Spider eyes brush cheek
Leaving mascara footprints
Baby monarch's kiss
Leaving mascara footprints
Baby monarch's kiss
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Memento Rosie: A Dedication in 3 Parts to Rose (formerly known as Nightmare). Part III.
Though Rose learned the difference between herself and the literary matter I wanted to put in her Favorite Hiding Spot, she managed to so terrorize Ilaya, our sweet wolf-hybrid puppy, that the poor baby got herself an identity crisis. Rose was an absolute bully toward Ilaya, and Ilaya wanted so badly to be loved by everyone in the house (she got her nose bitten by Rasta in the process, and Pimenta didn't really care, so that was better than being hated), that she tried to be a cat. Again, the proof is in the photo black hole that is the closet behind Thaïs's chair at the dinner table, but I swear to God, that puppy had inch-wide sores on the sides of her ankles for months before the calluses kicked in, from lying with her paws wrapped around her front just like Rose and Pimenta did. She had to fit in some way, as far as Rose was concerned.
My mom eventually tamed Rose, and I have absolutely no idea how she did it... I just remember her saying, "Come pet Rose!" and me shrinking away, saying, "She's gonna bite meeeee…" and my mom going, "No, no, just be gentle and she won't!" And then me getting bitten. So yeah, I wasn't real on-board with the whole lets-be-patient-with-Rose program.
But somehow, between the bitings, and the scratchings, and the siblings, and the movings, there came a point where we didn't have to worry if Rose was in the same room as baby Thaïs or toddling Tycho. She learned that we were safe for her, even if we did have a tendency to bring new irritations into the house specifically to annoy her - like Ilayas, and Thaïses, and Kisinkas, and Tychos, and guests, amongst other things. She kept herself to herself; guests who came over a second time would comment in astonishment, "I didn't know you had two cats!". Though she appreciated petting when it was given (but only where she liked being petted, and only for exactly as long as she wanted to be petted, these things being part of an arcana known only by my mother), in the past few years I was astonished on occasional mornings to find Rose on my bed, or trying to knock me over in an attempt to get me to pet her.
She had the loudest purr I've ever heard, an outrageous buzz that sounded more like a growl than a purr - there were several times that I recall hearing that noise while petting her and yanking my hand away for fear of Vampire Kitty showing up, and my mother saying soothingly, "It's okay, she's only purring." Her coat was a beautiful black velvet, and she was black through and through (even the roof of her mouth!), but her eyes were lime green and her teeth sharp and pointy. Her favorite pastimes were: getting fur on my mother's pillow, staring, prowling, finding places to hang out that best suited her obvious vocation of jungle cat, and kicking Kisinka's ass.
She died last night in a little nest my dad made for her in his and my mom's bed. She was 18 years old. Kisinka won't miss her, but the rest of us will.
My mom eventually tamed Rose, and I have absolutely no idea how she did it... I just remember her saying, "Come pet Rose!" and me shrinking away, saying, "She's gonna bite meeeee…" and my mom going, "No, no, just be gentle and she won't!" And then me getting bitten. So yeah, I wasn't real on-board with the whole lets-be-patient-with-Rose program.
But somehow, between the bitings, and the scratchings, and the siblings, and the movings, there came a point where we didn't have to worry if Rose was in the same room as baby Thaïs or toddling Tycho. She learned that we were safe for her, even if we did have a tendency to bring new irritations into the house specifically to annoy her - like Ilayas, and Thaïses, and Kisinkas, and Tychos, and guests, amongst other things. She kept herself to herself; guests who came over a second time would comment in astonishment, "I didn't know you had two cats!". Though she appreciated petting when it was given (but only where she liked being petted, and only for exactly as long as she wanted to be petted, these things being part of an arcana known only by my mother), in the past few years I was astonished on occasional mornings to find Rose on my bed, or trying to knock me over in an attempt to get me to pet her.
She had the loudest purr I've ever heard, an outrageous buzz that sounded more like a growl than a purr - there were several times that I recall hearing that noise while petting her and yanking my hand away for fear of Vampire Kitty showing up, and my mother saying soothingly, "It's okay, she's only purring." Her coat was a beautiful black velvet, and she was black through and through (even the roof of her mouth!), but her eyes were lime green and her teeth sharp and pointy. Her favorite pastimes were: getting fur on my mother's pillow, staring, prowling, finding places to hang out that best suited her obvious vocation of jungle cat, and kicking Kisinka's ass.
She died last night in a little nest my dad made for her in his and my mom's bed. She was 18 years old. Kisinka won't miss her, but the rest of us will.
Memento Rosie: A Dedication in 3 Parts to Rose (formerly known as Nightmare). Part II.
Rose heard a lot of "poor thing" during those first ten years or so. For one thing, it took us (read: my parents) forever to get around to getting her fixed. We lived in an apartment, she was a firmly and no-exceptions-ever indoor cat, and there was really no anti-more-kittens reason to have her fixed. Exceeeeeept.... yeah. She was really loud. And the best part was, in spite of her ______ (insert mixed, confused cat emotion here that probably doesn't involve hatred and thoughts of murder, though it certainly looked like it) towards me, Rose would choose to sing her mournful I-wanna-make-kittens-witchuuuuuu love songs to her nonexistent suitors RIGHT. IN. FRONT. OF. MY. DOOR.
Growing up, for some reason I didn't have a doorknob on the door to my bedroom, so we put a loop of string over the corner to pull it open. Given that there was no doorknob, it would logically follow that there was no latch. Follow that logical conclusion to its end, and you find that when Rose was feeling particularly mournful at her lack of ahem-ahem, she would butt her head against my door hard enough to open it - and then continue her arias in my room. I'm not sure why she had this need to be in my room - possibly she suspected me of hiding eligible tomcats in there, which would explain her general mistrust towards me as not only a human, but a human who under the guise of being her mother was keeping Poor Rose from getting any action.
I don't remember how my parents explained what the hell Poor Rose's problem was, but I remember feeling very very sorry for her. She was so lonely! And she wanted to have kittens! Why shouldn't she have kittens? And so I'd start crying too - partly out of pity for Rose, but really more out of pity for myself, because I wanted to sleeeeeeeeeeep!!!!!!!!!!!
Eventually, she did get fixed. Thank goodness. And no, my parents did not learn their lesson, because it took about 4 rounds of sexy purring and mewling on my darling Kisinka's part (I think she was influenced by Beyoncé, while Rose really got her start in 80's power ballads) for them to do something about it once she entered adolescence and started pining for those handsome beefcake Somerville toms.
When I was 7, my infinitely creative mother and I came up with the idea of having a family newspaper. Like all of our exciting long-term projects (see: Pickwick Portfolio, Marco Polo year, etc.), it lasted until the first stage was over, and then we realized just how much damned work it would be to keep it up. But I wrote a story about saving endangered tigers, and about a guy who made people build him a statue, and I did all the illustrations. My mother wrote an article about the "famous Isis Red Cloud, karate expert", did an interview with me, did all the work to put the newspaper together, and most relevantly, wrote the now-famous article "Cat Mistakes Itself for a Book!". At the ripe old age of 7, I had chosen to "put away childish things" and remove Goodnight Moon, among others, from my very tall bookshelf. That process resulted in there being one cubby on the bottom shelf that stood empty. Rose had not lost sight of her ultimate goal in life, and realized that the success of the Ruin-Isis's-Life program could hinge on her carpe-ing the hell out of this diem. This was now The Best Spot In The House to live in. (Unfortunately, I don't have the picture. It's in the closet at my parents' house, somewhere in the dawn of time before digital photography was invented. But if you look at this, you might get an idea of how amazing this was. Only turn it all upside down, because Rose did not have a predilection for heights. And then turn it on its head, because Rose was infinitely cooler in her insanity than that cat.)
My mother was studying social work at Simmons College at the time, and this article was heavily influenced by her studies. As I live and breathe, she psychoanalyzed Rose's choice of havens, referencing Oliver Sacks' classic The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and suggesting that Miss Nightmare was having an identity crisis, confusing herself with the book There's a Nightmare in My Closet by Mercer Mayer. Being the incredibly amazing mother she is (I mean, come on, did your mom use a creative writing project designed for you as a study session in psychoanalysis for her? I didn't think so), she also advocated treatment options such as placing There's a Nightmare in My Closet next to Rose on the shelf "so that Rose can gradually distinguish between herself and the book" (Traumann 4).
References
Traumann, Elisabeth, and Isis Traumann-Davis. "Cat Mistakes Itself for a Book!" The T-D Globe 1994: 4.
(Yes, I did do a perfect MLA reference for a family newspaper with one issue. You wanna make something of it?).
To be further continued.
Growing up, for some reason I didn't have a doorknob on the door to my bedroom, so we put a loop of string over the corner to pull it open. Given that there was no doorknob, it would logically follow that there was no latch. Follow that logical conclusion to its end, and you find that when Rose was feeling particularly mournful at her lack of ahem-ahem, she would butt her head against my door hard enough to open it - and then continue her arias in my room. I'm not sure why she had this need to be in my room - possibly she suspected me of hiding eligible tomcats in there, which would explain her general mistrust towards me as not only a human, but a human who under the guise of being her mother was keeping Poor Rose from getting any action.
I don't remember how my parents explained what the hell Poor Rose's problem was, but I remember feeling very very sorry for her. She was so lonely! And she wanted to have kittens! Why shouldn't she have kittens? And so I'd start crying too - partly out of pity for Rose, but really more out of pity for myself, because I wanted to sleeeeeeeeeeep!!!!!!!!!!!
Eventually, she did get fixed. Thank goodness. And no, my parents did not learn their lesson, because it took about 4 rounds of sexy purring and mewling on my darling Kisinka's part (I think she was influenced by Beyoncé, while Rose really got her start in 80's power ballads) for them to do something about it once she entered adolescence and started pining for those handsome beefcake Somerville toms.
When I was 7, my infinitely creative mother and I came up with the idea of having a family newspaper. Like all of our exciting long-term projects (see: Pickwick Portfolio, Marco Polo year, etc.), it lasted until the first stage was over, and then we realized just how much damned work it would be to keep it up. But I wrote a story about saving endangered tigers, and about a guy who made people build him a statue, and I did all the illustrations. My mother wrote an article about the "famous Isis Red Cloud, karate expert", did an interview with me, did all the work to put the newspaper together, and most relevantly, wrote the now-famous article "Cat Mistakes Itself for a Book!". At the ripe old age of 7, I had chosen to "put away childish things" and remove Goodnight Moon, among others, from my very tall bookshelf. That process resulted in there being one cubby on the bottom shelf that stood empty. Rose had not lost sight of her ultimate goal in life, and realized that the success of the Ruin-Isis's-Life program could hinge on her carpe-ing the hell out of this diem. This was now The Best Spot In The House to live in. (Unfortunately, I don't have the picture. It's in the closet at my parents' house, somewhere in the dawn of time before digital photography was invented. But if you look at this, you might get an idea of how amazing this was. Only turn it all upside down, because Rose did not have a predilection for heights. And then turn it on its head, because Rose was infinitely cooler in her insanity than that cat.)
My mother was studying social work at Simmons College at the time, and this article was heavily influenced by her studies. As I live and breathe, she psychoanalyzed Rose's choice of havens, referencing Oliver Sacks' classic The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and suggesting that Miss Nightmare was having an identity crisis, confusing herself with the book There's a Nightmare in My Closet by Mercer Mayer. Being the incredibly amazing mother she is (I mean, come on, did your mom use a creative writing project designed for you as a study session in psychoanalysis for her? I didn't think so), she also advocated treatment options such as placing There's a Nightmare in My Closet next to Rose on the shelf "so that Rose can gradually distinguish between herself and the book" (Traumann 4).
References
Traumann, Elisabeth, and Isis Traumann-Davis. "Cat Mistakes Itself for a Book!" The T-D Globe 1994: 4.
(Yes, I did do a perfect MLA reference for a family newspaper with one issue. You wanna make something of it?).
To be further continued.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Memento Rosie: A Dedication in 3 Parts to Rose (formerly known as Nightmare). Part I.
I started this post talking about my fourth birthday, and how it must have been a big deal because I got a kitten and my ears pierced, but now that I think about it, I think I got the pierced ears when I was 5. Because I know for sure that I got Rose when I was 4.
I had just read Steven Kellogg's (hilarious, to the 4-year-old eye) book A Rose for Pinkerton, where the unruly Great Dane gets a new friend in the form of a teeny tiny kitten, who decides she wants to be a Great Dane too, while Pinkerton thinks he's a kitten! Well, gosh, you guys, I mean, aren't all kittens adorable and sweet and silly and think they want to be dogs? I decided my kitten's name was going to be Rose, JUST LIKE Pinkerton, oh my goodness!, and we went off to the MSPCA to get my brand-new birthday kittykitty.
She was an itty-bitty, teeny-weeny little ball of black fuzz from the MSPCA. Absolutely ridiculous. I don't remember much about the visit to the Society except that I got a pamphlet from the lady. Which I may have made up. So anyway, we got home, and, well, my adorable little supposed-to-be-like-Pinkerton's-Rose Rose made it very clear that this itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy wee black little lint ball was full of absolute evil.
Her first decision as commander-in-chief of the Ruin-Isis's-Life program those first weeks (possibly months) was that the Best Hiding Spot In The Whole House (because after all, when you're a tiny, scared-shitless little lint ball with no mommy but a 4-year-old... aren't you feeling the need for a hiding spot yourself?) was under the shelf that stood along the wall perpendicular to the doorway to my room. I mean, if you're approximately the size and color of a dust-bunny under a shelf anyway, that's probably your best bet for camouflage. The camouflage, of course, being being necessary due to Miss Rose's institution of guerilla warfare against my person. Every single time I left my room, I was guaranteed to have a tiny paw reach out and swipe at my legs with with nasty, sharp, pointy claws. This led to my eventual habit of swerving out of my room at top speeds, generally ending in a) running into someone and getting yelled at for it, b) running into something (coatstand, I think, usually) and getting yelled at for it, or c) getting yelled at for running.
As you can imagine, I came to have a bit of a distaste for my birthday present. My mother and I called her "Rose Nightmare" and "Rosie Posie Pudding and Pie, scratched the girls and made them cry" (due to her unfortunate lack of distinction between small female calves entering or exiting my room, or rather, passing in either direction by her Secret Hiding Spot).
I think I was 6 when I came up with a theory exonerating Rose of any blame for her misbehavior: "Maybe," I said to my mother one day in the car, "maybe Rose was really really little? Like just born? And then maybe her mother was outside with all her kitten babies? And then she went to get them some food? And then she got hit by a truck? And then all the babies didn't have a mama anymore? And so they were really scared? And then the people came to get them from the MSPCA? And they weren't very nice to them? So maybe Rose is mad at people because they made trucks? And maybe she's scared we'll be mean to her too? And maybe she misses her mamãe? And it's not our fault but she doesn't know that, so maybe that's why she's mean to me?" I think I remember crying at this point, because the thought of being without a mama, even for an evil little kitten like Rosie Posie, was just too awful to be endured.
I still firmly believe in this exculpatory theory of mine. It allowed me to not completely hate Rose, but rather to feel compassion for her - she was awfully little when we got her, probably a day over the minimum age you could bring a baby like her home, and her life story probably did sound a lot like that. Poor thing.
To be continued.
I had just read Steven Kellogg's (hilarious, to the 4-year-old eye) book A Rose for Pinkerton, where the unruly Great Dane gets a new friend in the form of a teeny tiny kitten, who decides she wants to be a Great Dane too, while Pinkerton thinks he's a kitten! Well, gosh, you guys, I mean, aren't all kittens adorable and sweet and silly and think they want to be dogs? I decided my kitten's name was going to be Rose, JUST LIKE Pinkerton, oh my goodness!, and we went off to the MSPCA to get my brand-new birthday kittykitty.
She was an itty-bitty, teeny-weeny little ball of black fuzz from the MSPCA. Absolutely ridiculous. I don't remember much about the visit to the Society except that I got a pamphlet from the lady. Which I may have made up. So anyway, we got home, and, well, my adorable little supposed-to-be-like-Pinkerton's-Rose Rose made it very clear that this itsy-bitsy, teensy-weensy wee black little lint ball was full of absolute evil.
Her first decision as commander-in-chief of the Ruin-Isis's-Life program those first weeks (possibly months) was that the Best Hiding Spot In The Whole House (because after all, when you're a tiny, scared-shitless little lint ball with no mommy but a 4-year-old... aren't you feeling the need for a hiding spot yourself?) was under the shelf that stood along the wall perpendicular to the doorway to my room. I mean, if you're approximately the size and color of a dust-bunny under a shelf anyway, that's probably your best bet for camouflage. The camouflage, of course, being being necessary due to Miss Rose's institution of guerilla warfare against my person. Every single time I left my room, I was guaranteed to have a tiny paw reach out and swipe at my legs with with nasty, sharp, pointy claws. This led to my eventual habit of swerving out of my room at top speeds, generally ending in a) running into someone and getting yelled at for it, b) running into something (coatstand, I think, usually) and getting yelled at for it, or c) getting yelled at for running.
As you can imagine, I came to have a bit of a distaste for my birthday present. My mother and I called her "Rose Nightmare" and "Rosie Posie Pudding and Pie, scratched the girls and made them cry" (due to her unfortunate lack of distinction between small female calves entering or exiting my room, or rather, passing in either direction by her Secret Hiding Spot).
I think I was 6 when I came up with a theory exonerating Rose of any blame for her misbehavior: "Maybe," I said to my mother one day in the car, "maybe Rose was really really little? Like just born? And then maybe her mother was outside with all her kitten babies? And then she went to get them some food? And then she got hit by a truck? And then all the babies didn't have a mama anymore? And so they were really scared? And then the people came to get them from the MSPCA? And they weren't very nice to them? So maybe Rose is mad at people because they made trucks? And maybe she's scared we'll be mean to her too? And maybe she misses her mamãe? And it's not our fault but she doesn't know that, so maybe that's why she's mean to me?" I think I remember crying at this point, because the thought of being without a mama, even for an evil little kitten like Rosie Posie, was just too awful to be endured.
I still firmly believe in this exculpatory theory of mine. It allowed me to not completely hate Rose, but rather to feel compassion for her - she was awfully little when we got her, probably a day over the minimum age you could bring a baby like her home, and her life story probably did sound a lot like that. Poor thing.
To be continued.
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