For those of you who have not met him, Mr Popo is a large cat. Not just the classic “chonky boy” type large, which he is, but also just big. And while the cat tree isn’t built for just tiny, delicate, kitten-type cats; Mr Popo’s presence does give the structural engineers pause. He is also a bit of a lap cat. And 37 pounds of furball in my lap is not my first choice of leisure activity in heatwave…
But I have survived the irreverent inferno! And we begin the work week at a much more moderate eighty-two on Dan Gabriel’s scale of Fahrenheits. I may even spend some extended length of today’s minutes outside the bubble of tolerablity my newly installed thermal pumping refrigerant cycler provides. Crazy talk. I know. But the previous weeks of heat and rain have allowed the more-than-occasional thistle and poke-weed to gain godzillian proportions, and may require machinery to excise. I must endure the scorching solar radiation, pollen-particulated atmosphere, and torturous temperatures before my yard reverts to unnatural prairie, and soon.
But for now I sit comfortably, as I listen to one feline or another vomit it’s too hastily scarfed breakfast onto a parcel of floor as of yet unlocated, sipping coffee. And ramblinating words upon this virtual paper for you to stumble upon, much as I will inevitably stumble upon the recently yarfed cat-yack. I do hope you enjoy these words far more than I will enjoy the sensation of cold, wet, partially digested kibble splurteling between my toes.
FlooferNoofer just wants to be friends with the birds. The delicious, delicious, birds…
This is an older picture. There aren’t actually any cats watching the bird feeders this morning. Most of them are in the catios right now. They have been denied access to the outside for most of the past week, on account of it being hotter than Satan’s butthole for most of that time. But it has finally cooled off to a reasonable summertime temperature. And, for the moment, it isn’t raining either. In addition to the excessive heat, we’ve also had tropical storms popping up every evening. Rationality keeps telling me the rain will cool things off. But it doesn’t. It just keeps the humidity up around 102% which is a little like breathing soup. It is not pleasant. It is the opposite of pleasant. It is unpleasant. And gross. This is not something us Midwesterns are really built for. This is Florida weather, and quite frankly, they can keep it.
But we seem to have survived it, and the cats can enjoy some open air. The catio provides more than just a breath of fresh air, now they can hear their fluttering feathered friends. And FlooferNoofer really like that. Maybe if the ground dries up enough, I’ll take her outside to meet some them…
I also want snacks. I have not yet eaten breakfast. There is no reasonable explanation for why I haven’t, I think I’m just that lazy in the morning. A cup of coffee, a comfortable chair, and a cat in my lap; and the grumbly in my tumbly becomes white-noise. A background hum, harmonizing with the tinnitus.
My mug runs dry, however. And like a three legged stool, one missing support renders the structure unsound. The need for a caffeinated refill stirs my consciousness, and a subtle pang surfaces in reminder. As comfortable as I am, sandwiched between cushion and cat, there is a need for sustenance, an antimetaphorical hunger gnaws at me… metaphorically speaking.
My occupying feline, sensing my discomfort, rises and retreats, relinquishing their control of my movement. I also stand, and set forth upon the arduous journey to procure provisions. My hunter/gatherer instincts lead me far from the safety of the living room and into the kitchen, some nine paces east.
Veering from those pathways of easier travel, I forego the simplicity of a sugar laden breakfast ceral in favor of something approaching “healthy”. Staring into an open refrigerator, I ponder the complexities of a meal that requires actual cooking. My gaze lingers upon the cardboard carton of oviparious gifts collected from fowl afar and a borosilicate vessel holding the remnants of last night’s sautéed spinach, and my cobwebbed cognizance musters up an idea.
Eggs, of the chicken variety, vigorously beaten with chopped spinach, whipped into sizzling butter in a non-stick pan. Proteins coalesce into curd, a golden yellow speckled with vibrant green. The viscous liquid becomes a pliable solid. Cow’s milk, first spoiled and strained, salted and set upon a wooden shelf to mature, now itself a soft solid, is shredded and added to the culinary concoction. I lid the pan, exterminate the cerulean flames beneath the steel. Patience now. Let the residual heat continue it’s work. I take the idle time as a moment to assemble my prose.
Enough! Patience be damned. I uncover the cookware and gaze upon the florentine masterpiece before me. Cautiously, but quickly, I flip the omelet onto a plate. Sitting now, afore this sumptuous feast, I carve out a morsel. Custard-like texture, stringy with melted cheese, I lay the collop onto my tongue. Synapse fire like lightning as flavor engulfs my mouth.
Ok. That’s enough words. I’m gonna shovel the rest of this into my face-hole now.
Nepeta Catsria. Named for the pre-imperial Roman village of Nepi, the supposed origin of the plant, and the Latin for “of cats”. All parts of the plant release chemicals called nepetalactones, which adhere to olfactory receptors causing β-endorphin secretion into the bloodstream, thus activating μ-opioid receptors. This is similar to the mechanisms of opioid reactivity in humans, but without any withdrawals.
I don’t really have anywhere to go from there. So I guess this completes my wordatizing for today.
Another Haiku from Soggy Sox III. If you recall, Soggy Sox III is not my cat, and Soggy Sox III is is not their real name. But I cannot remember their real name, and their human did not offer a correction when last I Haikued them. So now they are permanently Soggy Sox III.
I too, would like sometimes to hide in a basket. But I would need a really big basket. There is a really big basket available for purchase east of Columbus Ohio, off highway 16. But at eight and a half million dollars, it is slightly out of my basket-budget. I would ask all you loyal fans and friends and family to pitch in a couple bucks, but I am pretty sure I do not have enough fans or friends or family to raise the necessary capital. Maybe I could find richer fans…
I don’t think that basket would actually be as cozy as the one Soggy Sox III occupies. But I do think it would make a cool Bed & Breakfast. It’s bigger than it looks, there would totally be enough room to build out a commercial kitchen and add a banquet room or two. And it sits on twenty-something acres, so there’d be room to add a pool and koi pond, and wedding chapel, and an amphitheater.
So now I need a little more money for architects, and permits, and construction, and landscaping, and advertising, and operating costs for probably a year maybe eighteen months. Better make it an even twenty mil.
Ok! I’m gonna go ask Bezos and Zuck for a grant. You all have a wonderful Wednesday. Take a nap if you need it. Don’t forget to have a snack. And spend some time in your favorite basket.
Had an extra day off yesterday, the boss’s big pipe broke. But all the pipeworks are working pipes once again, so I do have to go to work today. In fact, I have to leave in 17 minutes. And I have yet to do the eating thing or the pants wearing thing and I’d really like to do more of the sleeping thing…
I felt I had to give a nod to the titular parallel with today’s Haiku. It is inevitable, at least in my head, to think “dalmatians” when I hear “one hundred and one”.
I find it interesting, that although the original book and even the original 1961 movie were titled “One Hundred and One…”, I have always known it as “101”. And it further intrigues me that the number “101” is frequently read as “one-oh-one”, as in entry level college courses or a highway designation. But then also automatically read as “one hundred and one” in other settings, like in the case of the collection of canines made famous by The Mouse Man.
Aaaand, my grey matter is stimulated still more by the curious appearance of the conjunction “and” in the middle of the American English spelled out versions of certain numbers. I feel it appears in the written as a result of it appearing in the spoken word, but I do not know if that is one hundred percent the truth of it. But pondering the gallinacious origin of the ampersand was not my interest. What astonishes me is the ubiquitousness of the “and” within numerical lexicon and the apparent rules that govern its use.
To begin with, the word has a very specific numerical use in English when used correctly, and is not nestled between the digits of certain post-centurian figures. When speaking numbers words aloud, the word “and” is an oration of the “+” symbol. Much like using “is” to mean “=”. This phenom is illustrated plainly in the colloquial “one and one is two”. But at some point that three letter utterance of convergence erroneously migrated into the body of specific numbers. And there are unwritten yet universally accepted regulations in our modern, new world, English, as to how and where that three lettered word should be used. (Even though it shouldn’t!) We would never say “forty and two” when reading the Arabic “42”. But if that numeral was “402” it could be commonly read as “four hundred and two”. Or “420”; while “four hundred twenty” is correct, “four hundred and twenty” is equally as accepted. And as we shift the decimal another slot to the right, “4,042” can be read as “four thousand and forty two”, even though that is syntactally incorrect. But, I should point out, it is mathematically correct. Since “and” is an acceptable way to read the symbol “+” in simple arithmetic, and 4,000 + 42 does indeed equal 4,042. But if that is the argument, can we say “plus” in the middle of selected numbers? Would you say aloud “four thousand plus forty two” when reading “4,042”? I would look at you funny if you did, and I don’t think I’d be alone in that.
The correct use of this incorrectly added word has further arbitrary limits. Let’s add another couple hundred to our example, 4,242. Rightly spoken; Four thousand two hundred forty two. The established placement for our subject injection would be between the first of the twos and the second of the fours, “four thousand two hundred and forty two”. Not “four thousand and two hundred forty two”. Not “four thousand two hundred forty and two”. And most definitely nothing like “four thousand and two hundred and forty and two”. Gah. Writing that gave me heartburn.
It can be acceptable to alter the expression of the forth and third numeric columns, stating the the two as single function of the second. That is: “forty two hundred forty two”. And if that were the choice in verbalization, the “and” can also be placed. But, you will notice, it is placed on the same location as before: “forty two hundred and forty two”.
The complexity of this placement waxes exponentially as the numbers likewise grow. Where “four thousand and two hundred forty two” sounds ridiculous, the positioning between the hundreds column and the thousands will flow flawlessly if we shift our example another tenfold: “Forty two thousand and four hundred twenty four.” But as we arrive at the ten-thousands place, we see something new. A second acceptable placement. We can also say “forty two thousand four hundred and twenty four”, without getting side-eyed by strangers.
Even though there are two allowable placements, it is still unacceptable to use the word twice. “Forty two thousand and four hundred and twenty four” is something a second grader or a crazy person might say. It just doesn’t work.
You may see some patterns developing. But when you do, test them with zeros. Swapping out certain place holders with the non-number will likely throw most any rule you may have in head asunder. It may appear that There Shall Not Be an and between the the final two numbers. But alas; 4,204 can be read as “four thousand two hundred and four”. And if we think back towards the beginning of this exerciar, “four hundred and two” was satisfactory as well. But, if all but the leftmost position is occupied by goose eggs, there is never a place for and. Although, I might just start saying things like “four hundred and zero” just to throw people.
I hope you have enjoyed today’s walk along my neural pathways. The ponderings above are quite typicall of the synaptic activity of my day to day consciousness. As you close this window with a raised eyebrow and judgementally muttered “wow…”, the gaps between my brain cells will still crackle with electricity as I try to understand why “four” has a U but “forty” doesn’t…
Anyshoe. I hope you enjoy your Monday as much as possible. I get an extra day off because a pipe broke.
One hundred. The big Hundo. A century. All the cents…
It’s been about 9½ months since I started this little web-thingy. And while I’ve been a bit more “almost” than “daily”, 100 Haikus is a pretty cool milestone. That’s about ⅜ of a Haiku, or 6.4 syllables, each day. I don’t thing partial syllables is possible though. I feel rounding down is appropriate whenever listing achievements, but if you’re measuring syllables, I would think that any portion of a syllable by itself would actually be a syllable. I haven’t the time to locate an expert on syllabatic enumeration, nor the time to discuss the matter even if I could. In my best judgement, I will say partial syllables are not possible. Therefore, I have averaged either 6-or-7 syllables a day. That seems satisfactory.
I have several weeks before my next milestone, One Year, and I hope to improve that average before then.
Thank you all for being with me through this journey so far. And I look forward to what this path holds going forward.
There’s not a lot going on in my head at the moment. Kind of foggy up there right now. Like a morning mist filling in the low spots, blanketing over the details, smudging the corners and edges until anything I’m trying to think is just a muddied swirl.
I do have a cup of coffee, and snoring cat in my lap. And that makes me happy. So even though I cannot yet make the words happen, I’m still satisfied with this morning’s effort.
Sometimes it’s not about the objectives, or even the path towards them. It’s about the little stops we make. The pockets of quiet comfort we discover and share with a friend, or a cat.
And remember! If you missed Father’s Day because you were working, or lost your calendar, or were abducted by aliens, or whatever; today is the makeup day! So take your dad out to dinner, or buy him some tools, or just give him a hug. And then give your mom an even bigger hug because she has to live with him.
Almost Daily Cat Haiku 