Sunday, June 22, 2014

A Quiet Kind Of Joy


Maurice has turned into quite the hunter. Not of birds so far, thank goodness, but of lizards and bugs. She brought me a little anole yesterday, left it all squished and bitten in the little bathroom off the kitchen. Last night she meowed at the bedroom door and I opened it for her but she would not come in. Instead she continued to meow and then walked a few feet to point out the beetle bug she'd crippled. It was laying on its back and doing the death dance.
I scooped her up and we carried the bug to the trash and I put it in.
"What a good kitty," I told her. "Thank-you."
And then we went to bed and slept, both of us having had productive days in our separate ways.
This morning she hunted another one of the same species. She toyed and played with it in the cruel manner that cats do and in a game of catch, release, toss, catch, release, she took it outside where she finished it off.
Oh, we have become fools for this cat. Mr. Moon refers to himself as "daddy" to her. And of course, I am "mama."
I cringe to tell you that. But it is true. We burst our buttons with pride at what a fine cat she is, so very dignified (she refuses to play with feathers or balls) as well as being modest and ladylike in her toilet. And such a hunter!
What is WRONG with us? To have succumbed to such cliches and stereotypes is simply ridiculous. And yet, we so have.

Mr. Moon wanted eggs and biscuits this morning. He brought me some Tupelo honey last week and was craving some on a biscuit. I got out the self-rising flour and the buttermilk, I started a pan of grits and some bacon in the skillet. When I went to crack the eggs, I discovered that Lucille's egg, the one I found yesterday, had two tiny yolks in it. Perfect and merry and gold as sunflowers.


I had already cracked another egg into the bowl and this is how they looked together. They were delicious, as were the biscuits with honey, the bacon, the grits. Sunday breakfast does not always mean pancakes.

I heard a racket from the kitchen porch a few minutes ago and went out to see what was happening. Elvis was doing this:




He had squeezed his body into the rosebush pot and was wallowing and making his call of Come here, hens.
I have absolutely no explanation of what this is about. I have seen him do this before in a pot of ferns on the front porch and the hens did indeed begin to lay eggs there for awhile but does he truly expect them to lay eggs amidst the thorns of the rose?
And I will tell you that the hens were completely ignoring him and so perhaps they are not as addled as he. It would, however, be quite handy to have the eggs delivered right to the kitchen door. Perhaps there is method in his madness. Perhaps he is only thinking of my convenience, being the considerate gentleman I know him to be. On the other hand, he may have just lost his mind.

And so it goes in Lloyd on a Sunday morning. Mr. Moon is mowing and every time he makes a pass near the back porch where I am, Maurice becomes agitated and jumps off the table and runs to another part of the house. Then she comes back to settle down uneasily again, tail twitching, eyes open and tensed for possible attack by mowing machine. She'll figure it out. The Voodoo Lily bloom-to-be has grown another three inches in the night and I am panting with anticipation to see what it is going to become. We may actually go to town today to shop for Mr. Moon a new recliner. His beloved old Lazy Boy has finally reached the point where it will not recline and the guts are broken and can no longer be repaired and as we all know, a man must have a chair to call his own. I would also love to drop off a table at May's which I have promised her. It belonged to Mother, a lovely cherry drop-leaf that my grandfather found in a shed on a piece of property he bought. It had been painted green and he restored it and it is the table I ate off as a child. I want May to have it now.

It is a fine and lovely day and if it rains, perfect. Or at least, as perfect as it gets for me. I am content and I am grateful and my tick bite has quit itching for now and there is nothing in this world I need which I do not have and amazingly, I have things which I did not know I needed but which I so obviously did- chickens, a cat, a man on a mower and a yard for him to mow.
And it is good.

Love...Ms. Moon









13 comments:

  1. I love it! I had bacon and eggs this morning too, and my two cats are PLAYING. This is HUGE...we are finally on the mend from the Great Agitation of 2014 :) YAY!!

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  2. I can hear the mower and smell the biscuits. I think I taste honey on my tongue. Thank you for bringing me your Sunday.

    I just knew you'd fall in love with that cat. : )

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  3. We know I've said it before: I'm so proud of that cat for choosing your door. I have a mental picture of Gibson lugging her draped across his little clasped arms. Well, before the cast.

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  4. The maneuverings of your chickens this morning remind me of the human stuff going on in the Updike novel I'm reading -- I don't know if it's because I'm obsessed and consumed by the soap operatic goings-on in this novel, but nearly everything seems to pertain to it, even your chickens in Lloyd.

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  5. SJ- I am so glad all of the tsuris is gone for now. May these moments of peace persist for at least a little while.

    Denise- I knew I was a goner too, the second she showed up on that porch. But it took awhile to admit it.

    Joanne- Maurice is a bit wary of the children. I see this as a sign of her intelligence.

    Elizabeth- I think I may have already said this but in my observation, chickens are far more like humans in behavior and culture than are cats. Almost everything I see the chickens do I can relate to a human activity or understand motivation. Not so with cats. Isn't that funny?

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  6. I love the impact that Mo has had in your life, catching bugs, giving you cuddles. :)
    I need to go sit in the sun today and read or paint or just sit there with my eyes closed. I'll be thinking of Tupelo honey.

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  7. That cat. It is magical the way it happened.

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  8. heartinhand- That all sounds delightful.

    Jill- I am afraid so.

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  9. I want to live with you Ms. Moon

    xo

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  10. Michelle- You know if you showed up, I would take you to my bosom.

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  11. Isn't it amazing how cats everywhere do basically the same things? Instinct is so incredible. I was watching Olga yesterday doing her I-must-bury-my-poop scratching dance and I thought, "Who taught her that?! How does she KNOW?!"

    Dave wants a La-Z-Boy too, but they don't sell them here in England. At least not that we've ever seen.

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  12. Steve Reed- No La-Z-Boys in England? What do men sit in? Dear god. Maybe you should start a franchise over there. You could make your fortune!

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  13. I am thinking about that old cherry table. How good that it has been restored and will be passed on. I wonder about the people who built the old furniture we have. I wish I knew their names. I do cherish the table my father built. It is one of my favorite pieces here.

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Tell me, sweeties. Tell me what you think.