Sunday

3 December 2017

— Thousands of leaves on the lawn waiting for raking elves to come in the night.

Good Morning All

Around 2:00 last night, I nearly apprehended the neighborly cat who likes to come in through the cat-door and terrorize Skype and Flowerpot, such that they either head for the highest bookshelves or take refuge with the human on or under his bed.

Last night, I happened to be paying a visit to our water closest (privy, lavatory, ‘loo, powder room, bog, what have you), sitting on our commodious commode, not—let me be quick to reassure you--because I was attending to any particular or voluminous unfinished business, but because I was quietly doing a crossword puzzle. 

As I am sure is the case in virtually all households where taste and decorum still matter, such activities as puzzles, horoscopes, obit.-enjoyment, deep thought, and light prayer are relegated to the ablution areas. The book that presently resides on the corner of the bathtub (with a fine-point pen clipped to the cover) happens to be: Stanley Newman’s Literary Crosswords. In it, in alphabetical order, are fifty puzzles each built around one classic novel, from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to Wuthering Heights.

I am about halfway through The Scarlet Letter, which is #37, which is of some concern to me because I have long since completed any and all other puzzle books kicking around the premises. I don’t like to make a pest of myself to my children by even hinting that a new book of puzzles, or--even better--two, would certainly make wonderful Christmas presents for the poor old pater and his regularity. 

The cats were with me, of course. In the world of catdom—or at least in the world of my cats—not much is more thrilling than to accompany the human to the smallest room in the house. I am pretty sure that the minuscule bug who rafted down my page of Huck Finn the other night has since taken up residence in the bathtub. I believe this because Flowerpot no sooner jumps into the tub than she's spinning and pouncing, flicking her paws this way and that, even somersaulting in her efforts to catch something I cannot see. I have more than once suggested to her that a long-sleeve, canvas sports-coat may be in her future.

Skype, on the other hand, likes to hop up on the windowsill and nuzzle her forehead against my ear. That is usually welcomed, except that Skype is a meower, and she can go off at any time. In her nuzzling enthusiasm she has sometimes fired off pretty much straight down into my eardrum an operatic RAW-OOLE! Twice have I ended up on the tiles. 

Anyway, back to the not so neighborly cat. Because I had the bathroom door open, Skype, Flowerpot, and I could all hear the unmistakable plastic-flap of the cat door not much down the hall and around the corner. The two of them instantly froze, consulted each other, concluded neither of them had just come in, and two seconds later were heading—in their slunk-down modes--for my bedroom.

Halfway through printing out Dimmesdale, I waited, silent, and was three minutes later rewarded by Neighbor Cat sauntering along in his usual arrogant fashion towards the small office at the other end of the corridor where I keep the cat bowls. I got my timing just right. Exactly when he glanced my way, I slapped the flat of my hand against the hollow bathroom door, making it boom. Neighbor Cat went straight up a good two feet, managed to reverse while air born, and went back out through the cat flap as though shot from guns.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. Much as I love Donald Hall’s poetry, I sometimes wonder if purists (including our Miami rep) consider it to be poetry. I mention this because one of my favorites of his is in today’s Day Book.

P.P.S. Two Holly snaps. (Answer to query: Yes, I’d love to put in more Johs snaps, but he does not send all that many, and I am using what I have in the Day Book proper.)