Ace Varkey's Blog: Cat got my tongue, page 8
May 20, 2015
The nine lives of cats
An old English proverb goes, "A cat has nine lives. For three he plays, for three he strays and for three he stays."
Our cat Kitty O is at the straying stage because he is out and about, the bachelor on our street, the cat with more dates than lives to live. When he takes his time returning after a night out, I am always fearful until I see his furry, cute face and hear his "Well, finally you're opening the door for me," meow. That's when I think, "Oh, Thank God he is safe," and I wonder if he escaped some mishap, using up one of those fabled nine lives that cats purportedly have.
How is a cat like a book, you might ask, and I would answer that just like someone, somewhere, selected nine lives for a cat, a book has many lives, depending on the number of revisions an author goes through. I confess that my mystery has had many, many lives. I started it at a time when human trafficking was not written about in newspapers. I remember an agent I contacted writing back to tell me that India wasn't an important enough country to warrant a novel set in it and furthermore, if I persisted in keeping to the location, then, at the very least, the character solving the mystery had to be a western, James Bond individual. Times have changed and now, after many, many, lives, my book is out, and the main character is the very Indian Commissioner Oscar D'Costa.
If I had to write a proverb about a book it would be: A book a day keeps boredom away.
If the proverb had to be about writing a book, then, "For years you write, for more years you rewrite and if you are lucky, for many years you give readers pleasure."
As for Kitty O, no matter whether he plays, strays or stays, he gives pleasure every single day. And that is an amazing gift.
Our cat Kitty O is at the straying stage because he is out and about, the bachelor on our street, the cat with more dates than lives to live. When he takes his time returning after a night out, I am always fearful until I see his furry, cute face and hear his "Well, finally you're opening the door for me," meow. That's when I think, "Oh, Thank God he is safe," and I wonder if he escaped some mishap, using up one of those fabled nine lives that cats purportedly have.
How is a cat like a book, you might ask, and I would answer that just like someone, somewhere, selected nine lives for a cat, a book has many lives, depending on the number of revisions an author goes through. I confess that my mystery has had many, many lives. I started it at a time when human trafficking was not written about in newspapers. I remember an agent I contacted writing back to tell me that India wasn't an important enough country to warrant a novel set in it and furthermore, if I persisted in keeping to the location, then, at the very least, the character solving the mystery had to be a western, James Bond individual. Times have changed and now, after many, many, lives, my book is out, and the main character is the very Indian Commissioner Oscar D'Costa.
If I had to write a proverb about a book it would be: A book a day keeps boredom away.
If the proverb had to be about writing a book, then, "For years you write, for more years you rewrite and if you are lucky, for many years you give readers pleasure."
As for Kitty O, no matter whether he plays, strays or stays, he gives pleasure every single day. And that is an amazing gift.
May 13, 2015
What's in a name?
We got our cat from the Animal Shelter on a hot August day. He came right up to the bar, looked us in the eyes and purred. I think that's one of the last times he ever purred. My take is: "I got what I wanted, a family, so why bother expending energy into purring?"
He was about 6 months old and it quickly became clear that he saw me has his slave; I was the one who let him in and out, who fed him.....you get the idea. I was bemoaning that fact one day when my son said, "Don't feel bad. Kitty is a teenager in human years. It's natural that he does not like you. Wait till he's older."
Well, the wait is over and the jury is in. He's older and I'm still his willing slave. The problem is that despite how he turns away his nose from me, I think of him as my child. Which begets another problem. What should I call him? The oldest, because that is what he is in human years? The youngest, because that is what he is in cat years?
I understand that in the scheme of the world, this sort of whimsy doesn't really signify, but it does matter to me because words, names, matter. After all, I spend my days weaving words together and we all know that titles are a big deal because, like Kitty's first purr, titles can pull people in. I'm still surprised I came up with "The Girl Who Went Missing." It's a far cry from the original, rather bland "Mumbai Girls."
So back to the "What's in a name" dilemma. Kitty is the same whether I dub him my oldest or youngest child. And yet I know that isn't quite true because though the inside of my novel is the same, no matter the title, it is the title that first catches the eye.
As for Kitty,I'm his slave, never mind that he just calls me "Meow." I confess that sometimes I think of it as the "Now of Meow."
He was about 6 months old and it quickly became clear that he saw me has his slave; I was the one who let him in and out, who fed him.....you get the idea. I was bemoaning that fact one day when my son said, "Don't feel bad. Kitty is a teenager in human years. It's natural that he does not like you. Wait till he's older."
Well, the wait is over and the jury is in. He's older and I'm still his willing slave. The problem is that despite how he turns away his nose from me, I think of him as my child. Which begets another problem. What should I call him? The oldest, because that is what he is in human years? The youngest, because that is what he is in cat years?
I understand that in the scheme of the world, this sort of whimsy doesn't really signify, but it does matter to me because words, names, matter. After all, I spend my days weaving words together and we all know that titles are a big deal because, like Kitty's first purr, titles can pull people in. I'm still surprised I came up with "The Girl Who Went Missing." It's a far cry from the original, rather bland "Mumbai Girls."
So back to the "What's in a name" dilemma. Kitty is the same whether I dub him my oldest or youngest child. And yet I know that isn't quite true because though the inside of my novel is the same, no matter the title, it is the title that first catches the eye.
As for Kitty,I'm his slave, never mind that he just calls me "Meow." I confess that sometimes I think of it as the "Now of Meow."
May 6, 2015
My Thoreau-lly natural cat
My cat has no wish to experiment by living in Walden Pond because he has the outdoors any time he meows to be let out. He bakes in the sun during the winter and in the summer months hides behind the lavender bush to keep his furs from getting singed.
Through it all, he has to endure the mockery of the squirrels who hurl insults at him from their high spot in the trees. Even the birds join in, laughing from the telephone wires as he sits, far below, unable to do anything but -- listen.
You know the old saying: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Well, I'm not so sure about that.
I marvel, truly, at his ability to just take it, his twitching tail the only sign of discomfort.
Would I were more like my cat! I am sensitive to words partly because I am a writer. I have had to listen to people say, aghast, "You mean to make your living writing novels?" "You studied English Literature with that idea in mind?"
Am I crazy? Is my cat crazy not to lie in wait and pounce on a bird too keen on pecking for a worm to be aware of him?
I think neither of us are nuts, at least not right now. He lets live and I live my life, my way.
I confess that I am trying harder to be like him now that my first mystery has come out (which makes it sound like an 18 year old girl making her debut in society). No matter the reviews, good or bad, the book is done, I can't rewrite it, but I can write another one. Which I am doing. Slowly, carefully, sitting indoors when it is cold and taking my computer to the garden on a balmy day. Where the cat strolls by, ignoring the cat-calling that is all around him.
Through it all, he has to endure the mockery of the squirrels who hurl insults at him from their high spot in the trees. Even the birds join in, laughing from the telephone wires as he sits, far below, unable to do anything but -- listen.
You know the old saying: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Well, I'm not so sure about that.
I marvel, truly, at his ability to just take it, his twitching tail the only sign of discomfort.
Would I were more like my cat! I am sensitive to words partly because I am a writer. I have had to listen to people say, aghast, "You mean to make your living writing novels?" "You studied English Literature with that idea in mind?"
Am I crazy? Is my cat crazy not to lie in wait and pounce on a bird too keen on pecking for a worm to be aware of him?
I think neither of us are nuts, at least not right now. He lets live and I live my life, my way.
I confess that I am trying harder to be like him now that my first mystery has come out (which makes it sound like an 18 year old girl making her debut in society). No matter the reviews, good or bad, the book is done, I can't rewrite it, but I can write another one. Which I am doing. Slowly, carefully, sitting indoors when it is cold and taking my computer to the garden on a balmy day. Where the cat strolls by, ignoring the cat-calling that is all around him.
April 29, 2015
Vivaldi and my cat
When someone told my son that his violin strings were comprised of cat gut, he was horrified because he adores his 'little brother.' Our cat, of course, was more upset. A little research proved that cat gut was never used for instruments; it was cattle gut, shortened to 'catgut.'
Which got me thinking about all the misinformation out there. Cats are solitary creatures; nope, our cat is family oriented. He actually complains when we return home after a trip. The length of his meowing (which I interpret as 'How could you do this to me?') corresponds to the length of our time away from him.
Cats love cream; nope again. My son marvels that the cat eats the same hard, dry food, day in and day out. I always say he is the easiest member of the family to feed.
Our cat loves music and always listens in when my son is practicing. When he was a kitten, he used to curl into the empty violin case. Now that he is of a certain girth (he would never make it in Hollywood), he just hangs out. I'm sure he stiffens at the wrong notes and purrs at the right ones, but he never shows it; he just sits, watching, listening.
He stays the entire time, fifteen minutes, one hour, two hours, it doesn't matter. His still presence is an amazing thing to behold. I marvel at that same still patience when he sits outside the back door, waiting for someone to open it. I know he believes himself the king of this household, but of course a king's entourage would ensure that said king never waited for anything. Yes, we are devoted to our cat, but he has to wait, who knows for how long, until someone sees that he wants in.
I try hard to be patient like him. Patient with my children, patient with red lights when I am in a rush, patient when my words don't flow and my fingers freeze above the keyboard.
Perhaps the term "writer's block" is wrong, misinformation, as it were; perhaps all one needs is patience. With a purr.
Which got me thinking about all the misinformation out there. Cats are solitary creatures; nope, our cat is family oriented. He actually complains when we return home after a trip. The length of his meowing (which I interpret as 'How could you do this to me?') corresponds to the length of our time away from him.
Cats love cream; nope again. My son marvels that the cat eats the same hard, dry food, day in and day out. I always say he is the easiest member of the family to feed.
Our cat loves music and always listens in when my son is practicing. When he was a kitten, he used to curl into the empty violin case. Now that he is of a certain girth (he would never make it in Hollywood), he just hangs out. I'm sure he stiffens at the wrong notes and purrs at the right ones, but he never shows it; he just sits, watching, listening.
He stays the entire time, fifteen minutes, one hour, two hours, it doesn't matter. His still presence is an amazing thing to behold. I marvel at that same still patience when he sits outside the back door, waiting for someone to open it. I know he believes himself the king of this household, but of course a king's entourage would ensure that said king never waited for anything. Yes, we are devoted to our cat, but he has to wait, who knows for how long, until someone sees that he wants in.
I try hard to be patient like him. Patient with my children, patient with red lights when I am in a rush, patient when my words don't flow and my fingers freeze above the keyboard.
Perhaps the term "writer's block" is wrong, misinformation, as it were; perhaps all one needs is patience. With a purr.
April 24, 2015
I'm ready with my pose, Mr. Degas
I love watching my cat get ready for a date. At least I like to think he has a date; why else would he go out late in the evening? I often tease my friends that my cat has more dates than all of us combined.
He sits on the carpet and extends a back leg, looking very much like a ballet dancer. I'm sure if Degas were around he would grab his paintbrush and canvas and get to work. Degas famously went backstage at ballet performances and we all know the marvelous paintings that came out of his roving eye.
Kitty holds his pose until every last fur is cleaned and groomed, spit polished, one might say. Then he does the second leg, then he arches and makes sure his back is just-so.
The care he expends is a marvel to behold. I'm sure Degas was also enchanted with the precision of the ballet dancers, the way they extended their arms just-so, the way they flexed their legs.
I am continuously learning from all around me, especially my cat. My palette contains neither fur nor paint, but words. Which means I need to find the right word, the perfect flow for a sentence, the important scene that makes the novel come together just-so.
He sits on the carpet and extends a back leg, looking very much like a ballet dancer. I'm sure if Degas were around he would grab his paintbrush and canvas and get to work. Degas famously went backstage at ballet performances and we all know the marvelous paintings that came out of his roving eye.
Kitty holds his pose until every last fur is cleaned and groomed, spit polished, one might say. Then he does the second leg, then he arches and makes sure his back is just-so.
The care he expends is a marvel to behold. I'm sure Degas was also enchanted with the precision of the ballet dancers, the way they extended their arms just-so, the way they flexed their legs.
I am continuously learning from all around me, especially my cat. My palette contains neither fur nor paint, but words. Which means I need to find the right word, the perfect flow for a sentence, the important scene that makes the novel come together just-so.
April 19, 2015
Lewis Carroll, the cheshire cat et moi
I was once asked what fictional character I would be and I answered: the Cheshire Cat. My only gripe is that the Mad Hatter has the best quotation in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, "say what you mean." My cat always says what he means and he's very efficient with language, using the simple 'meow' in different pitches and varying lengths to get his command across. He never wastes a phoneme, which means I, as a writer, have much to learn from him.
I celebrate my cat and sing to him so this blog being titled after Mr. Carroll, I thought I'd steal one of his ideas, ie, use his verse to create my own. 'The Lobster Quadrille' is a riff on 'The Spider and the Fly' and here's my version of it, starring none other than my cat.
May I dream a little longer said a kitten to a cat,
There's this dream that I am dreaming and it's all about a rat.
I have caught him by his tail and he just let out a scream,
I am reaching for his head, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you leave me to my dream?
I'm sure you've had the feeling of how wonderful it feels,
To know that in a moment you'll be eating a good meal.
I'll cook him in the oven and then serve him up with cream,
He'll be ever so delicious, would you leave me to my dream?
Would you, could you,would you, could you, would you leave me to my dream?
Would you, could you,would you, could you, could you leave me to my dream?
My meal was simply splendid, now I'm happy as can be,
I'm quite prepared to waken, but is that a rat I see?
I surely must be dreaming, for they're coming by in teams,
I must hasten off to catch them, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you leave me to my dream?
My cat sleeps a lot, and I believe he dreams because he meows and moves around. I don't think he ever dreams about a rat, however. He once caught a field mouse and I have never seen a creature more frightened than that tiny thing. I rescued it, of course, and realized why it was that Beatrix Potter was so intrigued by them. The poor dear's heart was beating like a taiko drummer and his eyes were enormous, but he was oh so cute!
My cat looked for the mouse for a while, then, being graceful in defeat (and deceit,for I had to lure him away), gave up.
He must have exercised great patience to catch the mouse and then he showed another side of himself when he turned his attention elsewhere after searching for his 'toy.'
I have much to learn from my cat. About not using more phonemes than needed, about patience when the words don't flow, about giving up gracefully.
I celebrate my cat and sing to him so this blog being titled after Mr. Carroll, I thought I'd steal one of his ideas, ie, use his verse to create my own. 'The Lobster Quadrille' is a riff on 'The Spider and the Fly' and here's my version of it, starring none other than my cat.
May I dream a little longer said a kitten to a cat,
There's this dream that I am dreaming and it's all about a rat.
I have caught him by his tail and he just let out a scream,
I am reaching for his head, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you leave me to my dream?
I'm sure you've had the feeling of how wonderful it feels,
To know that in a moment you'll be eating a good meal.
I'll cook him in the oven and then serve him up with cream,
He'll be ever so delicious, would you leave me to my dream?
Would you, could you,would you, could you, would you leave me to my dream?
Would you, could you,would you, could you, could you leave me to my dream?
My meal was simply splendid, now I'm happy as can be,
I'm quite prepared to waken, but is that a rat I see?
I surely must be dreaming, for they're coming by in teams,
I must hasten off to catch them, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you leave me to my dream?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you leave me to my dream?
My cat sleeps a lot, and I believe he dreams because he meows and moves around. I don't think he ever dreams about a rat, however. He once caught a field mouse and I have never seen a creature more frightened than that tiny thing. I rescued it, of course, and realized why it was that Beatrix Potter was so intrigued by them. The poor dear's heart was beating like a taiko drummer and his eyes were enormous, but he was oh so cute!
My cat looked for the mouse for a while, then, being graceful in defeat (and deceit,for I had to lure him away), gave up.
He must have exercised great patience to catch the mouse and then he showed another side of himself when he turned his attention elsewhere after searching for his 'toy.'
I have much to learn from my cat. About not using more phonemes than needed, about patience when the words don't flow, about giving up gracefully.
April 18, 2015
My cat and Shakespeare
Most people know that cats are supposed to have nine lives. My cat has nine names...at least. He now fancies himself a lover of all things Will and likes to be called Tybalt, King of Cats.
I'm not sure about reincarnation, but if I were, I would swear that my cat had been a king in his past life. Why? Because on a hot day he loves to be cooled down with a wet towel. I thought most cats aren't crazy about water, but mine purrs and purrs when I rub him down.
His latest request, well, command, really, is that someone pet him while he eats. Again, I thought cats don't like to be disturbed when they are eating. He actually meows until someone comes over and strokes him.
What does all this mean? I think it means that things change all the time and that which we thought we once knew, we might need to learn again.
So be careful of making a faux pas, or, as my Tybalt would say, four paws.
I'm not sure about reincarnation, but if I were, I would swear that my cat had been a king in his past life. Why? Because on a hot day he loves to be cooled down with a wet towel. I thought most cats aren't crazy about water, but mine purrs and purrs when I rub him down.
His latest request, well, command, really, is that someone pet him while he eats. Again, I thought cats don't like to be disturbed when they are eating. He actually meows until someone comes over and strokes him.
What does all this mean? I think it means that things change all the time and that which we thought we once knew, we might need to learn again.
So be careful of making a faux pas, or, as my Tybalt would say, four paws.
April 15, 2015
Chatting about le chat
Those of you who love cats know that life is not complete without a purr. I look for mine first thing in the morning and last thing at night. The trouble is, Kitty O (just one of his names)has been bitten by the Spring bug, never mind that the Vet got to him before we could bring him home from the Animal Shelter. But the poor chap doesn't know he can't sow a thing. He also doesn't think he needs to restrict himself to his kind and has, what I like to call, an im-possum-able relationship with a rather large and ugly possum.
In other words, he can teach us all a thing or two. Who cares about looks and genus and species? Why not just love?
In other words, he can teach us all a thing or two. Who cares about looks and genus and species? Why not just love?
