Feeding the Pidgin

Living with Cats

Every evening for about 10 days, I trundled over to a friend’s house to feed Pidgin. No, Pidgin is not a bird. Nor is she a hybrid language. She is a cat who sounds like she’s speaking a hybrid language all the time. A paralyzed vocal fold causes her to greet me at the door with a cooing sound rather like a cautious pigeon, follow me around sounding like an expectant pigeon, and sit on my lap a purr sounding like a cross between a pigeon and an insistent baby goat.

“What have you been up to today, Pidgin?”

“Mmmaaa-aa-aaa-aaaa”

“Are you hungry?”

“maa-ha-ha-AAAAA”

And there’s nothing quite like listening to her eat or take a bath. Every breath out while her mouth and tongue are at work sounds like a tiny child eating and saying “Om nom nom nom… Om nom nom nom.”

Of course, part way through my stint as Pidgin-sitter, Pippin realized that I’d begun cheating on him with another cat. I’d get home only to be greeted by a disapproving flick of the ears and a haughty stalking away to another room. I’d sit down on the couch and wait for it… wait for it… and shortly he’d reappear, too curious to know where I’d been and with whom to stay away long. He’d attach his nose to my fingers, my pants, my sleeves. He’d shove that nose deep into the cracks between my fingers, and my nail beds. He’d lick and sniff, nibble and sniff, nudge and sniff trying to figure out what this other cat must be like to entice me away from him.

This interrogation done, he’d turn his back on me, place himself neatly in a seated position with his tale tucked primly around his front paws, and contemplate the nature of love and betrayal, the apparent appeal of older female cats, his status as a young male cat, and whether or not this would affect his food supply. In the end, he’d decide that jealousy might best serve his cause. Perhaps if he could make me believe that he no longer cared for me, I’d realize what I was missing give up my liaisons with this new mistress. He’d saunter off in a show of boredom and nonchalance, “forgetting” his customary nap on my lap, and wander off to find my down jacket to cuddle for the evening.

Frogger of the North

Portraits of People and Places

Walking around campus this time of year requires significant concentration. First, there are all the other walkers. Bundled in layer upon layer with only slits left for eyes, heads lowered into the cutting wind, eyes squinting against the glare and the threat of flying ice particles, these are not people who are aware of each other or of me.

Then there are the sidewalk sweepers. These little trucks with their high-powered orange brushes run pretty much continuously in an attempt to keep the sidewalks clear. These, at least, you can hear coming. But they also move quickly and send snow (and anything else on the sidewalk, such as rocks and ice) flying around at a tremendous rate. They also have a habit of turning around suddenly, so just when you thought you were safe because a sweeper was going the other way, it’ll turn around and spit snow at you.

What with all of these moving obstacle, and the intense desire to get from point A to point B absolutely as quickly as possible (before body parts start giving up the will to live in the face of so much cold), navigating outdoors begins to feel like a giant game of Frogger.

Move forward to avoid crossing Walkers … take an alternate path because a Sweeper is ahead… Follow a Sweeper… BACKTRACK!!! The Sweeper turned … more Walkers … and finally, the destination. 1000 points.

Fine

Me and My Life

“How are you?” People ask.

“Fine,” I say, and smile, because it’s expected. “How about you?”

“I’m ok. You look a little tired, though.”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep well.” Which I didn’t. “Pippin was a rascal all night.” Which he was.

The Professor

Portraits of People and Places

You see all types at a swing dance. There are the lithe girls who seem to be able to disconnect their hips from the rest of their bodies and to make even the most mundane combinations look flourishy and accomplished. There are the guys that every girl wishes would ask her to dance, and the guys that, where ever they walk, will find that all the girls in the area have suddenly vanished to go get yet another drink of water, or to fix her shoes, or to catch up with those other girls across the room for the 16th time that night.

Every once in a while, there’s a total odd-ball. Take The Professor, for example. Nobody knows who he is, but he comes to dances with regularity that would make a Swiss watchmaker squirm with envy. He rarely dances, though apparently he attends the lessons. In fact, I’ve never seen him dance. I’ve only seen him walk around and around the dance floor with a clipboard tucked under his arm.

I think it’s the clipboard (and the solemn, studying expression, and the white hair, and the
v-neck sweater over white button-down shirt, and the pleated trousers) which earned him his nickname. He scrutinizes the dancers from all angles and occasionally slips the clipboard out from under his arm and makes notes, sometimes pausing to adjust the earplugs that peek out from his ears.

I wish I knew what he was doing, and what notes he takes. Is he watching people or the moves they do? Is he counting the number of dancers active during each song? Is he mapping the dance hierarchy to see which dancers have cart blanche to dance with anyone and which are locked into their own skill level? Is he studying the clothes we wear?

And yet, part of the social etiquette of the dance floor is that dancers do not interrogate other dancers unless they’ve been somehow introduced or danced together frequently. So since The Professor almost never dances, and nobody knows who he is, he has effectively protected himself from any direct questioning. Of course, the wondering is probably more fun than knowing, anyway.