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Jill Crammond Wickham June Cleaver Considers Being a Cat Whisperer, Channels a Beloved Pet The calico cat tells
me her mother with the seven teats was a far better mother
than I, and I believe her. She favors me with a
tri-color side view—some gold, some pearl, some
onyx--a profile of divine felinity (if
there is such a device) and I am humbled. I am not a cat. My whiskers plucked
long ago, fur shorn, teats slivered to two dried fountains by the time I finished my hunt for a Tom. A woman who has had a
Tom—capital T or lower- case—is a lioness. Toms are independent street lovers satisfied with quick capers in grass, brambles or branches. Watch your tired
garden, flat and grey from winter: selfish human, you may
think spring is coming just for you;
cats will prove you wrong in their endless grail for new life. The super family huddles around the mother who licks
her belly, licks her baby, bottoms up for the male with the
fiercest growl season after season. |
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