Tired now.

When I left it was 90°. Or more. Naturally I left the swamp cooler running so as not to bake the cats. It gets cooler at night usually, of course, but I figured it [...]]]> Back from a flying trip, in sundry senses of the word. Some fun stories to tell. Some not to.

Tired now.

When I left it was 90°. Or more. Naturally I left the swamp cooler running so as not to bake the cats. It gets cooler at night usually, of course, but I figured it was no big deal. Especially as opposed to making the cats endure potentially lethal daytime heat.

So I’m flying back this morning and they announce that in Albuquerque it’s 49°. Whoa! 49! And when we arrive, it’s like 48°.

My friend Larry gave me a lift home. Also he drove way to hell and gone north to Corrales so we could retrieve the Em. He’s a pal.

(My car is … not reliable right now. So I had to plea for help.)

When we walk in of course the cooler is churning away. Out come TJ and Squeak. And they look at me and are like, “Dad? FREEZING!”

Oops. I mean, the damn heater was on. Took me a minute to figure out what was making all the noise, once I hastened to get the swamper off.

Oh – I also contrived to get to the kennel without Emma’s retractable leash and X-harness. The kennel guy lent me a leash to get her to Larry’s car. We got in the backseat; she seemed pretty eager.

The plan was for me to sit in back and hold onto her – usually I cinch her in with the shoulder belt through the harness. Which I lacked Also I figured that was less hassle on Larry. I was hoping Emma would be okay with the proximity to Uncle Larry as it was: even though he’s a close friend, and official External Member of the Milán Pack, he hasn’t spent a lot of time around her. So I wasn’t altogether sure he had yet graduated to the Official Emma List of Approved Persons. And if you’re not on that list, you’re on the Watch List.

So the first thing that happens is she climbs into the front passenger seat next to Larry. It hits me: that’s where she always rides. And she’s in fact not supposed to get in the back. So she was following habit and being good.

She seemed totally fine with Larry. She sniffed him a little and licked his jacket. She also kept shoving her face back between the seats so I could lavish affection on her and let her know I hadn’t rejected her. Then she temporarily got her fill of that and laid down with her chin on Larry’s leg.

So I guess he’s made the cut.

What I was just moved to write about was my other best friend – or as I sometimes refer to him, “my best little friend.”

This would be my orange tabby cat TJ. Which, yes, is short [...]]]> Actually, that’s Joseph Reichert. I’ve known him about forty years now. That’s another story – or a volume. Maybe two.

What I was just moved to write about was my other best friend – or as I sometimes refer to him, “my best little friend.”

This would be my orange tabby cat TJ. Which, yes, is short for Thomas Jefferson.

You might think it would be Emma Dog, based on the volume of verbiage I generate about her in my posts. But that’s a sampling error. She’s a wonderful friend, don’t get me wrong. She’s also – even as we approach, in two days I think, the fourth anniversary of her coming to the Milán Pack – still something of a novelty in the house, whereas both cats have been with me over ten years. Also because she alone accompanies me on excursions and adventures outside the house, even no further than the backyard (and remember – if you can’t find adventure in your own backyard, why would you expect to be able to find it anywhere else?), she plays in more anecdotes. In addition, there’s frankly so much history between me and the cats that I hesitate to bring them in because I hardly know where to begin.

I’ll skip Teej’s bio for now – he’s worth a volume on his own – for an anecdote that may enlighten you as to why I consider him by best friend.

As a part of my daily ritual I recite a formula gleaned from the work of Napoleon Hill, specifically his Think and Grow Rich!* – still the best self-help book ever written, and pretty much the fountainhead from which most subsequent worthwhile self-help books have sprung. There have been advances on his work, as well there ought be: it originally came out, if I understand correctly, in the 1920s. (Nope – 1937, if one believes Wikipedia, as in this case, why wouldn’t I?) It still stands as well worth reading.

Anyway, since I began this ritual about six years ago, a curious thing has happened. I recite it by habit right after I finish breakfast or lunch (mostly semantics, there.) As it happens most times, and as it happened just a few moments ago (it’s currently 3:27 PM in the Mountain West. So, maybe chronology more than semantics.) And that is: if he’s in earshot and awake, sometimes even if he’s drowsing, TJ turns up.

In this case I sat at the dining room table (imagine that.) I hadn’t actually realized where Teej was until from my eye’s corner I saw a shadow move behind the scrim on the central front window. I saw his distinctive shadow move, saw an orange shape jump down; saw above the back of the couch a hooked orange tailtip twitch its way across the floor. Then here came the cat himself up over the sofa, down onto the hardwood floor of the dining room to butt and rub against my legs.

He came to help me, you see.

At least that’s how I interpret it. I can account for it no other way. Joe – he and TJ are one another’s greatest fans; Joe has actually used TJ as a character reference – sometimes alternates between crediting the abundant evidence he’s seen and heard himself of TJ’s surprising understanding and intelligence, and taking a “rationalist” point of view. Which is to say, supporting the conventional view over, say, the truth. In such rare moods he’s suggested that, well, when I recite my little mantra, TJ knows where I am.

The problem with this, of course, is that as long as I’m in my house, which isn’t huge, TJ has to know pretty much where I am at all times, to the extent he concerns himself. He’s a cat, for carp’s sake. He can probably hear me wherever I am even if I’m not stamping and blaspheming over a stubbed toe or broken glass. He can be lying dozing at the foot of the bed and I’m lying in bed to recite the formula; or he can be twenty feet away looking longingly outside (for neither he nor Squeak ever go outdoors.) Often he’s in another room. And most times, as soon as I start to recite it – he comes.

And for the record, while he gets treats sometimes, I’ve never given him a treat for this behavior. Not once. I do scrupulously pet and thank him. That’s just good manners.

I don’t adduce anything mystical to this. I do say that animals possess a much greater intelligence than humans have traditionally given them credit for. Which itself ought not be radical: in the last few years, not much more than ten or fifteen, real experiments into animal intelligence have been showing us the same thing – whereas before, the “rational” dogma was identical to Creationism: that we are unique and totally separate, at least as far as intelligence goes, from the other beasts of the Earth.

Also it refutes the concept – held by too many cat owners as well as cat haters, and as far as I can tell based on received interpretation rather than actual observation – that cats are utterly aloof and incapable of forming bonds of affection. TJ is as loving an individual as I’ve known in my life – and he’s shown that on many occasions, too.

As to what he’s doing – all I can say is, he appears to believe he’s helping, probably encouraging me. And while I’ve yet to fulfill the conditions of my formula, I’m now, at last, advancing more rapidly than ever before. And I do give TJ, my best friend, credit for helping me persist.

*Updated, 5:57 PM MDT – I didn’t realize earlier that Think and Grow Rich is now in the public domain. I’m all in favor of authors getting royalties – huge surprise there – but my man Napoleon Hill is dead. So here’s a link to the Sacred Texts edition. It’s free, of course. They date the book to 1938, for what that’s worth.

Sacred Texts is a valuable resource, and like Project Gutenberg, well worthy of support. Still, if you’d like to support this site (and Emma, Squeak, and TJ, not to mention, uh, me) feel free to buy the book, or any of the many others I mention, by clicking through the link to my Amazon site…

Around 7 AM here in Casa Milán several things tend to happen at once. I need to get up and go offload fluids. Emma Dog wants to go outside, for approximately the same reason. And Squeak, my deranged and adored black cat, decides she has to [...]]]> Well, not exactly. But close. That much is literally true.

Around 7 AM here in Casa Milán several things tend to happen at once. I need to get up and go offload fluids. Emma Dog wants to go outside, for approximately the same reason. And Squeak, my deranged and adored black cat, decides she has to lie on my chest and be cuddled.

I may have mentioned this before: how she’ll come and stand with her front feet on my shoulder, by way of demanding that I roll onto my back so she can settle in. If that doesn’t work she’ll hop all the way up and perch there. Sometimes that won’t work either, and I’ll awaken later to find her lying asleep on my upper shoulder. Which I find sweet and amusing (if I wasn’t a Pet Mark Squeak would’ve met an awful end long since.)

So this morning I got a new wrinkle. I put out Emma, then came back in and lay down on my right side hoping to get a couple minutes’ sleep before Emma decides she has to come in. I find that the longer I stay awake under such circumstances the harder it is to get back to sleep, so every little bit helps.

Anyway, I’d hardly gotten settled in when here came Squeak. Who promptly reared back and planted her forepaws on my left ear.

“Squeak,” I said. “You’re standing on my head.”

(“Why, yes, Daddy. How nice of you to notice!”)

So I duly rolled over, picking her up and planting her on my sternum in the process. I put my hands over her and we both drifted off to sleep. At least until Emma barked outside the window shortly thereafter…

I hope the cat doesn’t make a habit of that. She’s heavy.

Maybe that’s part of it. Tales about TJ and Squeak have tails, that reach back a dozen years. Emma’s been with us [...]]]> When I’ve blogged about my animals it’s mostly been about Emma. I’m not sure why. Much as I love her, the cats and I are bonded much closer. We’ve got a lot more history.

Maybe that’s part of it. Tales about TJ and Squeak have tails, that reach back a dozen years. Emma’s been with us just going on four. Her stories are simpler.

Anyway, I was just sitting and going through my morning ritual of trying to get my brain to come on, always a significant undertaking. Currently it consists of doing some joint-mobilization moves and exercises, which I’d done, and then sitting on the couch drinking cocoa and reading Terry Pratchett Discworld novels.

Squeak, whose real name is Mia Antoinette, Red for Short (that’s all her name; no one’s ever called her “Red” for any reason whatsoever. See what I mean about backstory?) appeared on the back of the sofa at my left shoulder. She’s a gleaming black cat with auburn undercoat and a few stray white hairs which she’s always had, and eyes that range from amber to baleful yellow-green. She’s also a bit porky. She’s basically a black Siamese.

Anyway, she started dabbing tentatively at my left shoulder. This means she wants to lie on my chest and be cuddled. The problem was she couldn’t find an angle she liked to get into that position. Fortunately she’s not inclined to just launch herself and hope things settle out, which would almost certainly end in my getting numerous thin cuts sliced down my chest and belly by her claws.

So I picked her up and put her on my chest. At which, naturally, she put her ears back and bitched me right out. Then she settled down and began to purr happily.

(Some people who call themselves scientists claim, or at least used to claim, to doubt that purring in cats signifies happiness and contentment. Now, like many mammal behaviors it can probably mean many things. But people who doubt whether cats purr when they’re happy make me wonder if they’ve ever actually known any. Given the demeanor of a lot of these people, I’ve kind of come to hope they haven’t, if you know what I mean.)

Some people also thinks cats are aloof – which brings me back to the above. Or with somewhat more evidence that they’re treacherous or conniving. Now, anything mammalian with a brain larger than a pea connives and is sneaky; despite their reputation for goofy forthrightness dogs are really sneaky little devils, just like the wolves they sprang from.

But Squeak isn’t treacherous. She’s loving and indeed deeply loyal to her loved ones. She just operates on her own system of logic. Which doesn’t necessarily relate to the system by which the rest of the Universe operates.

Specifically: she wanted on my chest. She did not specifically desire that I pick her up. Therefore I committed a vile misdeed by picking her up. I consider myself lucky she’s mellowed; in her younger days she might’ve taken a slash at me. The fact that she ended up precisely where she wanted to be – curled up purring on my chest – simply doesn’t enter consideration.

See?

It’s all so simple. If you’re Squeak. This may also go a way to help you understand why I (and near friends of the family) consider TJ a great saint because he hasn’t killed her.

Of which more later.