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Nancy, named after the wife of the president in office at the time of her arrival at our house in 1982, just turned 13, or 91 in people years. She looks rather like a fat, furry, bowling pin with legs and ears, almost completely white with only a tiny patch of black and tan on her head to reveal the Calico in the woodpile. She waddles around our house mustering as much dignity and self-esteem as you'd expect from an elderly fat cat. When she comes to rest, it is usually in the center of a well trafficked lane, I expect to demonstrate to one and all that she is in charge of this here house. Of course, when undisciplined grandchildren arrive on the scene, prudence overcomes her feelings of majesty and she retreats to the underbed fortress.
When she was about three, spayed with her cattin' around days well behind her, she discovered religion. That is, she discovered the religion of the Magic Water.
She had long before, like dogs and cats alike, discovered the toilet as a reliable alternate watering hole to her watering dish, which we occasionally forgot to refill. One day, quite by accident she witnessed the Flushing Waterhole Miracle and her life was never the same thereafter. Soon, whenever she saw one of her subjects enter the bathroom, she would edge her way in, on the off chance that she would once again witness that awesome event. Females disappointed her, as they sat on the Water Hole, excreted foul smelling substances into the water and then, worst of all, blocked Nancy's access to the Miracle by sitting there too long while the Miracle commenced.
With male subjects she had better luck, discovering that if she climbed onto the sink, she could get a better view. Indeed, male humans dispensed there icky fluids from a full standing position and then let her see the wondrous churning and spinning of water as, again and again, the Magic Water Hole did its thing.
As luck would have it, one day while sitting on the sink waiting for the Event, she noticed that someone had neglected to turn the water spigots on the sink completely off. She couldn't believe her eyes and mouth! Running fresh (well, almost fresh, we DO live in a city) water to lap and suck and just let run over one's forehead. The true meaning of it all must have become clear to her at that moment. Life was about fresh water to drink and water to wash away the foul smelling debris of life! And that is how I became enlisted as a priest. This was a definite promotion for me in our Cat Society. Prior to that, I was just another automatic-door-opener and food-dish-filler in her life. Now, my life had purpose. My job was to make sure a trickle of water was flowing from the sink faucet at any time the mistress wished. In honesty, I often find it easier to just leave the damned faucet running all the time, but please don't tell on me to the scarcity police. The 30 quarts or so of water we waste every month this way wouldn't go very far watering their model gardens anyway.
Next came the rituals. It took her a while to work them out, but eventually she settled on a standard service that goes like this.
It is worthwhile noting that these actions are performed, in exactly this sequence and with exactly this timing, even if the door is left ajar, blocking her actual view of events. That is, it isn't so important that she actually see what is happening, but she MUST face in the direction of the Holy Whirlpool.
Talk to you later...
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