Broken Objects
Cats break things. It's axiomatic: where there are cats and breakable objects, objects will be broken. Every cat of mine has taken one or two items as the price for its company. Though I don't remember what Flatbush (who came to me as an adult, well broken of bad habits) or Merlin (the first kitten I ever raised) may have broken, Spanky, Sophie, and now Ezekiel have all taken their due.
Spanky's price was the highest. When he was less than a year old, about 6 months after we moved from the east cost to Seattle, he took a walk on my bedroom dresser. Now, at the time, I still had the bedroom furniture I grew up with. It was good stuff: a dresser, a chest, and an enormous mirror, which was propped up on top of the dresser. This tiny cat, probably no more than 5 or 6 pounds, took advantage of, if not heft then physics, bringing that mirror crashing to the floor smashing it into a million pieces. I saw it happen in slow motion and, as the mirror shattered, I felt like I was seeing a million memories evaporate, as though they were being released from a glass prison. (This idea provoked a short story which I have yet to write--I will, sometime this year.)
Sophie didn't go for size; she went for value. As the result of a series of dreams I had for a number of years after my mother died, I collect porcelain hands. Well, collected, as I haven't added any new ones to the collection in years. Because I believe in living with the beautiful things I collect rather than displaying them behind glass, they were perched here and there on shelves around the house. As a kitten, Sophie took down two of them--naturally, the oldest and most fragile of the bunch.
This weekend, Ezekiel took his price. Years ago, a friend gave me a replica of a Chinese terra cotta warrior. It was about a foot tall and not really to my taste, but I appreciated the thought and the cost, and sat it on a shelf on the side of my fireplace. Despite myself, I became fond of it over the years, standing vigil as it was meant to do. When jackwilliambell went to China on business, he brought me back a striking scroll featuring a tiger painting. I hung it on the wall above the warrior and finally felt like the warrior had found his company and his place. Saturday, Ezekiel discovered a way to get up on that shelf and pushed it over. It struck the terra cotta pot that was situated on the floor in its path and shattered, its head going one way, its legs another, and a multitude of fragments everywhere, smashed beyond all possibility of repair. I picked up its sturdy body, its head and legs, and had a moment, then disposed of the pieces and vacuumed as effectively as I could to be sure the stupid cat didn't get shards in his paws.
Late yesterday I discovered that Zeke had knocked a light-catcher from a window, fracturing it so effectively that it would be dangerous to keep around, even though all the glass was still in its frame. That, too, went the way of all broken things.
Somehow, I was angry but not sad about the hands, resigned but not angry about the light-catcher. The loss of the terra cotta warrior, though, does make me sad. Perhaps it's because it was anthropomorphic. I'd become used to its quiet, solid presence watching my back as I worked, standing guard when I was away. I didn't realize the affection I'd developed for it over the years. Its place on the shelf feels empty. And now, the idea of donating the terra cotta pot upon which it had smashed seems like an appealing idea. I'd purchased it as a kind of reminder of my trip to the Middle East, where I'd seen such pots cast about in the ruins of ancient temples. Now it just seems to take up space . . . which I suppose all things do in one fashion or another. But some things take up space in the home, and some things take up space in the heart. This weekend's loss draws the line between the two pretty clearly.
Spanky's price was the highest. When he was less than a year old, about 6 months after we moved from the east cost to Seattle, he took a walk on my bedroom dresser. Now, at the time, I still had the bedroom furniture I grew up with. It was good stuff: a dresser, a chest, and an enormous mirror, which was propped up on top of the dresser. This tiny cat, probably no more than 5 or 6 pounds, took advantage of, if not heft then physics, bringing that mirror crashing to the floor smashing it into a million pieces. I saw it happen in slow motion and, as the mirror shattered, I felt like I was seeing a million memories evaporate, as though they were being released from a glass prison. (This idea provoked a short story which I have yet to write--I will, sometime this year.)
Sophie didn't go for size; she went for value. As the result of a series of dreams I had for a number of years after my mother died, I collect porcelain hands. Well, collected, as I haven't added any new ones to the collection in years. Because I believe in living with the beautiful things I collect rather than displaying them behind glass, they were perched here and there on shelves around the house. As a kitten, Sophie took down two of them--naturally, the oldest and most fragile of the bunch.
This weekend, Ezekiel took his price. Years ago, a friend gave me a replica of a Chinese terra cotta warrior. It was about a foot tall and not really to my taste, but I appreciated the thought and the cost, and sat it on a shelf on the side of my fireplace. Despite myself, I became fond of it over the years, standing vigil as it was meant to do. When jackwilliambell went to China on business, he brought me back a striking scroll featuring a tiger painting. I hung it on the wall above the warrior and finally felt like the warrior had found his company and his place. Saturday, Ezekiel discovered a way to get up on that shelf and pushed it over. It struck the terra cotta pot that was situated on the floor in its path and shattered, its head going one way, its legs another, and a multitude of fragments everywhere, smashed beyond all possibility of repair. I picked up its sturdy body, its head and legs, and had a moment, then disposed of the pieces and vacuumed as effectively as I could to be sure the stupid cat didn't get shards in his paws.
Late yesterday I discovered that Zeke had knocked a light-catcher from a window, fracturing it so effectively that it would be dangerous to keep around, even though all the glass was still in its frame. That, too, went the way of all broken things.
Somehow, I was angry but not sad about the hands, resigned but not angry about the light-catcher. The loss of the terra cotta warrior, though, does make me sad. Perhaps it's because it was anthropomorphic. I'd become used to its quiet, solid presence watching my back as I worked, standing guard when I was away. I didn't realize the affection I'd developed for it over the years. Its place on the shelf feels empty. And now, the idea of donating the terra cotta pot upon which it had smashed seems like an appealing idea. I'd purchased it as a kind of reminder of my trip to the Middle East, where I'd seen such pots cast about in the ruins of ancient temples. Now it just seems to take up space . . . which I suppose all things do in one fashion or another. But some things take up space in the home, and some things take up space in the heart. This weekend's loss draws the line between the two pretty clearly.