Sixteenth Century Thought Experiments and Kittens

We're lucky today to count Death as an infrequent visitor, but in the 16th century, Europeans had a much closer familiarity with such loss. Infant mortality was extremely high, life expectancy over all was less than half what Americans can look forward to today, and illness or accident could slay anyone at the slightest glance. Thus Michel de Montaigne found himself in his mid-30s and mourning the death of his best friend, his first-born infant daughter, his younger brother, and his father, all while expecting his own life to end within a few years. Such a cacophony of loss drove him to retire to his Bordeaux estate and resolve to steel his will with stoicism, the reigning philosophy of the day.

But this late Renaissance humanist found that he uncovered not stillness but endless curiosity when left alone with his mind. He turned to experimenting with the world - having himself woken while in a deep sleep so as to try to know slumber, traveling across Europe to "polish" his mind through contact with others, and musing about the meaning of his cat's play. These trials he turned to essays, from the French verb "essayer," to try or taste. And the result was a tremendous contribution to Western thought and literature.

In When I am Playing With My Cat, How do I know That She is Not Playing With Me? by Saul Frampton, we learn about both Montaigne's life and his essays. I've never read the originals, so I can't speak to Frampton's scholarship, but the story his writes is both compelling and edifying. Montaigne, at least by Frampton's account, is a charmingly human man, eager to learn about himself and his fellows through close contact and observation. He's also intellectually daring and honest with himself, and comes to some conclusions quite different from the mainstream of his time. I really enjoyed this book - devoured it in just over a day - and now look forward to trying (tasting, as Montaigne might put it), the original essays.

By the way, Montaigne lived during a fascinating period of French history, including the religious civil wars and the death of Henry II. Does anyone know of a good novel about him and his life? I'd love to read it. If it's not out there though, maybe I'll add that to my long list of projects I'd like to write some day!

Cover image from World Literature and Philosophy Rochester Public Library blog. Once again, what a neat cover, no?

Kitty Kupcake and a recommendation

We've had a busy week and weekend, so I haven't had time for a real post. But in the meantime, I'll post a cute picture of our boy kitty. (Previously referred to in this blog as K2.) He loves baked goods. Who doesn't?

A quick reading/writing note - I finished reading Granta's Issue 113, The Best of Young Spanish-Language Novelists. I had mixed feelings about the selection, but man did it end with a bang. I definitely recommend checking it out, if only for the last story by Patricio Pron. Beautiful.

The ALF in my house

Maybe it's the result of being cooped up in the apartment for four and a half days (tomorrow makes that five and a half). Maybe it's that I over-think things (just ask the husband :) ). But I can't stop staring at the cats and thinking What alien life form are you and why are you living in my house?

Really, why do we let these small creatures with their impenetrable thoughts in our homes? Ok, yes, I love them to pieces, but I'm convinced that it's some sort of spell they cast on me. I am certain that the female kitty (K1, for those who recall) regards me as simply a giant walking lap that once a day pours food into the bowl. When the lap is sitting, it must be sat upon. When the lap is standing, it must be begged for treats.

I feel so used.

Yet, I love them! Can't get enough of them! Just want to snuggle my face into their furry little bodies til I sneeze from all the fur up my nozzle. And anyways, I'm just guessing that's that what she thinks. Because, unlike with dogs and husbands and houseguests, cats usually keep their thoughts to themselves. (Why are you sitting in that cardboard box even though it's too small for your bottom? Why is the appearance of a laptop bag cause for intense investigation and much chewing of zipper?)

Maybe this is some sort of alien reality TV show ... I wonder how I could leverage that for 15 minutes of Xordox fame.

Or maybe I should stop staring at the cats and get back to writing that novel.

Structure is Important in Kitty Life

Our kitties are as regular as senior citizens on bran muffins and prunes - each day has the same rhythm and pattern, often down to the minute. They asked me to share, as they'd like to know if there are other kitties out there that prize their scheduled habits as much as these.

But first, some introductions.

Because the kitties' names are awful (yes, my fault), we'll keep it simple. We've got the Black Cat, our first kitty and therefore K1, and the White Cat, the newcomer and therefore K2. Since you can't have too many cat pictures:

We can identify which is which, yes? Good, moving along.

Our kitty morning starts bright and early, at 0630. This is approximately 15 minutes before Carrie's alarm goes off.

K2: Enough of this sleeping and treasuring your last few winks of sleep. Let's go! Meow!

K1: Sleeping.

After Carrie takes a shower and moves into the kitchen for breakfast, the kitties follow. They beg for food, they are denied. When Carrie prepares to leave, K2 takes up his customary position by the front door. This is similar to the position taken by one of those draft stoppers.

Repeat 30-45 minutes later, when husband departs. Then sleep. Also take advantage of humans' absence by doing things normally prohibited: prancing on countertops, running across the dining table, chewing any hardback books available.

But the day really gets going at 6pm when Carrie or husband returns home.

K2: Dear god I'm hungry I'm hungry I'm dying feed me!

K1: Dear god I'm hungry I'm hungry I'm dying feed me!

Food is given. Peace ensues.

* Once a week exception:

K1: I'm so so hungry I've gotta eat and eat and eat and eat and ... oh lord, here it comes, gag, gag, PUKE.

K2: Oooh, warm food too!

Exactly 30 minutes of peace ensue. Then the switch is thrown.

K2: Meow, meow, meow. (this happens preferably in front of the door to the HVAC, for some mysterious reason. Likely mouse ghosts behind door.)

K1: sleeping

K2's incessant meowing means one of three things. None of these are immediately apparent and only trial and error reveals the solution. 1) He is playful and would like to be entertained. 2) He is lonely and would like to be pet. 3) He is bored to tears and would like to be held against his will under the faucet so that he gets soaked and then can occupy himself with grooming.

K1: sleeping

Peace ensues.

When it's bedtime, K2 revs up the action again. This may include: meowing by the HVAC, chasing K1 as she howls in agony, or hunting. Hunting involves finding a door mat, sliding oneself under it, and remaining perfectly still so as to best catch unsuspecting prey (ie, K1). Hunting also requires complete focus, meaning that even if one is poked, spoken too, or laughed at in one's face, one maintains a stoic and impassive expression, gaze focused keenly at an unspecified point in the distance.

Immediately prior to bedtime, K2 takes up his sentry watch - under the bed. Should Carrie go to bed before husband and need to shut the door, K2 will refuse to abandon his post. That is, until ten minutes after lights-out at which point K2 crawls out and commences whining at the shut door.

Finally, sleep and the opportunity to share a bed with warm human bodies call.

K2: Sleeping on left side of human.

K1: Sleeping on right side of human.

Until 3:30am.

K2: Sleeping on right side of human.

K1: Pawing frantically at the closet door like a fat kid trying to climb a greased wall when pursued by a t-rex.

K2: Realizes it must be play time. Meow!

Fortunately, from 4:00am til 6:30am, peace ensues.

K2: Sleeping at stomach of human.

K1: Sleeping at feet of human.

And then it starts all over.

Through the Inches

She responded by instinct, naturally, when her body gave her those new, unexpected sensations. Heavy, focused, the young cat sought out the perfect corner. Somewhere quiet, dark, safe. She could not have explained why, and if she could have felt surprise at the sight of the kittens she would have, but she accepted it all with equanimity. It was instead the closure of the entrance, the theft of sunlight and fresh air that shocked her.

She had been so absorbed with her three new lives, blind, mewing and heart-wrenching, that she had not even noticed that the path by which she had entered her refuge was now closed. It was only when her body ached with hunger, when she was forced to leave her innocent, defenseless charges, that she realized. Anxious, she paced the perimeter of her space. It was large, but closed. Had she been human, she would have realized that the garage door had been closed, with only two inches of space remaining, leaving her in a concrete cube, without escape.

She hoped for mice - not rats, they might prey on her babies before she could prey upon them - but none entered. Soon, hunger terrorized her. Desperate, she cried out, sticking her nose out through the tiny bit of space that remained to her, her only reminder that the real, open, free world still existed. Food, release, help, she cried. Her belly, her pleading babies, drove her to distraction.

As she cried, a warm smell of meat, flesh and fat and blood, crept towards her. Then, miraculously, the meat itself appeared, slipped through the crack, glowing in the remaining sunlight. She snatched it and ran away, back to her nest in the corner.

But the meat only held her for a short time. Soon she was starving again, her kittens larger, their eyes open and looking to her for food. On black paws, she crept around the space again. No mice, no nothing. Hunger drove her, she cried. She cried and cried. The light disappeared, then, after the cool night, reappeared. Still she cried.

Inexplicably, the meat came again. She snatched it away, glimpsing bare fingertips and hearing whispers in foreign, human tones. Her hunger satiated, she calmed.

When the sunlight next returned, a rattling cacophony came with it. The cat mother blinked, startled, as the bright day slowly invaded her space. The door was opening.

She was too astonished to do anything for a moment. A man walked in, his face widening in surprise as he saw her. She cringed, waiting for the violence. He bent down.

And cooed. If she could have understood, she would have known he said, "Oh, aren't you darling! So sweet. Maria, come look at these kittens!"

He thrust a weathered, darkened hand at her. The cat laid back her ears, but was too tired, and too hopeful, to do anything more. She remembered the meat, proffered by similar hands, though smaller. He caressed her head.

"There there. We'll take care of you my love. Maria, can you get a box, blanket? We've got to move these kitties to somewhere better." He ran his hand down the cat's black fur, and extended a heavy finger to stroke the grey head of one of her kittens. "We'll take care of you," he promised.

A Message From Nijma

My cat left a message for us on our computer. In the google search bar, I found when I got home:

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I wonder if she is trying to tell us something. I'll go give her a treat now, just in case.