Cat (9)

Yesterday during a slow spell while volunteering, I checked my email. And there I saw a post from my friend Greg that caused my heart to skip a beat. It was titled "i don't know what i'll do tomorrow," and the first sentence was, "The cat is dead."

Although I don't know Greg for real (he's a FB friend), I interact with him every day—literally, now that we have Wordle. He hosts a little daily gathering where a good two dozen of us meet and share our results, together with a sprinkling of wisdom or humor or some pithy quote. But even before Wordle, I'd seek him out, whether on FB, his blog, or Instagram, for his eclectic intelligence and artistry. He is a photographer, and he regularly shares a distinctive view of the area around his home of Des Moines, Iowa—or some more artistic vision by his alter ego Knuckles Dobrovic. He's politically active, and his blog often presents commentary on something in the news or made-up conversations between such personages as "average citizen" and "right-wing conspiracy mongerer," or "the media" and "Herschel Walker." He writes about popular culture (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and serious literature (Tolstoy), about murder and geocaching, about etymology and espionage. I'm not sure when I started following him—I'm guessing around 2012: I "met" him through another Flickr/FB friend whom I've also never met in person—but I've enjoyed the journey. He's erudite and funny and trenchant.

And as long as I've known him, he's had a cat, whom he called "the cat." Though it turns out, her name was actually Abby. He only revealed that yesterday. He's devoted a couple of his blog posts to her. One involved their daily "check of the perimeter": their first-thing ritual of standing at the sliding glass door together looking out. But he mentioned her a lot, especially her lap habit. Much of his indoor activity seemed to be dictated by the cat.

In any case, you know how some people you come to identify with, and their pets too? Yeah. (Though Greg would never call the cat a pet. She was an independent spirit.)

Here's a couple more photos of the cat, and finally the T. S. Eliot poem about the naming of cats—in honor of Abby.

The Naming of Cats

T. S. Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
     It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
     Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
     All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
     Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
     But all of them sensible everyday names,
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
     A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
     Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
     Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum—
     Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
     And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
     But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
     The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
     Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
          His ineffable effable
          Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular name.