History Repeats Itself

Oh, prithee find

                               A joyous bauble

                     To mend the cleavage

                                          Of a buzzard's eye.

                 --Cordelia Hawkes, 1778

The housekeeper has a bad habit of going to every garage sale that comes down the pike. It's not the sales themselves, of course, it's all of the must-haves that she grabs.

Just this morning, Father Will was trying to get his coat out of the hall closet only to be accosted by an avalanche of junk. If it's something we must have, then why don't we "must use?" Not "must stash" or "must hide," never to be seen again until its presence is triggered by some apocalyptic movement like the opening of a door.

My suggestion would be for the parish to hold its own garage sale. First, it would keep the housekeeper in the bunkhouse. Secondly, it would be better for the rest of us. It's no fun to witness the settling in of more stuff after a certain someone went all around, nosing out tchochkes over a weekend and arriving at the rectory Monday morning all laden down.

It would be a God-send to have it here. Not only would Mary Lou's assortment be front and center, but other people with packrat inclinations could release their belongings into the wild. Of course, there's always the danger of buying each other's junk and leaving with as much stuff as contributed. I'll have to find a way to suggest that all junk be kept out.

Jack paid me a compliment yesterday. He and some of the church men were playing poker in the conference room. He called me his "ace."

What a card.

                                                           --Tom

                                          Church Cat at Temptation Parish

Through A Lens Darkly

My mea culpa this week has to do with my posterior. I sat on Will's glasses. It was purely by accident and he said, "Now, that's a little unappetizing." I got up, all apologetically and gave him my most innocent look...

Speaking of hindquarters, did you know that Abraham Lincoln had something to say about them? It was regarding one of his generals. Jack was once a high school history teacher and he's always coming up with stories. Anyway, during one of our famous fireside conversations in the rectory den, he shared this: During the War Between the States, generals always had their headquarters out in the field under a tent. Jack said when Lincoln was told that a particular general believed that his headquarters was in the saddle, Lincoln replied, "So, his headquarters are where his hindquarters should be." He had a great sense of humor, he did.

A Vinny update: Remember last time when I told you about the Evans' cat going over to Vinny's? Well, that one-eared hellpuss went over there alright. I heard they had a Mexican standoff and Vinny turned and ran. I guess he wasn't taking any chances.

Today is the first day of spring. Happy spring, everybody!

                                                                                                                     --Tom

Winged Revenge

Vinny Blackwhisker and our church cat have been at odds for a long time. According to Tom, he's ugly and has a reputation to match.

Hello, Friends--

My Lenten Mea Culpa of the Week: I plotted against someone possibly causing them harm. How could I do such a thing? With a little help from my friends...

You see, cats like all winged creatures. Not only am I crazy about birds, but I also like nuns whose habits flutter like wings, angels, and gargoyles that look like they're about to spit fire and fly at the same time. My favorite angels are cherubs. You know, the chubby ones with little wings and no clothes. But, they make trouble. I've seen them. They also talk to me. Recently, one stopped by the windowsill.

"What's a nice cat like you doing in a place like this?" he asked.

It's frightening because these little guys have older voices, articulate and un-baby-like.

"Not a whole lot," I replied. "Been busy lately?"

"Oh, yeah." He couldn't wait to tell me. His little body quivering with excitement as he folded his wings and got comfortable.

"I've been up the street at a parishioner's house."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. You know the one next door to the rest home where the old men sit on the porch in the summertime and swat flies," he added.

"I know the one," I said.

"Well, I did a naughty thing."

"No!" I tried to express the appropriate shock. "What did you do?"

"I let their cat out."

"I didn't know they had a cat."

"The Evanses have had cats forever," he explained.

I had forgotten that this little fellow was around long before Temptation Parish was even a twinkle in the eye of the Diocese. I was anxious to hear more.

"So, you let the cat out. So what?"

"He fights."

"He does?"

"Yeah. He's a mean--you know, has one ear chewed down, looks like fur on toxic Brylcreem." 

"Wow." This was making me a little concerned. "In that case, he could really hurt somebody and it would be all your fault, you know."

The angel looked contrite. But only for a moment. He then looked at me, another mischievous grin on his face, an up-to-no-good sort of grin and said, "He's headed over to Vinny's."

"Really."

"Really," the angel repeated.

I paused. I could feel a smile spreading over my whiskers, making them twitch. "Can I get you some tea?"

"Why, yes," the cherub replied. "That would be lovely."

 

Someone to Watch Over Me

One of the hazards of being a cat is when people don't look where they're going. They'll stumble all over you. It happens to me time and again and I could scream. Actually, I do scream..and hiss..and run when some dumb stoopmagoogle (one of Jack's quaint expressions) will kick me as he's walking or step on my tail or just get in my way.

From where I stand, people are skyscraper tall with two swinging legs. Some of their feet are really big and can hurt when they come down on a bulky furball like me. Want a cat's perspective? Lie down on the floor and look up at someone standing over you. It's scary.

When I get in someone's way it's because I had to get down the hall and they unexpectedly came shooting out of one of the side rooms. So you can picture the inside of the rectory: There's the parlor as you come in on the right, the conference room left, Jack and Will's parish office (small version) and the kitchen is at the far back. Geez, sometimes I just need to get to the litter box. I say a quick prayer to the patron saint of safe passage, but sometimes I forget.

The rectory can be a busy place at times as parishioners come in and out to do this and that. Every so often, a new person comes and Mary Lou, ever the gracious hostess, will invite them in for a cup of tea or coffee and muffins. Yes, going from point A to point B can be hazardous to your health, but never fear. A kitchen at the end of any journey is well worth it. 

Now for my Mea Culpa Question of the Week:

I know, I promised sins. They'll have to wait. I have a question right now that might involve a sin of some sort. I drank holy water when Jack poured it into my dish at church. He said it was fresher than what I had. I drank it, but was wondering about the consequences...

What happens when a cat drinks holy water? Do my innards get blessed? (Now there's a thought)

Bottoms up,

--Tom

The Culpa Cabana

Hello, friends--

Since this is Lent and everything, I'm adding a new feature to my blog. You are invited in so you can enjoy the delight of sitting in judgment and I get my public humiliation in lieu of penance prayers out of the way at the same time.

"Mea culpa" is Latin for "Oopsie, I made a boo-boo and I'm sorry." There are quite a few things a church cat can put in the category of venial sins and, heaven forbid, mortal sins. I haven't done the mortal thing yet, but the venial? Let's put it this way, I have boo-booed all over the place.

My Lenten Mea Culpa Items of the Week:

1. Listened to lusty accounts of a particular man's confession and then had to peek out to see who it was.

2. Used a swear word in a post (It was h-- and I caught h-- for using it.)

3. I scooped a dollar bill out of the collection plate. Someone had folded it up like origami and I thought it was a bird.

That's it for now. I can't put everything out on the table, but this is a start.

Hope your Lenten good intentions are going well.

--Tom

The Visitor and the Cat

This week I overheard someone at the rectory talking to Mary Lou, our housekeeper about how cats have a dark side. Contented dozing came to an abrupt end as I continued to listen, dander ready to fly.

What do you mean cats have a dark side? Oh, and I think the other comment was that they can turn. Oh, boy. I had a hard time breathing after that one. No, cats don't have a dark side at all, any more than anybody else. Capiche? Many times they are misunderstood, a point I have made repeatedly.

After my claws became distended and I was ready to pounce, I figured that my actions would just prove the point. So, I sat and stewed. Well, not for long. I had to go see who the heck it was since I didn't recognize the voice.

I entered the conference room across the hall from the parlor where Mary Lou and this stranger were sorting pamphlets. I waited until the subject was changed so it didn't look as if I had been cued by the insult to come and say something.

"Oh, you have a cat here at the rectory."

Great powers of observation. Let's see where this is going.

"Yes, we do," says the housekeeper. "He's been with us for years. Great cat."

"Oh, really? What kind of breed?"

The kind to claw your eyes out, my dear.

"Maine Coon."

"Oh, I think I've heard of those."

While this insightful conversation is going on, I have proceeded to jump up on the table and am now sprawled over the sorted materials as if they're not even there.

Observing my actions, the visitor is incensed. "What are we supposed to do about him?"

I love a person who adapts quickly to any situation.

"I'll get him." Mary Lou reaches down and picks me up, nuzzling my ear and whispering justifications.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that our friend is gathering up her belongings and is proceeding to make her escape.

Mary Lou thanks her for bringing over the materials to be distributed to the parishioners on Sunday. I notice a smell that is a mix of hay and dog feces. I can't get away from this woman fast enough.

I head out of the room with my tail in the air and my backside in full view as Mary Lou straightens the piles, gathers up rubber bands and stretches them one by one around each. I hear the front door close.

"Tom, you're something else," she mutters. "And I wouldn't trade you for all the tea in China."

My acute listening skills are soothed by those kind words. I pause in the parlor. Mary Lou turns off the light and makes her way to the kitchen.

Always keeping a little room for dessert, I turn and trot right behind her, mumbling in reply, "Prove it, mama, prove it."

Soft-Hearted Beats Soft-Headed Every Time

Mary Lou's flowers. Aren't they beautiful? Oh, and the cat, too! (heh, heh)

First, the flowers. Jack gave her a bouquet yesterday for Valentine's Day, or so he said. She likes to have fresh flowers around anyway, her birthday ones becoming mere carcasses of their former selves. She took this picture of her new ones including me, undeniably sporting eyeliner.

Can you believe it? If any agency creative directors are reading this, I want them to know my beauty is not for sale. I will not nor will I ever be available for commercials or magazine ads.

It's pretty quiet here today. I think Will went home to see his parents. Something about a wedding anniversary. That will be many, many for the Tylers. I met them once. She's fussy as all get-out which explains him. His dad is the consoling one and pretty cool.

Happy Valentine's Day tomorrow to everyone, especially to my beautiful lady friends. May you only have soft centers in the chocolates of life. I'll be sleeping and dreaming....