I haven’t posted here recently….I’ve been busy, busy. Crazy busy. Mostly I have been chasing money around, a colossal bank snafu that has left us confused, angry, frustrated. I sent Pet Connection $7,500 through my debit card and the money has vanished. It’s not in my account; it’s not in the Pet Connection coffers. What happened to it?
Melody and I have been calling each other, calling the bank, the bank calling us. We’ve talked to various people, with no clear solution in sight…and $7,500 on the lam. We are completely stumped as to how a bank can totally mishandle money in this fashion. We dismally shake our heads at the puzzlement and annoyance of it all. Melody has a business to fund and run and I want to help out, and we both find this fiscal run-around rather ludicruous.
Cats
We go through all this stress for the animals….that is the bottom line. Saving the animals.
Animals — the very word rings with life and vivacity. It comes from the Latin word animālis, which means “living, animate,” and is equivalent to anim(a), which means “air” and “breath.” Anima is also another word for “soul.” According to the Lakota Sioux cosmology, breath is sacred, and anything that breathes is holy. Animals are sacred and holy; they are the perfect, pure creations of God. I also see animals as angels who come to teach us and protect us. They enrich our lives: these very mortal creatures who are exuberant and innocent.
Animals not only fill my life with their busy presence, but they inspire my creativty. Here is a poem I wrote about my cats.
My Cats are Clowns
My cats have
sharp Egyptian heads
with gem-bright eyes,
and small, serious chins.
Their spines are elastic,
their tails sinuous,
their paws as dainty as
an infant’s fist.
They sleep together,
bunched in dog beds,
or stretched on furniture,
gray, white, black and orange,
bodies elegantly twined,
soft, satiny coils of fur,
thrumming warmly.
Crazy, curious acrobot cats!
My cats are clowns,
comic Stooges,
that caper and carouse
and collude,
tumbling on the floor
like Chinese acrobats.
They stalk the dogs
and ambush them.
They attack feet,
and capture shoelaces.
They launch and land,
knocking over lamps.
They decapitate mice
and haul in small birds,
feathers spilled like ash.
They pounce on crickets, moths,
and autumn leaves.
They dart around corners
and swoop through
doors.
They greet guests like
a pack of happy dogs,
teeming.
They curl around ankles,
leap into laps,
and rub triangular cheeks
on the elbows of strangers.
Friendly, busybody cats,
who swarm and separate,
a herd,
a flock,
a school of foolish fish,
these animals who own earth
like pagan gods,
the simplicity of their lives
balanced against my
complicated one.
When I lay on the sofa,
cats congregate like crows,
perch on my chest and legs,
warm, weighty bodies,
soft bags of guts, skin and bone,
placed on me like poultices that relieve
the damage of my middle-age,
the disaster of my day.
They purr and my heart slips into
the rhythm of their comfort.
All these cats,
their heavy lightness,
the rough softness,
their humming repose,
the succor,
the sufficiency of
their gentle opulence.
The Blog Dog
