Quote of the day:

"They're not my loons." - a lobsterman re the loon restoration project - runner up for quote of the day yesterday

Journal of a Sabbatical

November 2, 1998

feeding the cat at the end of the 20th century

the book pile

Copyright © 1998, Janet I. Egan

An oak leaf blows in when I open the car door. I stare at the flock of pigeons hunkered down on the roof of the Methodist church for something like three minutes, feeling the cold wind on my skin. I walk stiffly to the ATM trying to shrink into my sweatshirt to stay warm. My wallet's replenished and the pigeons haven't budged from the church roof.

At home, Wilbur is begging for food. He begs even when his dish is full so I don't feel too badly that it's empty. I put what's left of the Feline Maintenance Light in his dish and go back out again on a mission to Petsmart for more.

Unlike Saturday when I spent 35 minutes in traffic and was late for meeting my walking buddies without ever getting to Petsmart, today I get there and back in less than 20 minutes. Wilbur hasn't finished what I gave him 20 minutes ago but he meows piteously for more anyway. I oblige. He stares at it and walks away.

I go out again to do errands and get some coffee. I park my car behind the old Andover town hall. On my way to the coffee shop I see Tom in his car getting ready to leave. I stop to say hi and tell him about my visit to Ned's books. As soon as Tom mentions Ned's name, Ned appears on Park Street with a Starbucks cup in his hand. Oddly, this is not the first time this has happened. Frequently, Tom says "Ned..." and Ned appears. We used to think he was audioanimatronic, now we're beginning to consider the supernatural :-)

The three of us chat for awhile in the cold. Well, it's not that it's really that cold, just really really windy. By the time we go our separate ways, I am chilled to the bone.

At Starbucks, I clutch my coffee as a source of warmth. Right Wing Anne is telling me a story about some old chum of hers who has changed her name to some newage sounding thing and shacked up with a woman after being married and apparently straight until her 40's. Since I'm the only lesbian she's known (until now), Right Wing Anne asks my opinion on whether this is unusual. I tell her, well maybe the name changing part is but the midlife coming out is a known phenomenon. Right Wing Anne is always asking my opinion on all things gay - like I am an expert because I'm the only one she knows - or at least the only one she knows that she knows...

Back home I read a couple more chapters of Song for the Blue Ocean and get more depressed about the salmon fisheries and deforestation (they're related) and switch to reading in The Birder's Bug Book about how birds use ants to repel feather mites. They take an ant (or bunch of ants) in their beak and rub the ant all over themselves. The formic acid kills mites. Gee, if I'd known that when I had the starling nest in my air conditioner, I wouldn't have had so much trouble finding a miticide.

Wilbur is charging around the house making a point of meowing in every room when he is not clawing at the front door. He's been weird (well, more weird) ever since he escaped on Friday night. He finally got into the Beans of Egypt Maine's unit like he has wanted ever since they moved in there. It was only a matter of time. I opened my front door at the same time as the Mom Bean opened theirs. Wilbur dashed between my legs and through their door before I knew what happened. He ran into their kitchen and started chasing their cat. I ran into their unit after him. I went to grab him under and end table and missed, knocking over an ash tray in the process - a full ash tray - at least now I know they use ash trays inside the house - I guess it's only outside where they've never heard of ash trays. So while I'm knocking over ash trays, he's terrorizing their cat. I should point out that Wilbur is kind of territorial and he has a really big territory. He considers it his duty to keep other cats in another county from him. Finally, one of the Beans catches him and hands him to me. Back in my unit, he sniffs and scratches at the door incessantly. So now here it is three days later and he still wants to go next door and won't take no for an answer. As Tom said "How can you keep him down on the farm, now that he's seen Paris?"

I take myself out to either a late lunch or an early dinner at Bertucci's and read more about the poor salmon so I can get more depressed about the state of the planet. When I get home, Wilbur begs for more food although there's still plenty in his dish. On seeing that I won't give him any, he goes to the front door and meows to be let into the hallway. I can see this is going to become a theme.