Photo Per Day #28: The Latest Cat Toy

When out in the living room there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter,
Oh right, two cats fighting over something . . .

Who knew an old Santa hat could be so much fun?

Mr. Mistoffe-Lays

A coworker of mine was bemoaning the fact that his beautiful and talented girlfriend is appearing in a musical right now. He feels that, akin to drinking and driving, regardless of how gifted she is in both areas, one should never mix acting and singing. This combination creates, in his opinion, the “lowest form of art” which is “lower than pantomime.”

Years ago, my much beloved uncle Ed came in to NYC from CA and treated my cousin, my hubby and me to a world-class meal at the Four Seasons followed by an evening at the now-defunct Broadway musical Cats.

Say what you want about musicals in general, or even Cats in particular, we had a really unusual night. Why? Because the heavyset, middle-aged man seated directly behind me, who was flanked by two adoring women, sang along to every song. Yes, aloud. And his date(s) didn’t even seem to mind! One actually complimented him during intermission; she was amazed that he knew all of the lyrics. He shared with her (and me because I was eavesdropping) how a) he had seen the musical a million times and b) what made it so easy was that the lyrics were about cats. And who doesn’t love singing about cats?

Not to be outdone, during the climax of the big hit “Memory” at the close of the show, the man across the aisle from us opened a big bag of potato chips and began chomping away.

Apparently he shared Nathan’s views on this mode of artistic expression.

When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin . . .

Nostradamus

CNN ran a story yesterday about a cat who lives in a nursing home and is able to predict when patients are going to die. Apparently this cat, Oscar, cuddles up in bed next to people during their final hours and, so far, he's batting 1000 (25 out of 25 correct).

People quoted in the article were speculating on whether he "notices telltale scents or reads something into the behavior of the nurses who raised him" or if he is "driven by self-centered pleasures like a heated blanket." I personally find it hard to believe that patients only get heated blankets in the final throes of life. Surely there are other beds Oscar can curl up on, no?

When my grandfather was ill, my sister and I were convinced that my mom's cat, Ashley, knew he was dying. There were times when, I swear, it looked like she was watching people move around the living room who we couldn't see. A little freaky.

Like animals who sense impending danger (e.g., earthquakes, tornadoes), I wonder if it is possible for certain animals, like Oscar, to receive advanced warning signals of some kind. Maybe it's as simple as a change in atmospheric pressure or the ability to detect small tremors in the earth; but, perhaps it's something more intuitive.

A friend from grad school once stayed on our couch for weeks while looking for a job in the city. He told me that he always knew when I was coming home -- and it didn't matter if it was 10:00 a.m. or 6:00 p.m. -- because our cat, Stinky, would wake up from her nap and start to groom herself a few minutes before I walked in the door.

Whatever the cause, I'm flattered! If only my kids could tap into that psychic ability and pick-up their toys before I walk in the door, now that would be something.