Facebook became a kind of addiction. I could write a short story, post some images or video and get immediate feedback. It began to fall in to the same brain sucking category as TV. I haven’t watched TV for more than 20 years, grew up without access to TV and did the same for my sons. Life is way too short to spend it with my forehead stuck to a glass screen.
Had a minor issue come up, physically, as it does sometimes in the world of horses. I’m sitting here packed in ice so writing wins out. Getting bored always gets my creative juices flowing. This is like jump starting my nineteen year old farm truck. I have to cuss a bit, kick a tire or two, hook up those clip thingies and step on the gas. Hang on with me. It’s going to be messy for a while. (At least I’m not leaking oil!)
Phoebe is my Muse today. She’s ancient in the world of farm cats, at least eighteen . I had to guess at her age because she came to us seventeen years ago and was old enough to be pregnant, so at least a year old then. It was hard to tell. She was skinny, hungry, terrified, dehydrated and dirty. Dirty for a young cat is serious stuff. Cats always groom themselves until they’re in such pain they can’t. She was near her end times.
But Phoebe is one of those never give up kinds of cat. She’d pulled herself up in to the cedar in front of the house, high enough I had to climb to get to her. And she yelled for help so loud I went out to find her. I could hear her over the ancient, rattling dishwasher and the wind blowing in through the cracks around the doors, whistling and moaning. We sit more than a quarter mile back from the road too, so where ever she had come from it wasn’t an easy journey. “ SOMEBODY HELP ME! HELP ME NOW! “ Pride had nothing to do with it. She was yelling to save her life.
And there she was this morning, laying next to Apple, with her purloined tennis ball. If any of you reading this has a Golden Retriever, you know how precious tennis balls are. Apple collects tennis balls, hiding them in the bottom of a basket. Phoebe steals them. Apple tries to tempt the ball away from Phoebe with pieces of kibble (note the two pieces in front of Apple) and Phoebe ignores Apple. It’s part of their morning games. All ten pounds of Phoebe even growls at eighty five pound Apple if Apple gets too close, at least until Phoebe decides the game is done. No wonder I laugh so much!
Phoebe is the epitome of badass coolness. Of course she’s my Muse! Her hips sometimes bother her but she can jump to the back of the sofa and dominates the bed at night. And she still hunts, bringing her trophy in to the house and depositing it in the middle of the kitchen table. Sometimes I find just body parts (yes, on top of the table) and Phoebe sleeping on the top of the sofa in her power spot where she can open one eye and keep track of her kill. How could I not love and admire my little short, round farm cat. Heck, I want to be her when I get around to growing up. Age and the minor issues that come with it are no impediment to Phoebe.
This morning I was getting in to being ‘Nancy, the Whiner’ , really wallering in self pity. I do not like being sidelined with sore muscles, bumps and bruises that are entirely my fault. My body will heal but in the meantime I get grumpy. Wah, wah, wah... And here comes Phoebe, trailing an anxious Apple, rolling her stolen goods and depositing them at my feet. “ Hey, Nancy, giiiirrrlll friend, steal a tennis ball. Always makes me feel better! “ So here we are, Phoebe napping in a sunbeam and me with my companion ice bags, in the moment, laughing at the way things go!
You go Phoebe! Between you and me, I hope I live to 150. There are so many things to learn, and so many wonderful Badass Phoebe moments to live.
I am, ever yours, Nancy, smiling because I can