The other night I came across this dude in a window display for a dry cleaner's (wha?!), and I was hoping we could all admire him here. For those of you who haven't yet met a snake, they're not slimy at all. This guy's expression is albeit a bit..uh…plastic, but trust me…snakes are this amazing mix of bend-back and muscle, like, I dunno, a giant spinal cord with biceps, wearing a Snuggie.
And then there's their amazing ability to grow and change--ecdysis, an exodus…shed your skin and then begin. Right before this happens they get all cross-eyed and cranky, but it's less like being on the rag and more like being reborn. The snake's your go-to guy for a quiet, powerful transformation. Sure, the phoenix gets more press, all bells and whistles a la Jimmy Page and his freakin' violin bow, but remember, Johnny Cash did just fine fingerpicking.
So I think of it this way…there are plenty of people who know who Rahm Emanuel is, but how many have jukeboxes in their head that can cue up classic, though not especially good, hot rod tunes on command? I thought so! (P.S. My favorite bad car song ever: "Convoy.")
For Loma P, known for her ability to simultaneously run and meow-ee-ow-ee-ow, 'cause we used to listen to this together:
Last night I dreamed about Loma P. and the Neetch Cat. You’ve met Loma P. before , but I don’t think I’ve told you about Neetch. Named after Friedrich Nietzsche, he was a classic cow-colored cat who used to pee in the toilet and steal corn on the cob straight from the pot. He was a protector cat, and I sure needed it—I was pretty stupid at the time, testing my Dionysian waters and giving my phone numbers to cab drivers and the guy from the bagel store who called me “Smiley,” just because they asked.
So in my dream, I was in my room at college, and I had both cats with me. I had two big catteries for them. Loma P.’s was across the room from Neetch’s, and there were live trees growing inside and the cats would swing from the branches and do flips like monkeys. But one day, Neetch went over to Loma P.’s cattery, undid the latch and opened the door (you don’t need opposable thumbs in dreams), and lead Loma P. over to his pad so they could both be together.
Flip back to Brooklyn, circa early 1990s: In real life, everyone in our small brownstone was about to be evicted in a month because the guy we were giving the rent to was just pretending to be the landlord, and the city was going to seize the building. I found a new place and brought Neetch with me, planning to sneak in Loma P. (there must have been a one-cat limit) several weeks later. In the meantime, she'd be with my roommate in the old apartment.
When I went back to our old apartment to get her, I found out that Loma P. had been living in a vacant lot next to the building, which pains me to this day. Where did she sleep at night? She was a Cancer, a nesting kitty who’d stay in the house even though the backdoor was always open in our garden apartment.
Maybe someday I’ll be able to write more.
But I will never forget the Neetch Cat’s eyes the day I brought Loma P. home—it was like the sun rose when he saw her.
I was pretty screwed up during that time in my life, and “responsible” was not how you’d describe me as a pet parent—or as a person, for that matter. But that was the one time I can say I did the best I could. It was all in the Neetch Cat’s eyes. Something in our story together was righted, like you flip the last card in the hand you’re holding and you get Black Jack. And pick up the next card.
Thank you, my black-and-white bandit, for your pink nose and half of a tail. For welcoming me into your family and opening the door to a room full of cat angels. And for giving me another chance.
You, too, Loma P.
Music that’s even better with corn on the cob #9 Dream, John Lennon Just play it over and over and over.
