Well, dear readers it has been a couple of years since I wrote about, The Thanksgiving Cat, also known as Ram, our mischievous male black cat.
A friend in western North Carolina found Ram playing in the median of an interstate highway. She already had so many animals on her farm that she asked if Joyce and I would give the six-week old kitten a home, and we agreed.
I picked up Ram at Portland (Oregon) International Airport and brought him to our suburban home in Beaverton. When I reached inside his travel container to take him out, he immediately started purring.
This quick and wondrous purring is the story of how he came by his name.
The name is taken from the Ramayana, the great Indian epic about the life and times of the enlightened king, Ram, and his consort, Sita. Thus, Ram is one of the names of the gods in Hindi; Gandhi exclaimed it as he died.
To me, the purr of a happy cat reminds me of this name of god; thus, this is the derivation of his name. However much Rambo may be more suitable as a name for this rambunctious, mischievous cat, I still think of him as the "Thanksgiving Cat."
He gets that moniker because Joyce and I consider his presence a blessing. . .albeit often hidden and sometimes infuriating! I mean, why do modern day humans keep cats at all? There are no granaries to guard from marauding mice which was one of the principle reasons for domesticating Felis domesticus in the first place.
Many would argue that humankind's friendly relationship with such an independent animal is probably based on masochism. Why else would humans put up with a so-called "pet," who only deigns to answer to his name when in need of food or due to some mysterious, arcane feline agenda?
The ancient Egyptians even worshiped cats, especially admiring their strength, grace and unfathomable poise. (Except around water, I suppose.)
Unfortunately, when I look around our house, I see much evidence for the masochistic theory. Our speaker covers are still in shreds from his kitten hood (and teenager hood) as is the back of the couch. He would continue to shred the furniture were it not for his fear of the spray bottle (considered a humane way of disciplining the little fur balls).
Furthermore, I may grow old and die before he comes in when called after letting him out into the backyard. Usually I have to go outside and chase down the little villain. I must admit though that he does not complain too much when I pick him up.
Most appalling, I suspect that he is trying to murder me when he insists upon entwining himself around my feet when I am puttering around the kitchen.
Why do we put up with punishment like this? I'm not so starved for affection that I must stroke his silky, black fur and listen to his "basso profundo" of a purr.
The other day though, I believe that I figured out this whole cat and human thing.
This illumination occurred while I was making one of my infrequent loaves of homemade bread. Just as I was adding yeast to a batch of flour and water, it occurred to me what the importance of the common house cat is to human beings or at least to Joyce and myself.
"The Leavening! He's the leavening," I shouted as the cat snaked around my feet for the millionth time, distracting me so much that in avoiding his sacred tail, the whole bowlful of batter wound up on the floor.
I almost ran out the door shrieking "leavening" in a pale imitation of the ancient Greek mathematician, Archimedes, who according to legend jumped up from his bath after figuring out how to determine the purity of gold and ran through the streets of Syracuse, exclaiming "Eureka!"
Well, I am sure that my discovery is not as important to the history of the race as discovering how to measure the volume of an irregular solid through hydrostatic displacement. Still, it explains much.
In addition to being an agent like yeast that causes bread to rise, leavening is also according to Dictionary.com, "an element, influence, or agent that works subtly to lighten, enliven, or modify a whole."
Ram(bo) helps me to take this world more lightly, not to be so attached to things or concepts. Though he can be infuriating, I find myself smiling or even laughing sometimes when I look at him or watch his antics.
He's so stubborn and independent, it is quite funny. I have come to admire the way he sits on his haunches and stares at me while I call his name. . .perhaps the occasional yell as well, I must confess.
Ram knows he should not get up on the kitchen counters or the stove though he persists in this behavior no matter how much I squirt him with the water bottle. Since he knows all the best places to hide and is about a thousand times quicker than I
I am, he usually evades discipline. He is especially adept at hiding under the bed where squirt guns are most ineffective.
Even when I corner him, he knows how to handle me; he just surrenders, laying on his back and stretching out into a little black crescent. He knows I love him too much to hurt him. I have to squirt him sometimes because it is dangerous for him to get up on the counters much less the stove. After a while though, I usually just wind up rubbing his belly while he purrs away.
Thus, Ram magically turns my anger into love. Even his neurotic compulsion to stick his head in the freezer section of our refrigerator and leave me tapping my toes while he noses around is so amusing. He helps me to stop and appreciate the value of a free spirit and seemingly boundless curiosity.
I may be in middle age but I still worship at altar of the god of play. Ram must be that god's right-hand creature. At any moment he waits in readiness for the games to begin. I have to chuckle as he chases his ball across the floor or tests his reflexes with the shredded remains of the shiny belt that goes with Joyce's pure silk housecoat. Mere baubles and folderol. . .
How I admire his athleticism. When he makes one of his patented broad jumps from the arm of my easy chair to the back of the sofa (at least five feet), I smile with pride just like a father watching a child.
So what if we have lost a couple of stereo covers, sit on a tattered couch and will have to replace the drapes where he climbs soon. Heh, heh. . .hey look, Ma! No attachment to material things here!
Sigh! At least, since he's grown up, he has at least stopped dancing on the word processor's keys, but then I may have written more succinctly when I had to guard those keys and perhaps edit more often thanks to his additional keystrokes.
So, thanks Ram(bo) for making me smile and laugh and increase my enjoyment of simple things. Thanks also for the ongoing anger management seminar.
You raise up my life whenever it starts to become dull or complacent. You are our wondrous creature who has come under our stewardship. You are so intelligent; you are so curious. Your sleep is inspiring. Your tail is is not only sacred, but also draws us mere humans within the boundaries of your esoteric feline universe as you curl it around yourself.
In the unknown corners
of the unleavened worlds
the sacred cat
draws us into infinite
power and love
with curious
grace and silence
risen
Yes, Ram, In the Divine Comedy that is sometimes life, you are the leavening!
Article and poem copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
No comments:
Post a Comment