The Mother in Me

He prowls the night, sometimes waking me up in the wee hours of the morning; he is constantly hungry, every time I step into the kitchen he sits expectantly waiting for a treat; his schizophrenic nature sometimes causes him to dart from room to room chasing imaginary mice; he drools when he purrs; I have yet to teach him a new routine, he is forever stuck in his old ways; yet I haven’t made a better investment with either my money or my time than I did when I got Max the Cat.

They say pets and their owners often take on the same characteristics and you won’t find a better matched pair than me and Max. Aloof? – sometimes. Easy to get along with? – most of the time. Independent? – to a degree. Lonely? – occasionally. We share the dream, the souls of a traveler, a roamer. Staring out the window, wanderlust in the heart, a trapped feeling? – Max’s day often consists of watching the world from a window that is his corner, his view of things. I’m sure he sleeps a lot when I’m not there, but there is no better feeling after a hard day of work than to be greeted at my door with his bellowing meow.

We sometimes get in each other’s way; sometimes I feel I’m too strict with the little guy (No begging for food!) but having burned many a bridge with former roommates, this time I have found a working arrangement.

We don’t get out as much as we’d like to. Declawed, he only can roam when attached to a leash, but even his cat-sized ego isn’t wounded by having his freedom so limited. When we go out he prances along proudly, rolling around on the cement, sampling different varieties of grass none too picky in his palate.

Suave and debonair, he has won the hearts of two female felines over the past two years; Peabody and Abby. His charms are hard to resist.

Max has also developed a fine ear for music. Of course living with me he has to put up with a lot of Dylan, McCartney and Sinatra (he only seems to mind Frank because I tend to sing along with the Chairman-a torture that I hope is never reported to the humane society) but Max’s favorite music seems to be jazz. His tail wags gently to the dulcet tones of Coleman Hawkins and Ben Webster. He seems to favor Coltrane and Mon, but isn’t too sure of, or gets a little too worked up whenever we listen to Cecil Taylor or David Murray.

Classical music doesn’t do much for him, and like me he seems to prefer later Dylan to the "folky" stuff. My friend Alex once reminded me he is "only a cat". But man, he is one cool cat.

Faux Pas? My apartment manager is pregnant and not having noticed her condition until I payed my rent this month I says "Are you with child?" Was this an appropriate remark?

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers out there, perhaps we can all dedicate this one to Melodye’s horse who is expecting soon… A special one indeed.



Bob’s Quote of the Week: "Can you cook and sew, make flowers grow?"