Coffee and Cats

Woke early this morning, to Facebook "have a nice trip" (Dave and Debra are taking Abigail off to school) and to go check on the library. Miraculously, the plaster is still holding- though who knows for how long. Let the boys, Pepe and Vaca, out of the master bedroom suite so they could have the run of the house. I keep them separate from Janey during feeding times and at night; the past couple of nights I slept with them, both lined up long and warm against my side. Last night I slept in the front bedroom, with Janey who I cajoled to come upstairs with food. Once she saw me all tucked up in bed with 5,000 pillows, she condescended to curl up on my hip while I read.

Domestic relations of the feline variety have been...difficult. It is safe to say that my living room is now a conflict zone- I have a couch that growls low in its throat, and occasionally emits a fluffy grey cat with a scream like a panther. If I didn't occasionally shut the boys off in the master bedroom, I fear Janey would never come out of hiding. Vaca more or less keeps his distance, but Pepe is fascinated by the beast under the couch, and just cannot resist her. As soon as the boys have free range, he cautiously makes his way to the living room and approaches the couch. The couch rumbles, a storm brewing low to the ground. Eventually he gets within range and she lashes out. And there are prolonged periods of yowling, she provides the low notes, he the high, and once in a while they meet in furious harmony. Neither will physically confront the other, so after much verbiage, they have no alternative but to walk away: she retreats back to the shadows of the sofa, he to go jump up on a high surface from which he can knock something.

After a few days, these interactions have taken on the tenor of a turbulent courtship. This morning, as I drank my coffee and read a gothic novel (Elisabeth Ogilvie's Bellwood), I watched him approach the couch. To my surprise, just over the arm of the couch, I could see a pair of shapely grey ears. Janey had in fact stayed in repose on the couch, rather than scurrying under when she heard the warning bells on the boys' collars. Pepe slowly, soooo slowly, made his way up to the arm, making no sudden moves. I waited for the uproar.

Pepe placed one paw on the arm, and keeping his head low, peered over.

No growl.

Both front paws up on the arm, he waited.

Shifted his weight, moved one hind leg up in slow motion.

Found purchase. Paused. Pulled up the fourth leg.

No response.

He had gained a foothold. The high ground even. But he kept his head down.

He was within 18" of her. And they sat. It was at least a full two minutes before she turned to him to register her displeasure. There was no yelling this time, only strong words, and eventually she told him to bugger off, and went under the couch: he retreated back through the kitchen, gave me a look that said "women!" and went upstairs.

And so it goes. A day ago, I despaired of them ever reaching any sort of peace, but at last, here's a little hope. Pepe is the unsinkable sort, persistent and absolutely genial, the picture of complete confidence. She will not be able to beat him, so I suspect eventually she will at least tolerate him.

A Million Words for Melancholy

It might as well be winter. Or hard on the heels of winter, anyway. Just got in from a wild drenching hike to Trial Point, not unlike the one back on that day last November- the Walk to the Whale. I am lucky it is not colder than it is, or I would have had to have come back sooner: if not sooner, sicker. Hypothermia and I have a long standing flirtation.

Tonight however, I come home to an empty evening. Well, not entirely empty. There are the three cats. There's the chore of checking the drip buckets in the library, and emptying them, and seeing how much of the ceiling is coming down. I need to feed myself, and get warm. 8:19 in the evening and it feels like 11 o'clock. It's the dark you see, the long looked for dark, that is closing in. Which was why it was good to finally get outside again- walking. Have spent a lot of time on a boat of late, sterning; yet as much as I truly love being on the water, it doesn't exorcise my soul the same way as thousands of ravenous strides through the tangle of woods and across the strand.

Trial Point was a clusterfuck of traps from Hurricane Bill. Found one of Dave's buoys still attached to a trap, got it untangled from the rocks and another man's warp, then dragged it inland, out of reach of Tropical Depression Danny. Found the other trap in the pair well away from its mate: after parting it, the storm surge had thrown it well beyond the tree line, into the grass. Both traps were miserably mangled- but not the worst I'd seen along the way.

Walking, I'd plenty of time to chew over life of late. Am in a period of intense transition, from job to job; from Fellow to plain ol' resident; from friend to love, of sorts. I have become a person of interest now that Dave parks his truck in my driveway- and living in town, there is no escaping the eyes outside the fishbowl. The companionship has been nice (I prefer emotional understatement, you know), though the strings attached are substantial. When settled warm in his arms, there's the comforting knowledge that he is fully glad to have me there. He has other things to attend to, and the timer is always going, but he is not itching to be gone. Unfortunately, gone is what he will often be. So it goes...

It occurred to me in conversation with him today, how lax my vocabulary is in terms of mechanical jargon. Bumper, fender? There's a difference, I am sure- since Dave shook his head at me- though off the top of my head, I don't know what it is. I'm slowly picking up on more lobstering lingo, though it's like a foreign language, and I can only yet make out a few words, here and there. But as I walk, I compose, and on this page I am as confident as these men are on the water. The mechanics of the automobile, the boat, the winch? No. My verbiage is vague on those accounts. The feeling of a storm, the kind that can wear you out at your core, make you want to cry with the clouds? I can occasionally get a hook into that.

Neither-Nor Nights

This is the first evening I have spent alone in the house in what seems like forever. I love solitude, but I forget the shock of it. It feels once again like last fall, when I no longer had to keep running off-island for Institute-related events, etc... I'd also taken a week of vacation off- in part to go to a friend's wedding, and in part to break up with Prasanth- I came back a free woman and relieved, but for a while my evenings seemed empty. The feelings left- I ended up doing a lot of walking and writing- nonetheless, tonight there's hint of that listlessness. The barking dog and the owl agree.

I should have wandered it out of my system before dark, but instead I finished a book, one with an abrupt ending, which did nothing but make the evening odder. Now I need to choose: move on to another book to pass the time, clean, or venture out. How very odd it is to crave society. Especially after all the time I have spent with people in the last two months. Normally on nights like these when I am all unsettled, I like to go out and just see that someone is being social- summer is good for that, with all the houses ablaze with light and loud with voices.

I should be writing to a purpose, but I feel unfocused. Awful Neither-Nor Nights- when nothing seems quite satisfactory.

Oh well, I will find some sort of escapism until I can reasonably go to bed, so to wake at an early hour, caffienate, and take on the day.