Once when I cat-sat for my neighbor, I read the cats a fine sonnet by Ada Limón. Not on purpose, mind you, but when I sit the cats I like to talk to them. The long silence of the days while their human is gone isn’t good for them. The sonnet arrived in an email on my phone and I’d said everything I usually say to the cats, like “you were asleep, weren’t you?”and “want some dinner?” Liat is more interested in being petted than anything else and Roo shies away as if to say, “you are not the right human. Do not touch me.” My mistake was to tell the right human when she returned that I’d read that sonnet to the cats, because she remembers it.
Liat on her throne
That was years ago, but now she’s off on another trip and says, “Roo would like to hear some Salman Rushdie.” I spent weeks trying to read Salman Rushdie—too many words about too little—noses, for example. How about some Rafik Schami? He has a character named Salman. “Images of events from decades ago flickered across Salman’s mind like a well-preserved documentary. He remembered how the moment of his escape from Syria tasted…”
Roo on the stairs, quick, before she disappears
Your writing prompt, should you choose to accept it: what do you read to your animals? Outloud to yourself?
I’ve been meaning to read some Salmon Rushdie. Can you please recommend the best thing to read first?
My cats don’t like literature, they prefer mundane conversation that while addressed specifically to them by name, is actually intended for my partner, Geof. They also like to listen to KUVO.
You mean, like, “cats, don’t you wonder why the trash hasn’t been taken out?” Said in a loud, clear voice. As for Salmon Rushdie: Phil read the Satanic Verses and thought it was good. Midnight’s Children is the one I tried and after several pages on someone’s nose, I quit, skimmed the rest. Just not my cup of tea, although excellent writing. Other than that, I’ve only read a few essays, long ago.
7:03 am. The husband sits at his laptop, three cups of coffee to the wind, and writing up a storm. Nyx and I sit on the nearby couch. She is in her black poodle disguise, and I am in my sleepy human format. From the dining room table waft muttered polysyllabics about theories of the eighteenth century portrait. Nyx and I close our eyes and wait for the sun to get a little higher before taking on the written word.
Oh lovely. But truly, how does the husband DO that? It’s a bit obscene, isn’t it, writing before 7 a.m.
Three years ago this week, our big horse, Jake, decided the early spring eating on the other side of the cross-fence in the pasture was better than what was available where he was. In the process of taking himself through the fencing he got hung up, and in getting himself loose he gashed is left hind leg to the bone. He would spend the next twelve weeks on stall rest: a horse accustomed to wandering about forty acres at his pleasure penned into a 10 x 12 foot box.
He did pretty well at this, perhaps because we kept hay in front of him at all times. About once a week, however, he would go stir crazy and pace for anywhere from 12 to 24 hours. There was no stopping, distracting, consoling, or medicating him, short of full-out sedation. He stomped back and forth, head darting out the open top half of the Dutch door leading out toward the pastures on every pass, sweating, the steady pounding of his feet grinding hay, manure, shavings, and the bottom end of his bandages into slimy stinking pulp. If I put a halter on him and stood with him, talking and stroking, he couldn’t pace, but wouldn’t really calm, pulling at the rope and shifting angrily in place, shoving at me with his nose now and again in a clear of expression of “You’re not helping, just leave me alone.”
Roundabout week three, I tried reading to him. I chose Thoreau for relaxed cadence of long sentences and archaic rhythms. Jake did not seem to be impressed.
Poor Jake! No soothing in words for him. Nice try though.
When my boys (now men) were little boys, one of our favorite books for reading aloud was “In the Castle of Cats.” We named our cat Tobias after a character in that lovely book. I hadn’t thought about it for years until reading this current post. I’m going to have to find that book.
When I taught high school Spanish and acquired children’s books in Spanish for the classroom I learned how lasting the impressions of those early readings are: 16 and 17-year-old students clutching a book to their chests and exclaiming, “Good Night Moon!”
Ah, “Good Night Moon.” That book still touches me.