Posted tagged ‘sleeping cats’

“Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.”

July 31, 2016

It is a still morning. Not a leaf blows on the trees overhanging the deck. Not even a bird disturbs the silence. The day is cloudy and feels close. The humidity is higher than the last few days but still tolerable. My house is 74˚, not time for AC yet. Gracie likes the doors open so she can survey the neighborhood. The cats just sleep. That’s what cats do.

Last night I was awoken two times. The first was Fern meowing and looking for attention. She has figured out that waking me up means she gets her pats. I scratch her by the tail, pat her a few times then fall back to sleep. She is content and sleeps the rest of the night beside me. The second time was when my bed was shaking. I knew Gracie was panting. That meant she was uncomfortable and needed to go out. We went down stairs, and when I opened the door, she was out like a shot. She was back about 5 minutes later, and we both went back to bed. She fell asleep right away. It took me a whole lot longer.

My to do list is short today. I just have to water plants inside and out, but if truth be told, I don’t even feel like making that small effort. Sunday is a quiet day for me, a throwback from my childhood. When I worked, it was dump and laundry day. Now, I can’t imagine doing both of those in one day. The effort seems monumental. I went to the dump late yesterday afternoon with two weeks worth of trash. I have laundry I could do, but there is still laundry in the dryer from last week. I have embraced a lazy lifestyle.

“It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. “

April 30, 2015

Today the outside world beckons. It is a bit chilly but the sun is bright. I almost want to lie down on the deck with Gracie and soak up the warmth. The cats are sleeping in the sunlight streaming through the front door. Lots of birds are at the feeders. The red spawn was there earlier but now has a Pavlovian response to me. If I go outside and the spawn is on the squirrel proof feeder, it jumps on a branch, runs up the tree trunk and then jumps from branch to branch across the yard. I don’t even have the hose yet, and it still runs away from me.

When I was a kid, the phone we had was a party line. We shared it with Mrs. McGaffigan whose house was at the bottom of our hill. It was a really big house, the sort built in the 1930’s, with a front porch. The house sat right on the corner across from a similar house on the other corner also with a big front porch. I never knew who lived in that house, and I only knew Mrs. McGaffigan by her voice. When the phone rang, we had to listen to the number of rings to see if the call was for us or for Mrs. McGaffigan. Sometimes we didn’t care, and we’d pick up the phone to listen to her conversation. She always seem to catch us. I think we giggled. “Put the phone down right now,” was what was always said. Most times we put it down but once in a while we just pressed the button so she’d think we had, and we’d keep listening. Mrs. McGaffigan never really had an exciting conversation. We liked listening because we shouldn’t. We eventually got our own number, and I always missed Mrs. McGaffigan and her phone calls. When I go back to my town, I drive the familiar routes I walked as a kid. I usually drive right by Mrs. McGaffigan’s. The house still looks big perched on the corner. I don’t know who lives there, and It will never matter. It is always Mrs. McGaffigan’s house to me.

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