Roscoe Grounding

The grass is 8 inches tall in the city lot, and there is wind coming off the lake which creates waves of blades rising, roiling, shushing. The trees with their summer leaves are blustering as wind fingers through the clusters, branches nodding, yup and yup and yup; I sit at the red light in my car, watching, wondering how happy the trees are to feel the wind, how awake the grass is after being thrumbled by the quick breeze.

This evidence of life will fill you, like paw prints in snow, telling that you are not alone nor lost but are part of a cycle, the immensity of which is mostly incomprehensible not only in size, but in metaphysics.  Mystery, this; full of mystery.  For this reason, not only am I glad for trees and grass and flowers, but for the other living things trying to hang onto this whirling ball of rock and water.  The absurdity grounds me, providing a starting line for figuring out, except that I never will.

Roscoe, the cat I write often about, his black immensity, Sir Loin of Fuzzham, ye black hole of Raguel, the commander of earth and wind, concerns himself with many day to day duties, first of which is getting in the way.  He also enjoys stealing my stuff, but further, has found items that had been lost for years.

For example: an Apple iPod watch/music thing that was a gift from my son; well, it disappeared long before Roscoe arrived but days hence was left sitting mid floor in the living area, brightly red and dusty. WHERE, where did you find this??? Thank you dear cat!  I don't know if he recognized gratitude, but I know it was expected by the superior, leonine prance and pounce at my foot.  No compunction regarding claws, this one.

Truly I hadn't understood, in my humaness, his career as a retriever of objects; really, to me he was just moving items from one place to the random next, but then the supply of things to find became boring to him.  For that, his nostrum was to create an assortment of convenience, a cavalcade of objects fancied because of what they were made of, of how much noise would come out of me when something was missing, and most of all, what could be accomplished.  He concocted an armory of weapons, which represented the larger part of his cache, including an entertainment section as well.

You think this cat had no rhyme nor reason? Well, you decide. Lazing about on an early spring Saturday in blankets because it was too cold to get up, digital clock numbers edged toward brunch rather than breakfast and no plate of cat pah-tay had yet appeared.  I was getting to it, but Roscoe had a plan.  First, he charitably washed Kai who bit his ear, causing him to retaliate, causing me to flip blankets and dispense of Roscoe, who I felt bad for since he was doing a rare good deed.  I dozed again, until suddenly, a Dr. Scholl's blue shoe insert came at me, and hit me in the face.  Not dropped off, but flung like DiMaggio hitting one out of the park.  I heard a woo-hoo! as I saw a black hind end fly off the bed.

Emptying pockets of contents and storing them safely, especially car keys, is of notable consideration; during our beginning relationship, there on the counter I left two singles and a twenty dollar bill. Morning comes and there is only one single; fortunately, the cat was trotting tail high down the hall with a bill in his mouth, but it was only the other dollar. Yet three weeks later, by the water dish, the twenty reappeared, lord knows where he puts this stuff.  He still has another twenty from another time when I wasn't thinking.

Now, I get things from eBay; the breakables are padded these days with plastic bubbles, but more wonderfully often, long serpents of brown paper.  The cats love to tear through them, play cat fort, and make impressive skids at admirable speeds.  So here are some glass bottles for me, and here is fifteen feet of paper wadding for you to play in, have at it, kids!

I was not paying close attention while examining the bottles--"Black Cat Stove Polish"--but felt a delicate drop of something light on my foot. Thinking it was Roscoe bringing a piece of the play paper as a gift, I bent down to ooh and ahh for him, but noticed that it was a bill of some sort, a green back, a simoleon. Wow! Maybe it's the other twenty from months ago, but NO!  It was not.  It was a two dollar bill and where the hell this animal found a two dollar bill with Thomas Jefferson looking at me I have no idea. Where would he get a two dollar bill? Was it caught in the paper stuffing from the seller of bottles? Should I ask the person? "Uh, did you by accident lose a two dollar bill because my cat brought me one and I don't know what day it is anymore?" Perhaps it was stuck up in the couch.  Perhaps if I clap loud enough, fairies will appear.

His preoccupation momentarily is with the bathtub plug, it goes for walks around the apartment; additionally, plastic lids, my flip flops that now have vampire fang marks, three-inch iron nails from the Civil War, the new kitten Finnegan, earrings, wrapped cough drops, a string of Tibetan flags, shoes, shoe inserts, and my contact lens case have all been attended to.  He is intelligent, one of the smartest animals I have lived with.  It is an honor.

As I sit in early August, the daylight is going away earlier; it is only eight p.m., and the tone of the sky is changing to twilight leading to dusk; it will be dark by nine when only weeks ago the sun barely touched the horizon.  Bird migration has begun for those species who need to be in place by September; cicadas vibrate, and the orange daylilies are finishing.  Peaches and corn are coming to market, tomatoes soon; the earth spins to the east in prograde motion, counterclockwise with daylight shortening as the planet tilts.

Our moon is slowing us down by gravitational pull; the days are now longer than they were during dinosaur times, when they lasted closer to 23 hours.  Would we notice?  Probably, for it isn't that the day loses an hour at the end, but each hour would be over two minutes less; by the end of the day when the sun goes down, we would possible feel a little bit rushed, that there wasn't enough time to complete business.  Just enough to make us anxious, and head earlier to bed.  Imagine, you would be only 58 and a half when you turned 60.

Sleep well, it feels as if the thickness of the heavy summer heat has dissipated and the air has slipped into a clearer realm, one of my favorite parts of night.  Day phantoms are suspended, and lovely, clear air washes over all as we drift amid the waves and troughs of dreams.  Good night.