Paint

There is a point, in a burgeoning friendship, when it all seems like a bad idea. One wonders if this was a good idea, if this is a deal breaker, if you can stand this revelation. When you find out they actually like J.D. Salinger, or Ender's Game. And you haven't found out yet that they were only 13 when they read them, or considered them the best of a bad mandatory school assignment lot.

When you misread, or fear you are reading accurately, hints. When the flags look red, but that might just be the angle of the sun.

When you've had bad relationships, trusted too much when the doubts were whispering, and your fear is coloring the clues - but you can't tell if you are reading too much into little things, or seeing the same damn things.

Or that point in a new job when you think you'd like to quit, but you know that is a mistake - or maybe it's not. Apply to any big change, any major decision, a move, a new house, whatever.

I think Moby and Eleanor are there. And they didn't choose themselves. Not a certainty, just a flavor of regret, doubt, a sliding back to reassess. Exasperation.

You have no way of knowing that around the corner is compassion, understanding, explanation, affection. Instead, there is only the terror of making the same damn mistake.

When we chose Eleanor, sitting there in the room with a dozen cats and a half dozen people. She has her paws on my bare knee, and a four year old SCREAMS! at the top of her lungs. Eleanor does not startle, does not sink claws into flesh, she flicks her ears. I have to trust that moment.

Just as I had to trust the moment when I first held Moby, and he wriggled to get out of my arms, but put out no claws, no teeth, and once on the floor looked up at us as if to say, "Look, I'm not going to suck up to you, but can you get me outta here?"


Brain came and painted the upper two sections of the triangle of the front roof edge. The paint in poor shape, didn't want to leave it another winter as it was. The bottom edge I can get myself. He was up on the roof, reaching over. Upper 90's most the time, and him baking up on the shingles. Very nice, bright color. Can't wait for the cooler temps, and I will get the last bit.


Addendum: They played, chased and played. Moby finally "got" the chasing play. He is a smart cat, after all. There will be further setbacks, but we do progress.