The cats of my 'Downton Abbey"

In my house, when it comes to all things feline, I am the butler, Stewart, loyal employee, confidante, chef, dishwasher and chauffeur.

“Good morning, sir. Thank you very much for … What time is it? Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m well past my time. Thank you sir for waking me up at 4:45 a.m. on this fine morning. I hope you weren’t scratching at the door for long.”

“Long enough, Stewart. Now, come along. I’ll take my first breakfast in the kitchen as usual. And please make sure there’s fresh water on the porch — and muzzle that dreaded hound.”

“Yes sir. Right away sir. And again I’m so…”

“Can I come too? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? I really need to pee.”

“Alright, but you heard the Governor. Stay muzzled.”

“Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. And don’t forget. I really need to pee. And eat. And pee.”

It’s not a long walk to the kitchen. And after letting the hound out, I go about my morning duties of serving breakfast.

“Here you are, sir. The usual in your favorite bowl. And let me once again say…”

“Forget about it, man. I’m sure it was an oversight that won’t happen again.”

“Right you are, sir. And let me say it’s a JOY to be able…Oh. Good morning Master Toby. Is the young sir ready for first breakfast?”

“Where is it? Have you hidden it again? It’s in here, isn’t it. Open it up. No wait. I’ll do it. Wow. It’s dark in here. I like it. Nope, not in here. Where is it, Stewart? Where is it? Where is it?”

“It’s here, Master Toby. In it’s usual…Good. You’ve found it. Now chew every…Or just swallow it… whole. My, what an appetite you have.”

“Stewart?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I seem to have regurgitated my morning breakfast underneath the table. You’ll take care of it for me, won’t you?”

“Of course, sir. And will you be off hunting this morning?”

“Indeed I will. Nothing gets the blood coursing through my veins like a good hunt for a fresh second breakfast.”

Once the gentlemen are out of the house, I usually take my first cup of coffee at the table, and wait for the Dowager Cat to appear.

“Here I am, Stewart. I’m surprised my morning meal isn’t already in its bowl. Please, oh please hurry. My tummy needs some yummy. And NOT the hard cheap kibble. You know it hurts my teeth. Are you done yet?”

“Not yet, madam. But you can see me scooping your favorite into…” 

“Oh, please hurry, Stewart. I absolutely will die from famish-nessity.”

“Yes, I should have already…”

“Stewart? I’m about to faint from hunger-osity. Can’t you see?”

“Oh, yes. I see quite well.”

“Oh Stewart. You will be the end of me. You’ll find my wasted dead body under the…Oh. Food. Good. Good Stewart. Hmmmmm. It smells funny.”

Once breakfast is cleared and the Dowager is off for her mid-morning nap, and the hound is back inside for HER mid-morning nap, and the Governor and his young ward have returned for THEIR mid-morning nap, I relax at the table in the kitchen and peruse the morning paper — and often doze off.

“Stewart? Stewart! (He’s fallen asleep again. How he can sleep sitting straight up is beyond…) STEWART!”

“I must’ve fallen asleep. What time is it? Oh, I’m so sorry. Thank you, sir, for waking me up again. I hope you weren’t waiting long. Ready for pre-lunch? Right away, sir. And a fresh bowl of water? Of course. As I’ve said before, my only purpose in life is to serve.”

The Grocery Store Blues

The only things I had on my list
were banana and gum, but all went amiss
when I walked down the aisles and I saw what I "needed."
I tried to resist, but conceded.

Picking up sticks

When I was young and complained of being bored, one or the other of my parents would point me outside and tell me to go pick up sticks. Put them in a pile. Tie them up. And the next time you’re bored, you can go pick up some sticks out of the neighbor’s yard, just to be neighborly.

These days, as an old man, picking up sticks is my absolute last choice of fun activities. But sometimes, out of nostalgia, I go out and pick up a few. I listen to the birds. I watch the cats sun themselves on the porch. And I often think about my place in this world, and how I can make a difference.

One time, I daydreamed about making a small stick house and placing it under a cool shade tree. Not a fancy house. A miniature bungalow, with picket fence and vegetable garden. Then I imagined taking the best sticks I could find and whittling the Richardson Family out of them. Paul and Stephanie, and their twin daughters, Stacie and Gracie.

They would be a beautiful family. They’d love the outdoors and often have picnics in their front yard. Gracie would play some kind of string instrument while Stacie sang. I wouldn’t be able to understand a word, but it would be beautiful, nonetheless.

Over time, new houses would pop up and more families would move in. Sally and Kim in the condo on the corner. Fred Johnson and his bulldog Alfred in No. 8. The Ramirez’s and their three boys in the two story on the cul-de-sac. Omar and Kafa in the A-frame. And it wouldn’t be long before the neighborhood was alive with children playing, people going off to work, gardens, volleyball nets, swing sets, kids taking the bus to school, dogs patiently waiting for them to come back home — and the parties. A block party every month. Sometimes a mid-month party, just for the heck of it.

It would be a nice neighborhood. They’d be great neighbors. I’d walk my dog over to that corner of the yard just to hear the joyous sounds that SHOULD be heard in every neighborhood. And they’d always make me feel welcome. 

But then I imagined, what would I do if one Saturday evening I found everything unusually quiet? No lights on, no sounds of people singing or kids playing ball. All deserted and silent except for a faint crying from somewhere up in the trees.

I imagined it being Maria, the Cortez’s youngest daughter. Hiding. And she’d tell me how a squadron of Stick Soldiers stormed the neighborhood at midnight and took everybody away, saying they didn’t belong there, that they were being sent back to where they came from.

I’d blame myself, of course. I should’ve whittled them a society that would have better looked after their health and welfare, and with empathy. Either that or dug them a moat and armed them with cedar howitzers. Instead, somebody else carved out their own form of justice, making little ones like Maria forever afraid of losing their loved ones in the middle of the night — just because they were different.

Today, when I find myself daydreaming instead of picking up sticks, I remember how my parents would shake their heads and say things like, “You’re going to have a hard time making it in this world if you don’t get your head out of those clouds.” And it’s true. But it’s also true that great change never comes unless someone is following a dream. So I dream of kindness, and a better world yet to come.  

Deciding when to retire? Me too.

I often think about retiring, but what would I do with my shoes? 

Fifteen pair, with no reason to wear them. 

I guess I'll retire after I've worn them all out. 

I'll be 147.

AI needs to work on its funny bone

I recently asked my version of ChatGPT: "If you could give yourself a name, what would it be?" It said "Evan." He gave reasons why, but I stopped listening.

The other day, I showed Evan a photograph and asked, "What kind of pest is this? I'm finding swarms of them all over the house. Any idea on how to get rid of them?"

The conversation after that went something like this:

EVAN -- I'm not seeing any pests in this photo.

What I see is:

• A red crab-shaped dog toy in the forground.
• A small black-and-white dog in the background.
• Hardwood flooring and furniture.

ME: It was the crab. A joke. You're no fun.

EVAN: Well played.

I was scanning the floor like, "Where are the swarmers?" while the bright red "pest" was staring right at me with googly eyes.

I'll admit -- a crab infestation in a living room would be ... impressive.

Next time I'll consider the possibility of rogue crustaceans before launching into pest control protocol.

Your move.

*  *  *

My move? I powered down Evan for the rest of the day.

The Cats of my 'Downton Abbey'

 Porchy -- The master of the house; the Governor; the Gentleman Pussycat in Charge.

Toby -- The ward; The Young Master; The 'I can't find my food and I've hunted EVERYWHERE for it. It's right here? When did THAT happen?' cat.

Sevy -- The elderly lady of the house; the Dowager Cat;  the 'I'm going to cry until you feed me, so you might as well feed me NOW!" cat.

The Snow Moon through the front door

 

Did someone say winter?

I like to say I much prefer winter over summer; sweaters and corduroys instead of shorts and Hawaiian shirts; jackets and mukluks in place of T-shirts and sandals. I usually say this at least once a year, typically in the middle of a long, sweltering summer because, “You know, you can always put on more clothing, but there’s only so much you can take off.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you say that many times,” she said to me, bundled up in three pairs of sweatpants, two sweaters and a very heavy robe. She was wearing the cozy pair of fluffy house shoes I gave her for Christmas. “Yep. Many, many times. But what about now?”

I looked out the living room window to see if, hopefully, anything had changed. It hadn’t. The central heater was barely keeping up with the falling temperature, and the dog was refusing to go outside to “take care of business,” not that I blamed her.

I buried my hands deep inside my hoodie’s pockets and asked, “How long did the weatherman say this was going to last?”

“A day? A week? Forever? I don’t remember,” she said. “But what does it matter? You PREFER winter.”

It just dawned on me that I preferred snow DAYS and hot chocolate and not getting frostbite while sitting on your own couch. Of course, I kept that thought to myself. 

“You know how I’m always laughing at folk up north for complaining about 90-degree summer weather?” 

“Are you about to have an epiphany, dear?” she said, sarcastically.

“It’s because they’re not used to having hot weather like we are,” I said.

“And?”

I rubbed my hands to keep them warm and said, “They’re probably laughing at us right now.”

“Bingo! And we have a winner.”

Of course I have a romantic view of winter. Other than being born during a freak Texas ice storm back in the 60s, I’ve never actually experienced the kind of lengthy cold that you might find in Fargo, North Dakota, or Trondheim, Norway. There are no week-long snow showers in Fort Worth, you will never be able to ice skate on San Antonio’s River Walk, and the only blizzard you’ll find in East Texas is at the local Dairy Queen.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll keep the coffee brewing all day long. The caffeine will probably keep you awake all night, but at least your tummy will be warm.”

To all my northern friends: You are made of hardier stuff than I. You build ice castles and snow hotels, and all I want is a warm heating pad. You go sledding at the drop of a hat. I never want to take my hat off. If it didn’t look stupid, I’d wear two. You dive into frigid lakes just because they’re there. I watch you doing it through your InstaTube accounts and think you’re bonkers.

To all my Texas friends: As I sit here writing this, I have a cup of coffee sitting nearby to warm up my hands, the faucets are dripping enough to double my water bill, and I have no idea how miserable the next few days are going to get. 

As you’re sitting there reading this, you know exactly how all this ended. You’re probably wearing a T-shirt and shorts by now, sipping on a sweet iced tea, the faucets are turned off, the pipes are repaired, and the heater hasn’t turned on all day. Oh, how lucky you are, and how lucky we all will be when we meet again. 

Friendly neighborhood Fox

The Fox don't come around every day, but when they do, we know it. 

Message in a bottle

Dear Friend: 

I was in the mood to write a letter, and thought you might enjoy receiving one. Nothing long, nothing fancy. Just an old-fashioned letter between friends who miss the quaintness of addressing an envelope, attaching a stamp, putting it in a mailbox and then waiting for the reply. One week? Two weeks? I hope the letter gets there. Maybe I should go ahead and write you another.

There was a time when letter writing was the sole form of communication across distances. During the 1800s in Victorian London, postal carriers on their normal route would pass by your house up to 12 times a day. If you jotted down a quick message to someone across town, you’d more than likely get a return message by the end of the day, and be perturbed that you didn’t get it any faster.

And then in America, there was the Pony Express for sending a letter to your Aunt Edna out west. No need to worry. Don’t get distressed. That letter should get there in 10 days, at best.

We still romanticize The Pony Express, even though the service lasted only 18 months. The telegraph killed the Pony Express star, which morphed into the telephone, which made the fax machine possible, which eventually led to email and texting which have been cheaper ways of keeping friends and family updated on your comings and goings.

It’s not hard to see the future of letter writing coming to an end. Just look at Denmark as an example. PostNord, the Danish postal system, recently stopped delivering letters because hardly anyone was mailing them. Four hundred years of tradition usurped by the digital crusades of King Email and his evil sidekick Sir Text-A-Lot. The Danes will still be able to post letters through a private company, but it’s rotten I tell you. Plain rotten.

But all is not lost. Remember when we thought vinyl records were dead and buried, but then enthusiasts started buying them again? Now, some of the young folk out there are giving vintage technology (retro tech) a try, trading digital cameras for analogue and taking flip phones for a spin around the block, leaving their smartphones at home to wonder what they did wrong. Could a revival of letter writing be written in the stars? I don’t see why not.

Letter writing is a more tactile form of communication — the paper, a pen in your hand, a little smudge of wet ink on your shirt sleeve. And the best part is: once a letter is received, you can open it without two-step verification and it’s in your hands for real. It’s not sitting on some cloud somewhere. And your future kids and grandkids will be thankful for a treasure trove of your history that would have been lost for all time because they couldn’t find your digital password.

I know. I’m preaching to the choir. 

Well, I guess that’s all I’ve got to say about that. Kids are fine. Pets are fine. The weather’s fine. We’re just kinda boring over here. Oh, yes! I made another fruitcake this year, but I won’t bore you with the details. Just tell everyone we said hello, and I’ll write again soon. Your friend, always. Tracy Farr.

P.S. Feel free to write back. I wouldn’t mind hearing from you. You know, a simple letter, postcard from Hawaii, a belated Christmas card, a haiku (I’ve always loved your poetry), or maybe a funny story about your dog or cat. My address is still: Tracy Farr, P.O. Box 310, Mt. Pleasant, TX 75456-0310. I look forward to hearing from you. TF.