Archive for August, 2004

giving a health check up

I get a certain amount of data from nose sniffing but It’s gratisying to get some time to do some resonance scans on the abdominal regions of the subjects as well.

Through something comparable to a bat’s echolocation, my purring, I can distinguish the state and condition of the subject’s organs, for example, kidneys, the fullness level of the bladder. Although they are not aware of my level of expertise at the moment, I feel this baseline will hold us in good stead when we can communicate on a more complex level than say, “good morning. good to see you”, “good night”, “not now” or “you feel ok”? “Not now” incidentally seems to have a proto language root or else is the effect of convergent linguistic evolution because in both catonese and the dialect of hairless talls here, it sounds remarkably iconic as a variant of a growl-snarl.

Anyway, back to matters of health adn well being of the subjects in my care.

My textbook sense of the internal structure is also fleshed out through kneading massage, much like a veterinarian does probing for problems in my case. Although I protest as being gland-handled and moved about in that transport mechanism, I do respect a man or woman of learning such as a veterinarian.

I do wish however that their knowledge base would advance a century or two from this snake oil level of guessing. I mean really, hairless talls aren’t that hard to understand anatomically speaking, but felines are complex, need more sophisticated treatment for all our physical and mental health concerns.

Until next time,
More Prrrr to you.

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It is something of a misnomer, this term I use to refer to my study subject: hairless talls. Still it is only a referent. I will endeaver to be accurate in all other aspects. Sometimes my bias may not be as ruthlessly sharp as it could. I seem to be developing a gentle affinity, remembering the hairless tall aphorism “be kinder than you need to be”.

They are of course, not strictly hairless. They have hair in the same sense a whale does. Compared to me, the subject’s face *is* shockingly bare. Some subjects outside my sample group even have a great deal of it.

Indeed, although not fully hairless, they are tall, even if they were to walk properly on all four legs, they would be a fairly large beast. Their upper leg alone is the measure of my thorax and more. Their muzzles are endearing though. The noze is pug rather like a newborn kit. Part of that is probably contributing to my affectionate regard of them.

It is with mixed feelings when I speak of them in the abstract. They are out of sight and fade from understanding quickly, just as my colleague’s tail does once a day or so when she hides her tail as plain as a midday shadow sliding in stealth across the floor, stalking the far wall.

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Vexed Vixen

They stay, and stay, at their respective tables (this is the wooden sleeping surface the hairless talls eat from, and I on my respective chair. I pat their leg and try to psychokinetically derive a budge from their hand to my back, or more key, their eye into my eye but, heh. No go.

They are absorbed in looking at the giant glowing eye, some oracle that acts as a focusing device. I posit that it gives a boost to their communication abilities much like our trances to dance to another dimension closer to Cattess Mror or a more prosiac dimension of mouser fields or soft-dirt pads for scratching our physics equations on.

The evening seems long without proper company. Maybe I should trance myself and be more productive, like my hefty cohort-of-the-closet snoring softly on top of the subject’s jacket. She says she can touch telepathy from it but with the scramble that is her brain, I know her readings can be, shall we say, inaccurate.

I am sure from my own independant observations for example, that the hairless talls, have not danced with fishmongers or spent the evening with sailors. Running my translation matrix across a flyer haphazardly dropped by the subjects and cross checking the references, I think that the moist morsel of truth within my colleagues readings from the jacket is the word “mackerel” from a play by someone called Shakespeare called “The Saleman of Italy”. The information was leveled by her poor observation and spiked with her imagination. Hissworthy.

Miao for Now

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say cheese

Anticipation is more delicious than the dish.

So the catonese phrase goes, although, measure for measure, sometimes the dish gives a stiff hind leg hop biatholon race of competition to the waiting.

As when I was waiting for them to vacate the room so I could snared that coup of sushi roll. Eau d’poisson. Ah, the sticky rice I can almost taste again. rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I had consumed most of a roll before being boldly interrupted and my trapped vole of a rice roll taken away. But the victory of the strategic move was too late for them to claim. As the hairless talls themself admits, it is in our nature to be the huntress. “It is undoubtedly true that cats hunt. Not all cats hunt, but certainly some cats are very successful hunters and bring the overall average up. Estimates of the average number of prey brought home per domestic cat per year vary from 5 to 323.” (source: What a dream it would be to hunt down even 5 of those sushami…

To pass to more recent past. . .

Today, they had /peets sa/. (I tell you there are some words in this simian langauge worth learning!) I have even tried using my vocal folds to emulate the closed gutteral chords they use to refer to this food, but, as of yet, to no avail. (Sometimes I think though, it a deliberately thickness on their part to my accent. Who can blame them for a little cardinal sin of selfishness when it comes to some rare golden substances.)

But that aside… It had a thick toppage of cheese and hidden within it, droppings of meat, about 2 kibbles big each.

They shared it.

With each other that is. They didn’t share with me.

I waited, unexpectantly. (Not hard for someone spayed.)

I nonchalantly “slept” as they smacked and gobbled (how do they make so much wet sound while eating?)

Had they lifted my tail, my ruse would have been discovered. With the tension within it was all I could do by times to prevent myself from flicking it restlessly. Low lidded, low key I calculated how long it would be until their departure.

Eventually they made their typical gathering-items-together-for-a-walk pattern of walking about the shelter. I’ve observed their home range is ever so stunted. For my kind, home ranges for males average 280 hectares, while females such as myself tend to keep smaller ranges of about 150 hectares. Depending on food and things and cats of interest en route of course. And the vagueries of where toms and jennies are. toms…ah…I risk falling to caterwauls if I continue this thought. In facts I can already feel my hips twitch to rise to the occasion. Discipline, Valderbar. Discipline.

My point is, a nightly jaunt may take me 8 km but judging from the pollen range on their clothes, the subjects’ usual night stroll is limited to only about 4 km at most. It must be their weight. Two leggedness is certainly a handicap as well. But let us not dwell on another’s infirmities. Let me give the tail to the /peets sa/ tale.

By the time they had slid the closet door to retrieve their paw covers I was on the table in a single bound licking the cardboard plate of all the juicy dairy goodness of all natural oil and softened to palate temperature cheese curds. In my absortion I had neglected to keep a ear pivoted to the possibility of them forgetting to bring something else with them on this ever so short walk.

When they re-entered the abode and came around the corner, I was in the midst of savoring the last residue off my chin, licking my paws fastiduously (not to mention, deliciously) clean.

I made a cold casual look their way and we both diverted our eyes from the container which had slid off the table. They said nothing and went back to the door.

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fighting dreams of trickster crow

Fog rolls in or is it my inner eyelid sliding across?

Seagulls carrying squid in their bills, home delivery of squab drop inches short of my jaw

but the caw and carrying on of seagulls does the job of snapping my brain stem alert to see the room clearly.

Sun soaking fur and blue sky nothingness. Vision springs back making the world brighter as if it has been a screen door blown open by the wind

wind ruffling my fur, carrying seagulls, the ache in my gut makes me purr and feel a heat greater than the wood stove I used to bake beside, langour hangs me a nearly skinned fur sunk into the woodwork of the window’s heat

my eyes are as heavy as baseballs. I find myself nodding back to sleep.

Speckled seagulls teenage cries as they loop and find their nimbleness of skies segues to dreams of trickster crow. He teases my tail that I flick and flick, squint warning but he is all play as I take a swing at his scaly black legs, note that his claws longer than mine, and he laughs a warble of his teethless throat and we suddenly float.

I’m caught and flying off under his insulating feathers of steaming breast yet feel no unrest, knawing a meal from between his hollow ribs, only peripherally aware of the shine of his nails sinking past nape of fur as mother’s teeth, his claws hooking deep around the vertibrae, my mouth full of his blood, his beak waiting for my red in his good time.

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principle vs practice

There’s a horizon line of perception, or more accurately, an entire mousing field of distance between what you study and how things are.

I can study the mechanical principles of legs, astutely predict angle, trajectory, speed and force of movement at the point of initial loss of inertia of the subject’s limbs. But there is a more subjective affective level of perception that eludes definition in the stark bones terms I am trained to see in. It may pick up aspects of the underlying nature that cannot be measured by traditional means. It lies largely within the non-verbal, non-conceptual, inside the chemical, hormonal and spiritual realms, much like catnip.

Richer than the marrow of the tibia, wider spread than even the olifactory womb and tunnel of self that trails behind each limb’s’ movement, there is a practice of being beyond the being.

For example, there is “a legness” that connotes into lap, into the soft reflecting surface bringing back to me an echo of my own purrs, radiating heat, the many tactile possibilities of sheathes, the stillness that embodies a wanting nearness, the amount of emotionalism I can read through the unconcious flexing and relaxing of the quadriceps. It links in a functionally inseparable fashion with the upper leg that rests on my leg as a mirror of my own gesture across her leg.

It is something I have put into words but it is nothing words can be put into. It is as if I have snapped the neck of the nature of the concept by the force of the jerking it into words. perhaps a cat who has seen more dimensions than I have would do a better job but honestly, that of which I speak is, in mainstream catonese society, strictly taboo. We are a nation of scientitics, because of the behavior of a few, seen as a nation of sloths, but we are not a nation that as adults can freely fraternize with mushy slobering affection over the cohorts of another species.

Cattess Mror Keep you

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star staring

Well, to tell the truth I’m bird spotting.

Not much happening on the hairless talls front. Or rear, for that matter. they have been sitting fairly immobile yet seemingly awake for hours now after coming in flushed and animated from what I can only guess may have been a patridge hunt or something equally exciting.

As for me, I’ve been here, at my post. Every few hours a bird sweeps through the streetlight out of the night right into the glinting mirror of my eye. I lick my chops, look back to the stars and purr a prayer to Cattress Mror of thanks for things on winds and wings and my sure ability to catch them, if it weren’t for this glass. A huge panel of cold milkless smooth teat it is. yet I am content to sit for hours on the window sill watching.

The parallel with the study group’s activity has not escaped my notice.

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