From the Journals of Most Beloved: Ode to Joy of Being a Cat
From the Journals of Most Beloved
Ode to Joy of Being a Cat
Scherzo. Forte. Crescendo without dénouement. Succession of notes, days metered in the click-click of 4/4, key of A (for August heat), unstable and trilling, repetition the same and in measured heat, 90 degrees plus and even when not, humidity to sear the presto.
And then there’s moi. Ode to the joy of lounging here. Finishing a power nap and contemplating another. Stretching—stretching, sauntering off to nibble kibble, lap a bit of water, then curl up to watch the world through the grande windows of the music room.
Or at least my world here at Gardens at Effingham. The roses are in bloom again (I am partial to the hot cocoa tea-rose hybrids and the Mr. Lincoln 7-foot tall, deep red tea-rose hybrid), butterflies flit by (I like the Tiger Butterflies), and Daddy Cat has passed by at least thrice now—twice while strolling about the grounds and once, just to sit and stare in the window at me. He seems utterly captivated. Perhaps it’s my pink nose? The way I swish my tail? Maybe he can smell the salmon I had midday?
Perhaps he thinks I conduct the orchestration of all that we (ahem, they) do here. Since this morning a cacophony of metal and grinding, a hodgepodge of coming and going, and a collective disarray of sights, smells, and sounds. I think I made them go away however, as all is quiet now and the truck, machines, and general disorderliness and discord has dissipated.
And so Bravo and all that jazz. I am she who is Most Beloved, and from inside the music room, I gaze outward on a world that is all my charge. These gardens and the cats they keep. The masons here to repair our brick walls. The butterflies and hummingbirds, the song birds and the bluejays, the cardinals and the robins, the squirrels, chipmunks, even the Koi in the pond.
All is a tempo. Save for rain. We could use rain. (Am I in charge of rain?)