I really tried to make “Hopeless
Choices” a four-parter, but thinking, much less blogging about Ken “Cooch”
Cuccinelli, for two more weeks is simply too odious to contemplate. (Although
the universe did throw me a delicious bone when I Googled to see if I was the
first to call Cooch, Cooch-- I
was not. Had I the stomach to discuss his irrationally contradictory
positions against both birth control and the outcome of not using it, this
article would have been most thought-provoking.)
But I don’t wanna. He’s creepy, and he’ll suck as governor
(if he wins), but he can only suck for four years, a constitutional term limit
in Virginia. If you also live in Virginia, vote for whomever you wish (the
choices are hopeless). But vote.
Having abandoned that topic, I searched around for another
to fill this week’s requirement. I briefly contemplated a whiney rant on
whatever crossed my mind to whine and rant about. A bunch of stuff has been
pissing me off lately: there’s been two more mass shootings, but we all know
better than to squawk about gun control. The NRA owns Congress. Many more will
die. The House GOP just decided to slash funds to feed hungry Americans.
They’ve already shown their determination not to offer their constituents
healthcare, affordable education, or anything resembling job opportunities or
the hope of upward mobility. Why the hell bother to feed them then? The
contempt of our current Congress for the majority of Americans is
reprehensible. I blame their leadership, or more correctly, their lack thereof.
Not even Newt “The Lizard” Gingrich ever made me want to shout more often, “Mr.
Speaker, shut up!”
I considered failing to make this post at all, but if I
understand the rules correctly, I would just have to tack any missed posts onto
the end of the term (which for me, concludes in early February 2014.) I prefer
not to do that for multiple reasons.
So in the spirit of perseverance and meeting a deadline, this
week, I have decided to write about my Smitty Kitty. He’s two and a half years
old now, a strapping lad cat and no longer the scrawny kitten we adopted.
Smitty is fearless, willful, very smart, and fairly fast. He used to be faster,
but a genetic defect has enlarged his heart, so he gets winded more easily than
he should for a cat of his age and magnificence. He’s blissfully unaware of his
condition though, and we have no plans to tell him. It would spoil his fun.
As the sun set last night, I noticed Boo Boo (that’s what I
call Smitty) watching a juvenile male cardinal who was contemplating our empty
bird feeders. The bird lighted on the top of the shepherd’s crook where the
feeders hang and chirped indignantly a few times then chose to check the ground
for fallen seed. His decision did not go unnoticed by Smitty (very little does).
I counted Smitty’s tail swishes, knowing what would come next. One swish...two
swish...the tail went still, but the butt wiggle began, a sure sign that Smitty
planned to pounce on the hapless bird. I slapped the palm of my hand on the
wooden deck rail and made a ridiculous sounding clown noise; the young bird spooked
and flew to a safe branch. Smitty turned a baleful eye on me before retreating
to the shadows of the pokeberry bush along the back fence that I let grow wild
this summer.
White with gray patches, a gray tail on a white butt, Smitty
is nearly invisible in the dapple of shadow and failing sunlight. He also hides
well in fog and snow. Instinctively, he prefers to perch on the white deck
chairs rather than the wooden ones — Smitty knows how to blend. Of all the
things this little cat has taught me (and he has taught me much), I most enjoy
the lessons about wildlife – the ordinary kind that I see in my back yard. We
watch the animals together, Smitty and I, with opposing agendas: he looking to
score a kill, and I, looking to prevent one.
 |
| Good Smitty. |
I’ve always been a bird watcher. Usually, the birds that
live in my neighborhood have little about which to complain in terms of seed
supply. We do our best to keep it steady. It’s about more than birds, though. The
sight of a bunny or a squirrel brings me no end of pleasure. I don’t even mind
seeing the baby skunks each spring. They’re cute, but only if I am sure both my
cats are safely inside.
Smitty has no fear of skunks. His first summer as an
indoor-outdoor kitty he tried to befriend a baby skunk. It was a week night,
and the kitty had missed curfew, so I set out with a Maglite® to find him. In
the side yard I spotted a flash of white fur, and eyes glowed in the beam of
light.
“There you are, Smitty!” I said joyfully, moving towards him
to scoop him up and take him indoors for the night. Then motion out of the
corner of my eye drew my attention. I looked, to my right, and there sat Smitty, in the
backyard, peering from beneath the spindle bush with a look of interest. I
blinked then turned to look again at what I thought was Smitty. Slowly, I moved
the flashlight away from the eyes. The flash of white fur I had seen was wider
than one usually sees on skunks that age, but there was no mistaking what I was
about to try to catch and bring into my house.
I backed away slowly, not wanting to appear threatening. The
little skunk watched me go, then turned his head and spotted Smitty, who was
coming forward to get a better look. No tail swishing, no butt wiggling – I
didn’t fear that he would pounce on the skunk, but I didn’t want him
antagonizing the little critter either.
“No, Smitty! Come here, Smitty!” I wanted to shout but
thought better of it and settled for a loud whisper. Smitty ignored me
completely and continued to approach, nose forward to catch the scent of this
animal he had never seen before.
Luckily, the skunk thought better of all the attention,
turned his back to me and Smitty both, and ambled off into the space beneath
the neighbor’s front stoop. Smitty came over to me and bonked my shin with his
head in greeting. He mewed once in his sweetest kitty voice (his mew is very
high pitched for such a large cat...I may have had him snipped a tad too
early). I grabbed him, breathed a sigh of relief, and headed for the front door
as he wriggled to escape.
We waited until Smitty was six months old and large enough
to not be mistaken for a rabbit by the sharp shinned hawks that hunt the field
behind our house before we let him go out to play unsupervised. Eager to
explore the world again (his first three months of life had been spent solely
outdoors being raised by his Momma cat and eating out of the dumpsters in the
parking lot of Smith’s Landing – hence his name) Smitty rushed at all things.
Butterflies, wind-blown leaves, blades of grass in need of mowing, birds, his
sisfur, Tweeter kitty – he eagerly greeted them all with enthusiasm, a curious
paw and twitching nose.
On his first day out (a few weeks before he tried to meet
the skunk) Smitty explored the yard thoroughly. On that day, we filled the bird
feeders and put out corn for the gray squirrels hoping the animals would come
to the yard for Smitty’s amusement. We did not fear his hunting prowess at the
time – he had not yet learned how to blend, and the birds could see his shiny
white fur flying at them long before he could put a paw on them. The squirrel
that had come to partake of the corn seemed to think him harmless too. In fact,
none of us expected Smitty to run for the squirrel at top speed. Taking no heed
of gravity as he climbed (as nimbly as any squirrel) Smitty settled on a branch
just below the squirrel and scouted for a path to climb higher.
The squirrel looked me square in the eye, stuck out an
accusatory paw, and began to bark at me in a tone of unmistakable ire. His tail
shaking in synchrony, the little rodent wagged a finger in my face and
lambasted me with language that I am sure, could I speak squirrel, would have scathingly
addressed my parentage, my level of intelligence, and my overall appearance.
The message could not have been plainer: “Get your damn cat out of my tree, and
never let this happen again!”
The squirrel continued to curse me as I coaxed Smitty back
down to a place in the tree where my husband (taller) could reach him, which
took a few minutes. Even as my husband grabbed the cat, Smitty and the squirrel
locked eyes. Smitty began to wriggle. The squirrel’s tone dropped an octave and
took on a more ominous staccato. Finally, as my husband pulled Smitty into his
arms and marched the wriggling kitten into the house, the squirrel ceased his
chastisement and moved further up the branch. Still barking, he leapt to the
next tree over and vanished in the thick evergreen canopy.
#52Weeks
(Smitty kitty has friends all over the Twitterverse, and he’s been featured on his “besties”
web page.)
