The Death of Imagination

I confess that one of the reasons I'm ambivalent about going home for Christmas is my cat. Normally when I get in, he's at my feet within seconds meowing to be fed. The other day that didn't happen. I stood there, having put the food in his bowl, and called to him and he still didn't come. Then I burst into tears imagining him dead in some dark corner of the lower level. (He'd have been bewildered when he arrived a moment later if he wasn't so one-track when it comes to dinnertime.)

This isn't rational. He's fine. He passes every checkup with flying colours. The only concern is his teeth: The vets would like to pull a couple but I've vetoed it every time since it would mean putting him under general anaesthesia and there's always a chance you won't wake up from that. I don't see that it's worth the risk for something that's not a serious threat to his health.

It's an odd reversal, since in the past I've been disdainful of people being too attached to their pets. I would quickly shut down anyone who referred to me and Monshu as "parents". On the continuum of household dependents, a housecat is much closer to a fussy houseplant than even the most easily-cared-for child. We only had one dog when I was growing up but I remember at least half-a-dozen different cats.

But now I'm afraid to leave this one alone for too long. My recent trip to Pittsburgh was my first absence since two weeks after the GWO passed away (and my first trip to visit someone who wasn't family in at least five or six years). I knew I'd miss him, but I thought it would only be for the nightly companionship. I didn't anticipate having to suppress feelings of panic and a frequent desire to text the trustworthy neighbours checking on him daily for reassurance.

In the back of my mind, I guess I'm recalling that time when I was a child and while we were gone for a week (Colorado? I don't even recall any more), a favourite cat ate caulking and was dying excruciatingly until my father decided to cut his suffering short with a spade. We live in a big apartment containing lots of things he shouldn't ingest; he's already killed one rat in it. I've become fanatical about pulling things away from him and cutting any food I give him into mince lest he choke on it.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that losing him will be, in a small way, like losing Monshu again. We found him together. When I mock his whining, in my mind I hear Monshu doing the same thing. He gave our home a soul and so long as he's alive the dream of being together in it isn't totally extinguished.

1. das Schnabeltier
2. het vogelbekdier
3. el ornitorrinco
4. l'ornitorinc
5. l'ornithorynque
6. an platapas
7. y hwyatbig
8. dziobak
9. 오리너구리
10. 鴨嘴獸 yāzuǐshòu
11. カモノハシ

Notes: 1. "beak beast" 2. "bird beak beast" 7. "duck beak" 8. dim. of dziób "beak" 9. "duck raccoon dog" 10. "bird mouth beast" 11. "wild duck's beak"

I frankly didn't expect the equivalents to be so varied or so divergent from English. Sure, the Romance languages seem to agree in using a form of the Latin genus name (which is simply the Greek for "bird snout"), but many of the other languages of Europe seem to have taken this designation and made it their own. I'm particularly surprised to see both Korean and Japanese using 100% native names for a creature which could hardly be more exotic to them.

1. der Leng(fisch)
2. de leng
3. la maruca
4. la llengua de bacallà
5. la lingue (blanche)
6. an langa
7. y honos
8. molwa (pospolita)
10. 魣鱈 xùxuě

Notes: This is a word which brought me up short in O'Flaherty today. Generally, context or, in a pinch, my Dictionary of Hiberno-English suffices, but all I could tell from the sentence was that it was some sort of foodstuff and Dolan had nothing. It was the Old Man who put me on the right track by saying, "Isn't it a kind of cod?" It isn't but it's a fish (or rather a genus of them) of the same order which is apparently similar enough to be a common substitute. According to Wikipedia, in fact, it's the preferred species for lutefisk. Since it's a North Atlantic food fish, it's surprising enough that there's a Chinese name for it. (My sources are insufficient to determine what they'd be labeled in Japan or Korea.)

Seems like only yesterday I was giving the cat his first taste of cornbread and marvelling when he actually ate it; in reality, it was three years ago. Since then he's gone from ignoring human food to not being allowed alone in the room with it. Today I heated up some turkey stew for lunch and then left the room for a moment to make a call; I returned to find him standing on my chair, paws on the table and face in my mashed potatoes. Last week he trashed some lunchmeant monshu had left on the counter; he'd already gotten in the habit of putting uncooked meat waiting to be cooked into the microwave oven after a similar incident some time back.

But he's retained most of his charming old habits (like sleeping on my arm and licking water off his paw) and recently revived one. Now almost every night as I head downstairs to bed, I find him scrambling to the banister in the hopes I'll fling toys up to him from the lower landing. Whether by accident or design, he seems less proficient at schnagging things and better at whacking them away to carom off the walls. Good to learn that my youthful reflexes haven't completely atrophied.

Amazing what you find when you clean up for a change: monshu cleared out the coat closet in advance of a visit from the electrician today and discovered 'Da Bird' which has been missing on the order of two years or so. I knew I'd hidden somewhere so that the cat wouldn't chew it to shreds and I thought it was that closet, but I didn't think of looking on the floor in the corner where it'd slipped down to. It's a timely discovery now that our vet has suggested he lose about two pounds. (I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but that's comparable to me dropping two stone.) It's clear he's lost some of his interest, but he still did more jumping out than I've seen in ages. If need be, I can always slip in a few catnip leaves.

The Old Man has taken his birthday week off, but rather than spend it gallivanting around one of the great cities of North America, he's staying at home and getting a hundred little things taken care of. Ten of these are the light in the closet, the halogens under the cabinets, and the trifaceted light fixture in the den. For all I know, in fact, they're all taken care of already since your man was supposed to show up at 8:30. Will he be cuter than the cable guy? We live in hope!

According to the veterinarian who examined him today, our cat is in robust good health except that he's overweight and has bad teeth.

Just like the man who feeds him!

Today I decided it was high time someone did something about all the bleached daylily stalks out front, and once I was there, it became impossible to ignore all the smartweed and lambsquarters having a party in the parkway. As I was hauling my sheaf back to the composter and felt something clinging to my bare ankle, I casually brushed it against my shorts--and got a start when I looked down at them and saw a huge ugly bug clinging there.

It had a sticky-webby look, as if still drying out from its emergence in the early hours of the morning, an impression reinforced by its general sluggishness and inability to fly. Once I'd determined that it wasn't crawling up towards my crotch, I calmly shut the lid on the rotting vegetation and made my way inside. Upon reaching the head of the hallway, I called the cat and dropped trou.

At first, he showed little interest in it--probably because it was so lethargic. But after I made a trip to the toilet and the office, I found him merrily chasing it down the hall--onto the Persian rug! I hovered over him, envisioning bug guts spread all over the rich mahi-pattern. But he soon took it in his mouth and carried it back to where he'd first discovered it.

From there, the chase continued into the dining room, enlivened by the cicada's sad attempts at buzzing. Meanwhile, I put my pants back on and went outside. When I returned a moment later, the little beast was licking his lips and looking up to me as if to say, "Did you bring me another?"

On était au lit, tous nousaut'--moi, le Chenu et le Mistigris. Moi, j'étais après me sentir réellement foutaise, so je m'avais couché joliment de bonne heure. Le chat était élongi ent' nousaut' deux et il était après dormailler.

J'ai attendu quéque affaire qu'a sonné pareil comme ein coup de tonnarre et j'ai d'mandé monshu si ça était après expecter ein ouragan. La réponse a v'nu comme ein grand roulement. Tout d'eine éscousse il était tout réveillé, nôt' minou, tout deboute au milieu du lit. J'ai assayer de lui dire que c'était pas rien qu'ein gros traîn, main il se lassait pas calmer.

Je m'ai levé pour m'allégir et quand je m'a viré de bord encore, il avait foutu le camp. J'ai gardé dans la closette main je l'ai vu pas. J'étais parti en haut pour aller chercher d'la médecine et quand j'ai r'venu, c'était tout fini, l'ouragan. Aussitôt que j'ai v'nu de rentrer dans le cham', Ti-Gris a sorti d'la closette comme si rien avait arrivé. Je me fais aucune idée éyoù il était après se coucher.

Brushing my teeth last night, I spotted a house centipede squirming around inside the tub. So I did what any responsible thoughtful pet owner would do: I went out into the hall, scooped the cat off the carpet, and lower him in.

As I suspected (I've seen him hunt these critters down before) he was immediately fascinated and began emitting a low threatening growl. But if I was expecting a quick and grisly end to things, well, let's just say it was less cinematic and more amateur videogame-atic. His technique consisted of staring at the thing for a while, then trying to pick it up with his mouth. But fluffies' bodies are small and low in contrast to their legs, so after a half-dozen attempts, all he had to show for this was a couple of appendages sticking to his whiskers.

At times, he seemed to look back to me for encouragement, so I'd scratch his rump a bit and he'd refocus on the prey. Repeat that at least three times, and finally you'll see him get the drop on the harried bug and leap out of the tub to crunch it squatting on the bedroom floor. Victory!

1. der Nacktschneckenköder
2. het naaktslakkenlokaas
3. el veneno para babosas
4. el verí per llimacs
5. l'appât pour limaces
6. yr abwyd malwod duon
7. an baoite drúchtíní
8. przynęta na ślimaki
10. 蛞蝓誘餌 kuòyúyòu'ěr

Notes: Our attempts to protect our sorrel from the depredations of gastropods have yielded their first grisly harvest. Monday night I buried plastic winecups up to their rims and then filled them with leftover Lithuanian beer from last summer. Upon inspecting them this evening, I found three tiny corpses floating in one--and I do mean "tiny". This were not the multi-inch monsters of memory but three nubs of flesh too small even cover one of my pinky nails.