Cat
Delia, the house cat, has died. She was an old crock and was no longer able to drag home the birds as she once did. A sad parallel of my dykish Aunt Meryl. Actually, she had whiskers too. Anyway, in her last couple of days Delia even deigned to turn her nose up at the offer of tuna. She was not well. More specifically, in terms of the impact of Delia’s departure, this will be a strange period of adjustment for co-dweller Pete – Delia’s 17 year lifelong food source, and all-round human comfort zone. Marie too, an occasional commenter here, will keenly feel the feline’s absence. There’s has been a decade-long affur of the heart. It was, over the last couple of days, whilst observing and thinking about the chateau’s shift into catlessness, that I worked out – purely for myself – something about cats…
Previously, up until as recently as six months ago, I associated cats with friends who tended to be dotty female 30-somethings who would project much maternal devotion – and rhetoric – onto ‘the cat’. Recently, however, my way of thinking about this kind of thing has changed. Dear reader, brace yourself for an appalling metaphor. The cat is a canvas. The cat affords the keeper – be they dotty 30-something or undotty something else – the opportunity to act and speak as an emotional artist. This kind of thing saves us from yet more blogs with titles such as ‘Maisie’s Crazy Thoughts’ or ‘Freaky Boy’s Weird World’ and the like. It is through the cat that the keeper evidences for him/herself, onlookers, and the cat (or dog or frog or sheep), the desire and ability to form close emotional attachments. And this, can be a very attractive and reassuring thing. Sure, there will be cases of one man’s Joan Miro being the next man’s Jackson Pollock, or vice versa, or neither. But still, I’m the kind of guy who is most comfortable with art that has a function - whatever that function is. I know what I mean.
I said I’d never write about cats. Maybe I haven't.
*****
I love scratching my arse. But only when it’s itchy. Which isn’t often. I should add.
Previously, up until as recently as six months ago, I associated cats with friends who tended to be dotty female 30-somethings who would project much maternal devotion – and rhetoric – onto ‘the cat’. Recently, however, my way of thinking about this kind of thing has changed. Dear reader, brace yourself for an appalling metaphor. The cat is a canvas. The cat affords the keeper – be they dotty 30-something or undotty something else – the opportunity to act and speak as an emotional artist. This kind of thing saves us from yet more blogs with titles such as ‘Maisie’s Crazy Thoughts’ or ‘Freaky Boy’s Weird World’ and the like. It is through the cat that the keeper evidences for him/herself, onlookers, and the cat (or dog or frog or sheep), the desire and ability to form close emotional attachments. And this, can be a very attractive and reassuring thing. Sure, there will be cases of one man’s Joan Miro being the next man’s Jackson Pollock, or vice versa, or neither. But still, I’m the kind of guy who is most comfortable with art that has a function - whatever that function is. I know what I mean.
I said I’d never write about cats. Maybe I haven't.
*****
I love scratching my arse. But only when it’s itchy. Which isn’t often. I should add.
posted by Shane @ 7:42 pm
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