Equus Felidae in Alabaster

White animals have missing parts, mostly in the brain, and I have proof.  This horse, you see, was actually pretty dang smart to have calculated the "this plus that equals" results, but no visible aberrations were noticed, as I was terribly naive to animal plotting.   Friends and I had gone horseback riding at a stable that rented out horses for fifteen dollars an hour, and no, I don't know the first thing about it.  Never got the hang, but the animals were fascinating and large.  I had no qualms climbing on, hitching my leg in the stirrup and hauling myself up into the saddle.

My favorite was Number 16, an irascible but sane gelding who was built like a determined tank; sturdy.   He wasn't available that summer day, so I boarded a white mare who looked like the skinny blond girl in your Kindergarten class whose pasty pink button nose was always stuffed.  This white horse didn't whuffle hello, it stared at me with a malevolent, chilly blue eye, just like any suspicious child who wants to know just what's in that bottle labeled paragoric.  No problem; it will respond to encouraging pats and the stub of carrot in my jacket pocket.  Yes it will.

We rode the path to the meadow and I was quite happy with plodding about, wander here, dither there; the horse didn't seem to mind with no indication that the evil watchspring driving the gears was near to midnight in its equine brain.  The meadow was large, immensely rectangular and my friends and I went to the furthest end, then turned the inside corner.  We had been having our teen girl horse party for maybe fifteen minutes.  Ding ding ding.  Midnight.

My horse lifted its head, ears pricked, and did a fantastic imitation of a plane taking off and leaving the runway with a surprised me hanging onto the saddle horn.  This animal hauled ass while I was scrabbling for a better grip on the reins to stop this train, and demonically headed for a low branch of the oak tree hanging over the trail; the branch caught me, scooping me off the back end of TWA Flight 260 into the muck where I imagine many a human had been dumped; the horse headed back for the barn down the meadow path, and I picked myself up out of the dirt, mad as hell that I hadn't seen it coming.  Disney animals that helped sew your gown or clean the cottage got the boot from my new reality, as the kids employed by the stable ride brought the escapee back to me.

"You should get back on, or the horse will think it won."  Really.  Well, I did, still shaken after the breath had been knocked out of me, and the kids mused that maybe they ought to saw that branch off wasn't that supposed to be taken care of last week?  So, how many humans had been hornswoggled by horses?  It's only this horse that does that, and only when it's close to feeding time; we thought you knew how to ride.  Well, could a warning label be slapped on this critter?  I patted the neck and the rest of the day was pleasant with no sudden ideas from either of us.  It wasn't the first or last time I lost my seating on a horse; so far, so good.

Now, my white cat is named Princess Snowbelle as when I picked her up from the City Shelter, the slip of paper said her name was Ashley.  Good god.  Who the hell names a cat Ashley?  Her head hung over the edge of the plastic dish pan she was laying in, a large spot rubbed raw on her neck from the pressure.  So cat, pick another position.  Nope, like this one.  But cat....

No one wanted her as she was born a bit crooked and hops like a rabbit; her kneecaps are luxated and her spine is short of the usual number of vertebrae.  She responded well to the volunteer men, but remained depressed and just hung her little head until St. Susan, Cat Beacon saw her in the cage above the cat that I had come in to adopt, my Kai (who was originally named Cassandra).   I asked if I could see her, and the older fellow brought her out.  One hop and I was lost.  However, she's crazy.

Snowbelle, or Tish, or Get Offa That will be sitting on my lap in a limp state of purr when some sudden signal from her home planet explodes the rockets and she blasts off, using her claws for traction, drawing blood.  For years, she bullied my littlest cat even though I explained and explained that look, one good swat and Snowbelle will leave you alone because she can't run for beans.  Tulip now holds her own and has put Snow in her spot; they haaaaate each other, but this white crazy brought it on herself.

She sleeps next to my head on the pillow I bought for her at Target just a few days before they were hacked and therefore my card was on the blink for about a month because of this cat.  When leaving to visit the voices in her head she runs like the calvary, again, not off the free and clear side of the bed, but directly over me.  I often wake in the morning with a new souvenir of her speed etched into my skin.  It's okay, she just isn't wired soundly.  Be aware and notice the similarities: both animals were/are white, both have spontaneous, cataclysmic epiphanies.  Just keep an eye out for yourself.

The night is clear, apparently the near pass by the asteroid went fine, and the snow has stopped for a moment.  There are a few things to do before I pass into sleep, and let go the paths of the day.  Shake out the blankets, turn under and into the furrow of layers, plant yourself as a seed, an idea, a dream; wake to the day, rise with the coming spring story.