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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4327 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Blind Cat Song Charles Levenstein Sophie dances on the bed, follows me from edge to edge as I change clothes, purrs loudly that I pet her, ruffle her tortoise-shell coat. Black and white Fannie sits in the doorway with certain patience, an exercise in tolerance. When we discovered that Sophie was blind, the cat opthamologist warned against imagination. Cats do not experience blindness, she said, as intellectuals might, neither miss the library nor cinema. Perhaps they meditate, certainly does not require sight. No need for sympathy, no tears, Sophie will be fine if we make a few adjustments: don’t carry her across the room and set her down in the middle of a rug. Don’t move the chairs except on rainy days when you are bored. Don’t walk swiftly behind her because she will bump into the sofa trying to escape. She will be just fine. Sophie dances on the bed, follows me as I change clothes, purrs so loudly that I must pet her, insists on her caress. Fannie sits in the doorway with certain patience, an exercise in tolerance. We did not expect the change in Fannie, doting proxy mother who taught Sophie the ways of apartment cats, indulged her, tolerated ambushes from secret hideaways beneath beds, behind doors, from high above when the unsuspecting passed a couch or coffee table. Sophie, the alpha cat, ruled until she started to run into doors. Sophie dances on the bed, follows me, purrs loudly, insists; Fannie sits with patience, an exercise in tolerance. Her condition is genetic and inoperable.. No possible transplant from the feline crushed in your driveway by the neighbor’s SUV, so don’t call. Sophie will spend her days dozing on a king-sized bed or wandering from room to room close to the wall. Sophie dances on the bed, Fannie sits with patience. Good days she and Fannie will chase through the apartment, roll on the oriental carpet. On bad days, Fannie wants to play and signals with a crouch or turn of head, Sophie misses the cues. Fannie smacks her, slinks away. Or they clash over food and water, Sophie bumping to get more than her share like an English orphan. Fannie growls. Sophie dances on the bed, follows me from edge to edge as I change clothes, purrs so loudly that I must pet her, ruffle her tortoise-shell coat; insists on her caress. Black and white Fannie sits in the doorway with certain patience, an exercise in tolerance. |
