil Eye will be rendered powerless. But you may feel a bit sheepish when people ask you about your decorative tastes.
Invariably, staring at the opposition with an unbroken gaze is sufficient to force the abandonment of such a prized location. The loser, usually Kaboodle, slinks away, scarcely daring to glance backwards, but clearly mortified and somewhat angry at having to relinquish the venue. The more comfortable the resting place the more resented the victory.
What is most intriguing to me is that more often than not, he will stay in his new-found eyrie just long enough to establish his seniority. Then he will jump down again and wander off in search of new conquests. It is not that he particularly wanted the spot in the first place. It is more likely that he needed to boost his sense of self by maintaining his rights as he sees them.
His method, however, does not transport easily. I have tried it once or twice on the grandchild, but the fact that I have eyes of slightly different colors tends to fascinate rather than intimidate. It does not work on the cats, because they either do not know what I'm trying to do, or they are such excellent practitioners themselves that they are immune to its effects, or they get bored and look away.
According to Wikipedia, the origin of the evil eye is in the envy that one feels when others have good fortune. You may be casting it unintentionally on the person whose good luck you envy. But there is a defense: paint a blue bullseye on yourself or your house, and the Evil Eye will be rendered powerless. But you may feel a bit sheepish when people ask you about your decorative tastes.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
It's about time.
OK, so now we're goin' down Route 66. Today's birthday boy is your obedient scribe.
What's it like being 66? Well, for one thing, it's like being twice as old as you were at 33, and three times as old as you were at 22, and six times as old as you were at 11.
Before we try to figure out what it feels like to be sixty-six times as old as you were at age one, let's just stop and think for a moment. Do you remember what it was like to be one year old? If you do you must be a phenomenon.
Actually, it's not too bad. Speaking for myself, I'm more settled now than I was at any of those other milestones. Different things annoy me now from those that annoyed me then. When I was six, I wasn't particularly easily annoyed by children. Well, mostly I was afraid of them. But at 66, interacting with kids has become one of my least sought after activities. I think this is partly the result of attenuation of hearing. As I lose the range of upper frequency response, I am less able to make out what kids are trying to say, particularly at the early stages of child development. And what I can understand, in most cases, is not something that offers much in the way of subject interest. Perhaps as I grow older, they will too, and some moments of effective communication are to be anticipated whenever that may happen. But it is likely to be a brief window indeed, given that I'll be nearly 80 when the granddaughter is a mere 16-year old, assuming we both survive.
What, then, you ask, are the joys of being on Route 66?
They are, at a minimum, three in number.
1) To have survived for another year is a fine thing. Much preferable to the alternative.
2) Some people seem to take note of my age and appearance and show a certain, perhaps undeserved, deference. I no longer have to do all the dishes and all the cleaning. Which is a good thing because
3) Time has become a valued commodity. It's amazing how much there is to do each day, and how little of it actually gets accomplished. When I was twice as young as I now am, I could remember to do things very easily. It didn't mean that I did them, but at least I was aware that I needed to do them. Now, my best friend is a to-do list at Google Calendar.
And so, as life progresses toward unavoidable eventuality, knowing that it's highly unlikely that we'll someday be twice as old as we are today, let alone three times as old, we take the time to reflect on our turning off the freeway to follow Route 66 for a year. May this be the road less traveled by, making all the difference.
What's it like being 66? Well, for one thing, it's like being twice as old as you were at 33, and three times as old as you were at 22, and six times as old as you were at 11.
Before we try to figure out what it feels like to be sixty-six times as old as you were at age one, let's just stop and think for a moment. Do you remember what it was like to be one year old? If you do you must be a phenomenon.
Actually, it's not too bad. Speaking for myself, I'm more settled now than I was at any of those other milestones. Different things annoy me now from those that annoyed me then. When I was six, I wasn't particularly easily annoyed by children. Well, mostly I was afraid of them. But at 66, interacting with kids has become one of my least sought after activities. I think this is partly the result of attenuation of hearing. As I lose the range of upper frequency response, I am less able to make out what kids are trying to say, particularly at the early stages of child development. And what I can understand, in most cases, is not something that offers much in the way of subject interest. Perhaps as I grow older, they will too, and some moments of effective communication are to be anticipated whenever that may happen. But it is likely to be a brief window indeed, given that I'll be nearly 80 when the granddaughter is a mere 16-year old, assuming we both survive.
What, then, you ask, are the joys of being on Route 66?
They are, at a minimum, three in number.
1) To have survived for another year is a fine thing. Much preferable to the alternative.
2) Some people seem to take note of my age and appearance and show a certain, perhaps undeserved, deference. I no longer have to do all the dishes and all the cleaning. Which is a good thing because
3) Time has become a valued commodity. It's amazing how much there is to do each day, and how little of it actually gets accomplished. When I was twice as young as I now am, I could remember to do things very easily. It didn't mean that I did them, but at least I was aware that I needed to do them. Now, my best friend is a to-do list at Google Calendar.
And so, as life progresses toward unavoidable eventuality, knowing that it's highly unlikely that we'll someday be twice as old as we are today, let alone three times as old, we take the time to reflect on our turning off the freeway to follow Route 66 for a year. May this be the road less traveled by, making all the difference.
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