Small Pleasures

Mist the Kitty is getting old. She is deaf, possibly blind in one eye, and limps a bit when she first begins to move around after her naps. She still has frequent “crazy cat” sessions, where she charges around the house and up and down the stairs, chasing phantom mice and bats.

She loves our company, sitting between us of an evening, just chillin’. She has become accustomed to having me around the house, since I haven’t been working at all since November. So accustomed is she to my company, that when I returned from my trip to town to renew my health card, she was waiting by the door. I received a scathing verbal scolding, for about five minutes after my return. After assuring herself that I understood my transgression, she curled up on the couch and went to sleep. Humans are hard work.

Her pleasures are few. Sleeping and eating occupy most of her time. She enjoys her milk every morning. She is an avid drinker of water. I must take care not to set my mug of drinking water on a low table, or on the floor. She has a special radar for such an occasion, within minutes she will have snuck up on my mug, and I will suddenly hear her lapping up my water, head in the mug. She loves being brushed, and this has become Attila’s ritual with her, several times a day she will jump into his lap for a good brushing. She loves the winter firings in the masonry heater, waiting in front of the heater every morning, staring at Attila as she sits erect and regal, emanating expectation. She loves to sit at the window and watch the birds in the trees, which is not possible in the winter when the blinds are closed against the cold. She loves it when I whistle softly and blow gently by her ears; I think she can hear a little of the high pitched sound, and likes the head to head attention. Mist is a very happy cat!

A lot of posts on Facebook are expressed through a graphic with a quote printed onto it. I am a big fan of quotes, I include one with every journal entry; sometimes tied into my prose, other times as a “what do you make of it” exercise. But I am growing tired, and almost offended, by the Graphic/Quote avalanche on Facebook. Quotes are, of themselves, without context. They are usually very general and can be adopted by many philosophical positions. The way they are bandied about on Facebook renders them almost meaningless as a form of cogent communication. I have come to think of Graphic/Quote offerings as representing a superficial agreement, like politeness, where there is no depth of understanding, no meeting of minds; only an agreed upon facade. I regard the Graphic/Quote as a form of intellectual herding. Facebook seems a classic case of “the medium is the message” [Marshall McLuhan].

The posts on Facebook that entail the author’s own thoughts, feelings, descriptions, and links to information that interest them, are a treat. Those friends are on my close friends list, usually the only posts I read these days. I now ignore “friends” who ignore me, nothing personal, just following the do unto others adage. You can assume you are on my reading list, if your reading this.

Snowing still, since last night. Shovel, shovel, toil and trouble.

Worldly Distractions


Date: 9:36 AM EST Friday 17 January 2014
Condition: Light Snow
(HA! I see 4 inches have fallen since we went to bed last night!)
Pressure: 100.7 kPa
Visibility: 5 km
Temperature: -3.3°C
Dewpoint: -4.1°C
Humidity: 94%
Wind: SE 15 km/h
Wind Chill: -9


“Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.”
Will Durant
1885 – 1981

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Tom McCubbin

I miss my cats, but dont know if I will ever get another. The last was eaten by coyotes.

Yes, quotes are a cop-out for not having to think or bother to express one’s self…


We have coyotes here too and I worry about our dogs when they are outside. Not sure a coyote would attempt to attack a collie dog but you never know.

Don’t do FB or Twitter at all. I don’t see what the attraction is really. I’d much rather read full sentences, full thoughts, written by more realistic friends than one finds there. All this new gobble-speak, as I call it, just shows that I am an old fart in a land of young snippers.