A cat story – LuceStellare

A Cat Story – Chapter III Free At Last

Consider that stardust is falling around us all the time. Perhaps it is the angels shedding divine light upon our path. If I am not mistaken, it is the dust from the cosmos that creates the dramatic colors at sunrise and sunset. All the minerals on our planet fall from the sky. So many things come to us from so far away. The flecks of gold in Myrrh’s coat could be from a star. The way they sprinkle and mix with the black in such a random way, it must be one of Nature’s acts of beauty in creation. Sometimes I wish I could have seen her as a kitten. She must have been a dear one. Myrrh was born in a barn on Halloween. I wonder if she stepped out from between the worlds. If we are merely energy transformed. If my spirit is already ancient and wise, how is it the knowing of another lifetime is not present? I have no conscience memory of my existence until about three years of age. And, so it goes I will have no memory when I cease to breathe. That’s not enough for me. I am unsatisfied that all this effort and energy evaporates. Why does it seem I have such a purpose to exist?

At moments, I am tempted to find the name Hill in the local directory searching for Wanda’s relations. She was Myrrh’s owner for ten years. What was her life was like before I adopted her? The shelter lady mentioned that Myrrh did not like to be in a cage at all. I did learn that the former owner was single and lived in a small apartment. Some days I wonder what Myrrh does all day during the week. Most likely just sleeps the day away. A routine of sorts has been established all these months with me gone for long hours. We both agree we tolerate the vacuum cleaner. The blasted thing is far too fat and noisy for decency. The escape zone is usually the outer hall, balcony or back of my closet. When thunder, noises or events are overwhelming, she knows it is time to move away until balance is restored. When I hear and see things that are beyond me, do I recognize my limits and make tracks until the coast is clear? Do I have a safety zone I can move to? If I am physically feeling threatened, do I hide and give into my fears?

The answer is yes. I have a highly tuned sense of when to withdraw. I live a step or two away from the mainstream. My days are often in solitude with the hum and peep of Gaia. I am sheltered in the wind and rain. Spirit is at rest. People constantly want something from me. I notice most extraverts have a need to know the most mundane thing to feel connected. I don’t need to know the color of your socks. Somewhere I have learned to withdraw the gift of myself from others. I remember being open and reaching out to connect. The sensation would come out of the solar plexus and push. I did not want so much to know another as to merge with their presence. The rush of needing to be with another was overwhelming. This drive has not brought much comfort. Relationships with humans have been a struggle. I have rarely felt the joining. My karma is to want and endlessly wander. The complexity of another wrapped in with the complexity of me is a mire. I long to belong but often become lost. Did I ever mention I was a romantic?

In my own daily life, I have a strong need to be outdoors every day. Even a ten-minute walk around the block can make all the difference. My feet have carried me for hundreds of miles and only one summer did they complain. Perhaps the habit of walking did start early as I did walk to and from school as a child. However, on my own, I find that almost everywhere I live or work, I find a place to walk. I had an uncle who never stopped talking until he had a stroke. I wonder, will that be the thing that forces me to sit? Rare is the day I haven’t walked. From time to time, I get exasperated with the work world and have a fantasy of having some employment that involves walking in the forest every day. I once saw a film from China about a mail carrier who delivered to the far-flung villages. He did walk with his dog for days on end. Walking does bring me outdoors and that is the way of it. I have to have the ground under my feet or I become twitchy. The need for the outdoors is part of who I am.

My fondest recollections from childhood are vacation week in Vermont. My folks rented cabins or houses in what seemed remote areas of the state. Some of the roads were unpaved. The houses were always deep in the woods or surrounded by meadows, forest and streams. Perhaps, it was a treat to be away from the urban beat. Something inside me longs to be in Vermont again living in some back of beyond place with nothing but crickets for neighbors. Being in Vermont means being outdoors to me and is synonymous with homesteading. I may have a romantic notion that living in Vermont would convert me into a Taoist that lived and breathed with the land. In balance with the way things are, rolling into seasons and only aware of the movement of earth, air, fire and water. The Earth is not on a forward path of time, it merely rolls from one end to another.

The seasons do not actually come and go, they continue. I cannot explain it in words so well, enough to say it is an awareness in the primitive self that yin follows yang followed by yin, slumber follows awakening which rolls into activity, on a path for rest and slumber again.

When I was in my early teens, I fell in love with horses. I can remember drawing pictures, reading books and eventually, figuring out how to have riding lessons. This is no small achievement living in a good size city. When I started taking riding lessons, the suburbs were much less developed than today and it was not difficult to find stables within a half-hour drive. Somehow, I persuaded my folks to let me have lessons. They must have paid before I started working and earning a wage. And, my father must have driven me to the barn. My desire to be a part of a country life with horses was strong enough for me to have negotiated support from the family.

Most of the lessons were taken at a stable in Auburn. I worked there Saturday morning doing various barn chores for the love of it. My riding teacher, Bonnie or Bev, was a young woman who passed on the love of horses to more young women. Horses are a profession dominated by women in the Northeast. In all the barns, stables and horsy circles I traveled in, the men that were encountered tended to be the blacksmith. This interest went on for many years. So many years that I eventually figured out how to earn a living on a farm. The first year of service was rocky as I was a bit of a softie. I do recall going home very tired from the efforts. The daily schedule was early morning until sometime early afternoon. I had a cat in those days that I used to take with me to the barn. This may sound odd but I purposefully went to the local shelter to adopt an older black cat. Instead of just enjoying his company at home, I decided to let him roam around the farm until it was time to go. In a way, I was treating the cat like a dog thinking it could just entertain itself and be free for a few hours each day. This worked! At first, there was some confusion and concern about being able to catch him at the end of the day, but eventually, he figured out what to do and would walk with me to the car. People saw this and thought it was most unusual. Some of my notions can be a bit unconventional.

This belief that a cat needs to be outdoors each day lingers on. I have no idea if Myrrh ever went outside before I took her home. The first excursion started with letting her explore the balcony. I live on the second floor and have a long verandah she can roam on. The railing is about waist high and sturdy enough to accommodate flower pots and bird feeders. The view is quite restful overlooking a small copse with flowing stream. The brush and trees are overgrown, wild with bittersweet every year. The closest tree gives life to nuthatch and woodpeckers. In the ice storms, the slender branches scrap up against the house. The limbs stretch underneath and above the balcony, becoming part of my small world.

Suddenly, I understand the mystery of elfin magic. We are connected by root and rock. My ancient friend, my shelter of many branches deep in memory.

Birds love it back here and enjoy full feeders in the cold months. One night I went out to replenish the seeds and found a flying squirrel attached to the hanging feeder. The little creature froze in his tracks as I put up a suet cake and filled the pan for ground feeders. He was small but had enormous large eyes. His coat was sleek and soft to look at. One year, I also had a chipmunk visit regularly just after sundown. I called him Zing Zing as he did dash about more than eat. He was a blur. I enjoyed having other creatures come. There are so few squirrels in my area that I didn’t mind putting up corn cobs and shell peanuts. Red squirrels sitting back on their hind legs chattering at each other but determined to fill the belly with much needed food. I don’t mind at all that they come. I enjoy having the critters so close for the selfish enjoyment I receive from having them near.

The most exciting moments at the feeder include the annual but brief sighting of an oriole just before the canopy completely leaf’s out. Junco’s, wrens, goldfinch, chickadee, cardinal, blue jay, sparrows and a large flock of morning doves pay daily visits. Once, a bird of prey swooped in for a closer look at the activity. Birds at a feeder are noisy as they dart back and forth for seeds. One Saturday afternoon, something large landed in the crabapple tree. Being the amateur bird watcher, I am not sure what I saw but never thought it was a hawk. The most abundant hawk in my area is red tail and this wasn’t of that kind. This bird was long, smaller and I thought had a robin’s coloration. Certainly, it was curious and scattered the little ones. The quick alarm calls sent everyone scurrying for cover. The bird of prey stayed awhile but eventually flew off.

The feeder stays up until late April. When Myrrh came home, the feeder was in use daily. The red squirrel was visiting at that time making his slow cautious advance on the pan feeder. At first, I let Myrrh watch all this through the screen door. She particularly loved the squirrel’s daily adventures. He had the most staggered way of advancing toward the pan moving in an indirect line. Red squirrels have bodies designed to run up and down tress. On a flat balcony, he is off balance and out of his range of motion. Myrrh sometimes did not appear to see the squirrel when she was out on the balcony. For some reason, her senses seem a bit slow at moments. I was always astonished that I could see him coming along and she just didn’t notice the movement. Or, think it worth making a fuss over.

I started letting her wander onto the balcony early on. Myrrh took to leaning way out through the railing at the chipmunk holes far below. Because I feed the birds, chipmunks built a burrow entrance where seeds fall regularly. All the activity intrigued her cat instincts. I think it was a wide new world because of her reaction to the hummingbird coming to the feeder. She got scared from the whirl of wings and after following the hovering marvel for a moment with wide fearful eyes, dashed away to a safe distance.

The first time she jumped up on the balcony railing, I had a doubt or two. The height from ground level to the balcony is probably closer to 20’. She enjoys leaping up onto the rail, strolling a bit and resting there watching the activity around us. This went on for probably a month before she fell. Yes, I happen to be looking out and observing when she leaped, missed, scrambled and kept going over the rail. Jeez! I leaned over and saw her below on her feet. I still recall I was cool under pressure. So many years of working with horses had prepared me for moments like this. Accidents or missteps are routine, just put your shoes on and get her. Some part of me was cool and the other concerned. Now what? Vet bill? Is she alright?

Yes, I walked right up to her and picked her up. She seemed quiet and perplexed as to what to do next. She started squirming as I got closer to the door. When I put her down, I watched carefully but saw nothing odd about her walk or body. In fact, she wandered over to her food bowl and took a bite or two. I watched her for a few days and saw nothing of concern in her movement. For Myrrh, this was life number two of nine. I consider adopting her one life and the fall the second. Did I close the door and forbid her to go out? No. I noticed we both grimaced a little whenever she jumped up but that faded away with time and no further falls.

I only let her on the balcony when I was home at first. Eventually, I gravitated to leaving the sliding door open in the warm months. Myrrh was experiencing a great deal of personal freedom. My thought is that it is too boring inside all day and outdoor time was necessary. Eventually, the thought occurred to me that perhaps we could try a down on the ground adventure. A tall staircase off a large courtyard accessed my apartment. The complex is shaped much like a fort with a treed, grassy interior. The layout of the place makes for unusually good acoustics at times. One of my neighbors walked around the courtyard with a hands free phone yapping with his partner. For some reason, she lived far away and to be close they wandered about doing daily chores describing in detail actions as they happened. We all got to hear this.

When I want to wash the hall floor, I block open my door to the short hall and block open the outer door leading out to the stairwell. The air current is superb and known to dry the wet surface in less than ½ hour. Of course, I decided one Sunday morning when it is normally very quiet, to wash the floor, leave the door open and see what happened. Myrrh was very cautious and at first went no farther than the landing at the top of the staircase. She kept looking back at me and would go a little bit further. Curiosity got her and she made it to the bottom of the staircase. Grass! Sniffy sniff! This was when I realized cats sniff as much as any dog. Sniffy, sniff, sniff everything. I believe I hovered around her and was anxious as she started exploring around and down the embankment. This area is quiet and leads to a small stream.

This letting her in and out continued until she figured out how to go out by herself for a while. She’s had a few brushes with a neighbor’s dog, a stray cat and young children. Most of the time, it’s uneventful. I watch her as she picks her way down around the house and to the stream. Sometimes, she likes to go up other staircases around the complex and explore other doorways. She did come running in once very excited when a cat appeared at the other end of the balcony. All ears and peering cautiously around the corner.

Myrrh never stays out more than a half hour and stays within the area so that if I do wonder, I can find her quickly. This seems a bit extraordinary if I think on it but I trust Myrrh has instincts enough to sort out how to be outside. I trust she can behave, enjoy and be safe as well. Yes, I do hear myself saying be safe dear when I open the door. The most fascinating encounter has been the great turkey invasion. A flock of twenty birds lives nearby and routinely visits the courtyard late afternoons. One day they were all present when I went to fetch the mail with Myrrh, I was the one intimidated to go among them. If she saw them she did not bat an eye. She went along walking constantly towards them managing to scatter the flock. I wonder if she thought they were chubby humans?

Yes, Myrrh has evolved. Sometime in September, she brought me her first “kill”. There I was in the living room enjoying a good read when she came in with something in her mouth. My gosh, the critter had such a look of contorted pain on its face. She put the chipmunk down in front of me and sat back. Yikes! I looked carefully and decided it best to get the critter out fast. I went to the hall closet to fetch a pair of tough leather gloves, as I felt squeamish about using my bare hands. By the time I had the gloves on and back to the task, the chipmunk had gotten up and started to move. I tried to catch it but the critter went here and there along with Myrrh. What a scene! Myrrh went into the bedroom with door closed. For a few minutes, I continued to chase and encourage the chipper to exit through the open doors of balcony and front door. Chipper made it out the balcony door. When Myrrh came out, she searched high and low for her prey.

I had not seen her at that level of animation before. I had not been so close to a cat on the hunt. She was alert and moving with unusual precision and grace. I hope the chipmunk survived the attack. He was not bleeding when he escaped capture. However, he had a tremendous shock. Myrrh managed to snag one other chipmunk a few weeks later and the same story repeats. I am amazed. If she had not been outside until moving in with me, she made up time by turning on her cat instincts to high performance. As much as I am disturbed for the critters and their survival, I praised Myrrh for her cleverness. Bringing in prey is a sign of acceptance of me. Myrrh was trying to feed us. This is the highest compliment I could ever receive. The argument for not allowing cats outside is right here. Cats do kill birds and other creatures. Myrrh is well fed and does not need to hunt. Her instincts bring out this ability.

I have a strong belief that cats need to be cats. In fact, all creatures need to be free to be an animal. I firmly believe animals are highly intelligent and adapt to a domestic life because they choose to. If a cat cannot roam outdoors, scratch trees, eat grass, roll on the ground and hunt, it diminishes the psyche. How could I allow her not to feel sunlight and green grass under her feet? Creatures need to roam. Myrrh shows a lot of confidence and power in herself. I gave her the freedom to try things and in return, she is allowed to be free at last.

A Cat Story – Chapter II – Gals in Glory

Myrrh and I have a lot in common. These are not sentimental ramblings. Yes, she has four legs, a tail, and fur. Yes, we are a different sort of animal. Yes, I may be boasting about my cat and me. Am I seeing some sort of cosmic connection after a few short months of cat kinship? Sure, that’s why she’s here.

Myrrh is petite weighing about eight pounds. The coat is fluffy, silky short with dashes of black, gold and sprinkles of white all over. She reminds me of a raccoon in her coloration not a tortoiseshell. The shelter caretaker showed affection for Myrrh at our first encounter and mentioned her halo. On the top of her head, there’s a circular fur pattern in shades of gold and sunset orange. Myrrh is a biter, it would be best to stroke her and not pat. During the first meeting, she did bite the hand of the caretaker.

Years ago during a hypnosis session, I recall saying that everyone bites. This has everything to do with my detached manner towards people. Sooner or later; everyone bites. Instead of reacting internally, Myrrh reacts immediately. The bite is never hard or breaks the skin. This action is just her way of coping with a situation, which has gone past her comfort zone. At least she did it when I was looking.

Myrrh is about my age in cat years. For an older cat, she shows signs of spunkiness. Toys on a string or that wriggle keep her attention. Of course, a paper bag on the floor can bring about such happiness as well. She likes chasing the mouse named Jing-Jing. Jing-Jing, with the little bell, has disappeared under something so well that I almost believe it has retreated to toy heaven. I mean it usually comes to the surface after a good cleaning but it vanished months ago now. Of course, the catnip stuffed fish is always welcome. The quality of her purr changes at playtime to a louder growly rumble.

The most curious moments of Myrrh’s behavior thus far are the mad dashes after using the potty. Her tail puffs up to twice its size and off she runs. The look on her face is completely awake and animated. Myrrh is awake. Galloping Myrrh!

Myrrh and I have had a hysterectomy. During her first vet visit, I asked if we could know if she had been a Mom. The answer was not any longer. Two years ago in June, I did have an operation to remove fibroids growing steadily inside me. The darn things were starting to push on my organs. I was also becoming anemic with blood loss and finally someone commented I looked pregnant. The surgery had to happen.

I remember prior to surgery thinking I’d like to go somewhere to be cared for. Perhaps a spa to recover. Living alone is my choice. However, recruiting help for household chores taught me some things about human nature. The reality is no one wants to do their own, it’s futile to expect much at all.

I am a self-sufficient person and unused to asking or receiving help. Someone came the first two weeks to vacuum for me. A few times when I sought support, people said no and this was hard to hear. I needed help lifting the wet wash out of the machine and carrying it back to my apartment that’s all. “No, no,” the “friend” said, “I cannot wait around with you for that I have things to do.” My surgery involved a substantial incision and created a delicate situation for me physically. Therapists advised to put no pressure on your body including bending, pushing or lifting more than 10 lbs. for at least eight weeks. I cared well for myself with food, rest and gentle walks. Nevertheless, I felt the distance between others and myself. Even an elder brother who lived a few minutes away could find no time to stop by. I needed help and found only myself to lean on.

At the time, I had a long-term relationship to a women’s social circle. I remember inviting the monthly potluck to my house. This gathering occurred 21 days after my surgery. This get together proved to be the end of my involvement in the group. To be honest, I had been considering leaving for over a year. When I would leave the gatherings, often times I would feel somewhat harangued. People got to recalling too much office angst. As much as I could easily have indulged in complaining about co-workers, bosses and others, I just wanted to relax and talk about anything else except the job.

The group was loosely based around Native American spiritual expression. Each meeting started with a calling in of the ancestors to be present and benevolent. At the time, I had a fascination with this culture that took me to medicine wheels, dream circles and so many public ways of connecting to the Spirit of All Things. In April of this same year, I traveled to Albuquerque, New Mexico for the four day Gathering of Nations. During the visit, I visited pueblos, petroglyph marked canyons and more. The festival was a vast celebration honoring the planting of corn. Natives from so many tribes participated in traditional dance, drum and singing competitions. It was glorious!

I met this group of women at a spiritual gathering honoring Native American traditions. In retrospect, very little activity within our monthly get-togethers focused on the spiritual. It was the look of annoyance on their faces when I asked if they could take my trash out that told me to move on. After drinking all my liquids, and creating an enormous pile of dirty dishes, they hurriedly left. Understand, I was not even supposed to push a shopping cart at the time. People kept saying you are doing well, but I cannot recall being asked was I well. One member had the same surgery but conveyed none of the sensitivity to recovery I had expected. I have come to understand that I was not part of a sincere group of friends.

Overall, by the fourth week all help disappeared. On top of that, more than one person who visited me during this time wondered if I had been sick at all. I had to show my hideous staples scar to one guy to prove it. What on earth was going on? This situation vexed me at the time. I must be more Vulcan in presence than I ever realize. Yes, I adored Vulcan characters on Star Trek and sought often to emulate the cool presence of being outwardly collected. When you don’t smile, jiggle, giggle or gasp along with the rest of the extraverted lemmings, folks don’t quite know where to go anymore.

Myrrh has a problem with yeast in the ears. Despite being treated twice with two different kinds of medicine, the darn stuff lingered for months. I also have had yeast in my ears. I used to get painful earaches that built with intensity towards the end of the workweek. On Monday, I would feel fine. By Friday, my right ear especially would be sensitive and tender. This condition persisted for a while and I didn’t know what was the matter physically. Holistically, was I hearing things that filled me with ferment? During the summer months, I also struggle with what I call mal de mar. I get slightly queasy and off center through the change in season to fall. The sensation is like being waterlogged and fluid is trapped in my sinus.

I pursued alternative care by having my ears candled regularly. Ear candling is ancient medicine. Done successfully, a shocking amount of wax, dust, and yeast is drawn out of the ears. The first few candlings cleared out years of accumulated grime. One session pulled out a mass of sorts. If I remember, the matter formed into a ball and was about an inch across. The practitioner and I both made sounds of disgust. The ball was dark and looked like dried mud. The powdery white chalky residue was yeast.

Overall it is the sensitive nature of my temperament, the introversion and the overdose of society that tends to weaken my system. Actually, Myrrh can teach me a lot about this and calm down my tendency to get up and move. She is a champion of relax, take naps regularly and sleep in the coziest spots.

The other outstanding common ground Myrrh and I share is a love of solitude. Myrrh is a one cat per house kind of critter. This discovery was made when I attempted to foster my mother’s cat during an illness. Poncho is a very sociable, lovable bundle of fur. He was part of my parent’s household for many years. My mother needed nursing home care for about one month and instead of daily visits to her place to feed him, I elected to bring him home. Myrrh didn’t like this idea at all. She sulked, hissed and lashed out until I couldn’t take it anymore. I kept them separated during the day, but the apartment wasn’t big enough for them, often I ended up in the middle of the claw coming out. Both cats were distressed and let me know it.

After Poncho started eating out of Myrrh’s food dish, I had to do something. We were all becoming miserable about the confined quarters. I was able to find a foster home for Poncho and he spent the rest of the month being loved and fussed over by a family. The son was considering becoming a foster care person for animals and this was his first chance. Peace was restored to all of us. Seeing her reaction to Poncho, she must have suffered in the cat shelter. She absolutely hated another cat within ten feet of her. The look on her face was disgust and annoyance. Total tortoiseshell attitude.

I do not have that level of violent reaction when I encounter everyday folks. I tend to use caution but rarely am repelled on the spot. However, if someone appeared without warning, ate my food, used my potty and slept on my bed; I wonder how kind I would be? We both love a quiet life. I have had roommates in the past by choice and always enjoyed it best when I had the place to myself. We both love to sit and watch the birds at the feeder during the cold season. In fact, she sings them her own cat song when watching. We love to stroll about and live freely without others around us. We love to sleep in quiet soft warm places. We love a breath of fresh air daily and have the chance to stroll outside often to sunbathe whenever a sunbeam will appear. We both love fish. We love cheese. On and on the similarities grow as we spend time together. We are a couple of gals who enjoy our own version of glory.

A Cat Story – A Feline Wanders In

Chapter I – A Feline Wanders In

The moon is rolling into the first quarter on her journey around our Earth. She is following a path without obvious deviation, yet with every revolution, the aspect is slightly different. This continuity of movement has been the foundation of so many myths and a few monsters as well. However, should she become inspired one evening to wander into the unknown, we would be in some difficulty below. The moon is constant and gives a rhythm to the day, months, years, and centuries. An instinctive connection to the lunar cycle can be felt in the quiet hours when it is calm, giving rise to a sensation to follow an ancient pathway. The energy acts as a way finder when the soul rises and leads.

Next week’s full moon will be of Trees in Deep Sleep. We are just past winter’s wheel and the air grows colder by the hour. As I begin this edition in the daily life of Myrrh, all is warm and well-tended. Myrrh is here, sitting like a sphynx next to me while I reflect on life. The mystic in me wants to reveal with confidence this cat is my familiar. However, I simply think she is curious and trying out a new perch for the month of January. After all, it is the new moon cycle, when better than now to explore an idea. This is the story of her days in my home. Things that seemed not of interest just yesterday are now part of daily life when a feline wanders in.

Every gardener knows that spring is never the same way twice. When I walk my often trodden path around the marsh and commune with the chilly rain gently falling, I am inspired to consider that it is truly musical as it descends to Earth. I watch the inky green water swirling through the reeds looking deeply cold in the creek. My limited awareness of my place in time and space diminishes the ability to grasp the unseen path around me. I can barely put words to the beauty as I walk over trails of oak and beech leaves the color of rusted copper. As I travel the familiar trail, I am different The view is the same yet daily it is different. Am I a part of some limited existence hiding in the security of the same thing always with slight deviations so as not to harshly jolt me out of this pattern of life? I sense somewhere in my awareness perhaps it is time to consider that as many years as I have been on my journey, I am not certain there is an end.

When I was a teenager, my heroes included the great writers Thoreau and Hawthorn of Concord, MA. They wrote in romantic, mystical, transcendent prose. Their habit of walking, observing and sharing reflections on life around us in their published works has had such an influence. It’s rather a meditation in motion. I am not going anywhere, just ambling along. My trails may be familiar treads, but my spirit loves the view. Contemplations come easily on the footpath. I wander, my thoughts wander and I am lost or not. If I only knew where I was going and could come to consider that perhaps I had passed the reason I wander.

I believe I need too much, that is the wicked trick of being human. When the spirit wants to burst and the will remains weak it is frustrating. I have become an expert at not deviating from the comfortable loop and today I know this. I am the moon.

The decision to become a writer is not taken lightly. As much as I want to tell the tale, the penning of it somehow falters in the attempt. It has taken an hour to compose a few short paragraphs. Another trail, endless pondering around with slight deviations into puerile adventures.

My cat and I share a common trait, an internal wake up from the body around four o’clock in the morning. This hour is the twilight time of day when I hear the night creatures calling outside. I am far enough into the countryside to hear coyotes circling prey from time to time. The season of the year does not affect this natural happening. I stir early. Nights when I cannot find rest, this is the hour I finally drift off. Myrrh knows it is the time to rise and breakfast. Kitty steps walk, romp and sometimes pounce me into full awakening. She does not like to have her tail touched at all. Do you think it per chance that it swishes back and forth across my nose every morning? Wake up! Myrrh is saying. The day rolls on.

The old bones in me still follow primitive instincts. I cling to an idea that my human ancestors used to wander at this hour to scavenge and forage. We moved in the shadow time. My cells are old, evolving through every faun and fauna upon Earth. Given a moment to reflect, my instincts recall what it takes to survive and the echo is in the early inner wake up. Now is the time to move, before the dawn with the shadows quickly fading into another day.

Humans seem such defenseless creatures. Wild animals fear us and run away. We manipulate the natural world to thrive, dominating the landscape, and only bowing to the harshest of elements. Our size and shape is not too swift for any sort of escape from hungry prey. Consider that even our teeth and nails are ordinary, nothing particularly sharp or threatening to see.

I am uncertain why some animals are referred to as domesticated. Most can still defend themselves with superb speed and intent. Most people think before reacting. This tendency is our hubris. We hesitate, but the cat when threatened, is far down the road toward safety. My cat can do a lot of damage with her claws without too much provocation. Before our brain developed into the thinking machine it is, we may have stumbled along with all the other smaller animals. We are strange looking beings. This shape is so vulnerable. Our bodies put us far above the ground. Without my well-tended home, I am frighteningly ill equipped to survive in the wilds. If life as I know it changed, I would be one sorry beast in the woods.

A part of me longs to be an animal. I want my senses to be sharp, alert and supportive. I want feet that can move over the ground confidently without shoes. I want to be graceful, clever and awake. The shadowy hours of a new day awaken every lark. In many ways, Myrrh is my superior. She includes me in her twilight ambling. I can hear her scratching in the litter pan. The bedroom door is pushed open, a running step and leap onto the bed. Kitty uses little chirps, delicate pips to call me awake. She sniffs around and wanders. I like to sleep on my side. Testy cautious kitty steps up and onto my shoulder or hip. Sit, lie down, purr and get comfy on this bump. Purr, purr, purr, the little fuzzy friend is here.

This internal alarm started to tingle only within the past few years. My search for something more has manifested a closer affinity with Nature’s ways. The believer in me hopes that all these years of cultivating a closeness with Nature has refined my spirits; the old ways take command of my mortal being. Yes, I fancy myself something of a mystic; fascinated by the stillness of a field, enchanted by the trickling stream and searching for something within and without. I wish to make contact with the mystery. Today, I wish to be a wood elf, tomorrow, I will see Pomona along the path. The green man is my ultimate mate. The presence in the forest, or by the sea and even the mist in my cup of tea calls me in. The path I have followed has no name. It’s something akin to the Spirit of All Things. I love to be in the elements and feel the connection.

As the sun rises, I hear the cardinals calling in the day. They are the first to arrive and last to leave the bird feeders dwelling in the grey time between the rising and setting sun or moon. The body waking up and the actual getting up can linger for an hour or more, many thoughts ramble through the mind. Many are the times I thought to do something while I am awake. Get up? Walk to the pond? Hatha yoga? Or, just lie there and ramble. Mostly, I just lie there and later on, get annoyed with myself for not being the disciplined yogi. I am too lazy to be one. Last year I experimented with that urge to get up and did domestic chores in the predawn. There was a sense of satisfaction in having awoken, cleared my kitchen sink, taken out the trash or sorted a laundry load. I enjoyed coming home after work and finding nothing much to do except prepare a meal and put my feet up. This impulse was strong during the summer season. Now that it is the time to rest. I simply notice it is dark and I should lay low.

Myrrh has everything to teach me about the value of dreamtime. She sleeps about 16 hours a day. I wonder if cats retreat into a dream world? Perhaps the sleeping state is far more exciting than the waking. After all, the fortunate kitties have domesticated us to fulfill their needs for a warm dry corner to curl into. There must be something that makes it more attractive to be asleep than awake.

Myrrh came home in mid-April a year or so ago after I had been catless for about twenty years. My reason for living without a cat was due to circumstances I felt unwelcome for companionship. The first being I tend to have two jobs and am simply not home much. The other was completing a college degree at night compounding the not home syndrome. The degree took almost eight years to finish. The landlord also said no. I honestly felt I could not give kitty the contact necessary for its health and well-being. I have a strong belief in allowing cats some outdoor time when possible. I now live in a place that lends itself to cat kinship. After several years of a no cat policy, the proprietor changed his mind about this. I had started seeing fuzzy faces in windows and occasionally outside.

The other spur was the consistent dreaming I had around cats. Most of the dreams involved being inside an old apartment I had during the 90s. I particularly enjoyed this place as the rooms were spacious with tall windows. The moonlight would stream in the bedroom, waking me to being in lunar light. In the dream, the apartment was in disrepair. The cat would appear and be in a state of near starvation. Other dreams included an old cat I had nicknamed the mighty hunter. I found a journal entry dated from November of 2005. I was so impressed by a recent dream that I wrote to a dream message board seeking support, here is the exact entry…

“Cat Sitting on my Head – I had heard if you put a bowl of water next to your bed stand it formed a connection to Moon energy and often opened the door to the dream world. Well, I did this yesterday and had a proper message come through except I am too mortal to interpret the images. All I can recall is feeling my black cat crawl his way up my back and sit on my head. I was looking into a mirror and clearly saw him lying over my head quite relaxed and looking smashing. Another black cat was in the mirror toward my right side. Both were healthy, thick shiny coats, quite alert and looking at me in the mirror. “

Shushu and I shared a home when I worked on a large private farm. This place was cat heaven as he had wide fields to hunt in. He would regularly bring in live critters to share. Birds flying free in the living room were a spectacle to be sure. I had perfected a technique for getting them out alive by opening the top half of all the window sashes and use a broom to shoo the bird in that direction. This rarely failed.

When I tried to return back to urban life, he didn’t survive the outdoors. I found him dead one day. It was reckless to have brought him from country freedom to city tangles. This cat did come to me in dreams on a regular basis. I became so distressed at his shadow that I performed a forgiveness ritual. I apologized for changing his life and neglecting his well-being. I had thought only of my needs and not what was best for him. The dreams continued to the point I put out a bowl of water and cheese on my balcony in an attempt to feed its spirit and somehow appease the message of taking care of this cat. When I think about the drama occurring in the dream state it is a message from within. However, in all the curiosity over these dreams, I never took them literally. I assumed spirit was sending me a message about a mess inside my psyche. Perhaps Mighty Hunter was telling me I should care for cats that are in need. I take things often as having a cerebral meaning for me not that they might be something to put into action.

For several years, I was also haunted by dreams of starving horses in a filthy stable. When I was in my early twenties, I took a job as barn worker in New Jersey. I lived in Stockton on the Delaware River. There were about 500 acres of wide-open fields, a small area of forest and rolling hills in every direction. On my own, I managed a small barn of about five horses for a wealthy older woman called Miss Jane. In all I was there for four years. During this time, I had arrived with three cats and lost one of them to the wilds of night. In my dreams, I am back in that stable and it is beyond filthy with muck and manure. I always ended up with a monumental task in front of me.

I also had dreams of horses under the house where I grew up penned in the stables dying from lack of feed and neglect. The horses are kept inside out of daylight and confined. My task is to remember I have left them there and must rescue them. I begin the action and the dream fades out. From time to time, I also found myself back to riding horses. Sometimes the ride was bumpy but once or twice, it was the ride of my life, smooth, horse and I moving fluidly through a graceful canter. The dreams eventually faded out. In this writing, I forgot how much I was involved in living a quiet life with animals.

Sometimes in life, a dream can become a reality. The urge to establish a homeless shelter for horses that are in jeopardy has been strong. If there is such a thing as the Spirit of All Things, it has been roaring in my ears lately. So pushed have I been by this thought, I started to say it aloud to people. A link was sent to me about a volunteer opportunity at a local shelter for horses. The closest I have been to horses in the last twenty years has been my country lane walk past two ponies in the farmer’s field. One of them was near to the road and I couldn’t help but notice how he smelled. Deep down inside, I craved it. I managed to fit in at the rescue barn one afternoon each week committing myself to the late day chores feeding, grooming and fussing over horses that need care. The dormant skills I had working with horses surfaced quickly. I know how to move, bend and push in a barn. It’s a matter of fitting into an established group of caring people, that don’t like outsiders. This dream became a reality for a while.

I adopted Myrrh from the local cat shelter in April. There was some difficulty in connecting with the manager, Carol, at first. Ring no answer, no reply to my message. Something odd was happening and I prefer smooth moves. As it happened, Carol called the next afternoon and arranged for me to stop by. Well, an hour later Myrrh was in a cat crate on the front seat of my car. Carol was somewhat persuasive and accepted any amount as a donation. She thought nobody would want a ten-year-old cat. Myrrh had been a resident of the shelter since October when her owner died. Myrrh had been adopted out of this same shelter as a kitten to a woman named Wanda Hill.

When we got home, Myrrh wandered about the apartment. I remember thinking this was a strange thing to have done; what had I done? We were both rather tense and looking at each other in a wary way. She spent the first night sleeping and wandering in the front room. I believe she tried very hard to fit in behind the bookstand. I keep it catty corner and it has a dusty, spider webby spot for hiding. At around four in the morning, she started meowing loudly. I got up and gave her some cat food.

The first two weeks were sketchy. I do recall eating dinner that first evening as she sat near my feet mooching for a morsel. Whatever it was, I didn’t think it for a cat’s palate and she received nothing. Only dry cat food and water for a first meal. We stumbled around for a few weeks until things smoothed out. I experimented with different foods trying to find a good balance. I was concerned from the start about the ingredients in her meals. I thought commercial cat food was mostly factory processing waste, I mean what else could meat by products be. So, I explored cat message forums, read labels and generally sorted out what was healthful and what was not.

Myrrh was adopted with some vague thought that I wanted to share my life with someone but not a human. I have a few friends, I work every day and manage to socialize in my own way. However, above all else I seem to love my solitude. My life revolves around time spent in the safety of my home. Tending, caring and fussing over my foods, possessions and tendencies. My compulsion for Feng Shui is allowed to flourish. In the warm months, I plant a container garden making sure I have nasturtiums for salads and hummingbirds. In the cold months, I hang a bird feeder and think often about the life of these birds. I find them shockingly brave and capable beyond anything I can understand. I recall one experience of a chickadee hanging with one claw onto the suet cage. I thought that was awkward. The next day, I saw a chickadee sitting on the balcony railing tilted sideways. The next day, the same bird came again, this time I could see one of his claws hanging almost swinging away useless. I was shocked and disturbed for it. He must have broken his leg. Gosh, the poor thing, in the middle of winter coping with just the one claw. He did seem to manage and I was glad I had the feeder up and he could land eating safely. The competition at feeders tends to be bossy with birds literally knocking each other over for the seeds. Over time, I thought I saw the leg becoming useful again. I was cheered inside that I helped in my own small way one little creature survive. Birds are remarkably adept. Consider how strong the elements are and all the dangers. Yet, they go on; they do their best despite the odds, little fluffs that weigh less than clouds.

Myrrh has a spirit about her. How quietly she sits with her ears pointed up. The image is of settlement, beauty and place. She has become content in the home I can offer her. I have brought her comfort. This is a powerful thing. In my pursuit of happiness, it has involved bringing a feline home as a companion. All is well when a cat comes home.