My Cat
I saw a lovely little silver tabby, only six months or so old, on my way home from Mary Mags this morning (Bruckner Locus Iste, Mass by same obscure Torontonian as last time). This reminded me that I have been meaning to post a picture of my cat. I was giving thanks for her miraculous continued existence on Thanksgiving, and it must be said that aged 19-and-a-half she is not as pretty as once she was. She is squinting into the light here, and doesn't look very welcoming. On the other hand, it winningly disguises her left cornea, horribly scarred from a fight she got into after the first of the six house-moves she has survived.
I named her Octavia because I was seven and I didn't know what pretension was or that it needed to be avoided. In fact, it may be possible to date my interest in the ancient world, and therefore the whole chain of events that has led to my utter refusal to get a proper job and support myself, to an infant school project on The Romans. Aged six, I had finished my maths puzzle faster than anyone else (sic transit etc) and got first choice of a Roman Name. I actually chose Livia, but decided by the time the cat appeared that Octavia was much cooler - a choice made purely on the basis of euphony, I should add, since at that time I knew even less than I do now about the differences and similarities between one and another ruthlessly exploited and prematurely-aged broodmare of the early Roman imperial class.
Anyway, here she is, a bit tatty and dandruffy these days and with a strange propensity to start wailing in a manner that exactly resembles a crying baby, usually at about 5am. In October of 1987 she followed me home from a walk and her owners said we could keep her, so I have the great distinction of having been deliberately selected by my cat and not vice versa. At that time she was the size of this morning's silver tabby. And now that she is old and frail, she is about that size again.
I named her Octavia because I was seven and I didn't know what pretension was or that it needed to be avoided. In fact, it may be possible to date my interest in the ancient world, and therefore the whole chain of events that has led to my utter refusal to get a proper job and support myself, to an infant school project on The Romans. Aged six, I had finished my maths puzzle faster than anyone else (sic transit etc) and got first choice of a Roman Name. I actually chose Livia, but decided by the time the cat appeared that Octavia was much cooler - a choice made purely on the basis of euphony, I should add, since at that time I knew even less than I do now about the differences and similarities between one and another ruthlessly exploited and prematurely-aged broodmare of the early Roman imperial class.
Anyway, here she is, a bit tatty and dandruffy these days and with a strange propensity to start wailing in a manner that exactly resembles a crying baby, usually at about 5am. In October of 1987 she followed me home from a walk and her owners said we could keep her, so I have the great distinction of having been deliberately selected by my cat and not vice versa. At that time she was the size of this morning's silver tabby. And now that she is old and frail, she is about that size again.
posted by Scarlet at 2:29 am
1 Comments:
Octavia is indeed tremendously elderly but is happily discovering that old age means that disdaining your expensive cat food is no longer interpreted by your human housemates as a sign of disgraceful faddishness which must be ignored. On the contrary, once you attain extreme age, gazing balefully at the pricey contents of your food bowl and walking away with feline shoulders slumped, as if crushed by the most bitter and ill-deserved disappointment, wins for you the miraculous replacement of said dinner with ruinously expensive Gourmet Connoisseur Chef's Choice Mini-Fillets, hand-made by Bavarian nuns from swans' livers and harts' tongues. So it's not a bad life, even if you do have hardly any whiskers left.
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