Speaking of naughty

"It doesn't matter what color the cat is as long as it catches mice." -Chinese Proverb

Maybe it does matter, or at least make a difference in personality. I ran across this information tonight from a book called Animals Make Us Human by Dr. Temple Grandin.

A small part of one of her chapters examines research on cats' colorings and behavior patterns.

Grandin suggests that black cats (generally) make the friendliest cats, while tortoiseshells are typically "naughty torties." This rings true in the context of my personal experience.

Although, Athena is technically a "Torbie" (tortoiseshell-tabby) as Catherine taught me, she definitely has what they call "Tortie-tude."

Anyway, according to this book, black cats tend to be more social overall with other cats and humans. It discusses how black fur is a recessive gene, needed from both parents. So, it is a trait that has been selectively bred. Grandin states (but doesn't follow-up or impact) an assertion that the black fur gene has evolved four different times in four different species of cat. She also remarks that a researcher with the feline genome project theorizes black cats may be resistant to viruses in the HIV family. Grandin argues that orange male cats are more aggressive than black males. She says orange cats tend to be more fearful and shy, so they express more of what she calls "fear aggression" if they are provoked or cornered. Although, she is careful to clarify that neutered orange males and females can be extremely affectionate (even if they may still startle easily). She ends by restating that all cats are truly individuals, and color doesn't guarantee personality, but these are traits researchers are beginning to investigate.

I don't know about the orange cat part, but I agree black cats are very affectionate and like to be around people (at least "their" human/s). And I can testify that "torbie-tude" does exist. Oh yes it does.

What I learned today: Werewolves enjoy romantic interludes between meals

I went to J.D.'s work today. It was sort of weird, but the weather is cold, windy, and rainy here, and J.D. didn't want me to have to walk home from a doctor's appointment. So, I sat in the corner by his desk reading, for 3 hours, trying to be invisible. On the bright side, it's a good way to make me actually do my reading.

I admire J.D. very much for what he does. I couldn't do it. And now I also feel like a bum for complaining about the opportunity I have to do what I like.

While reading I did encounter an interesting coincidence. It appears that Bill Ayers' group, Weatherman, bombed and blew up the house where James Merrill was born, 18 West 11th Street. Imagine that. What a small world.

Right now J.D. is asleep on the couch with Sophie cuddled up beside his head. It's a funny, cute sight.

There was a party at J.D.'s work tonight, some special November event that we didn't plan to attend, but since we were there, we wandered down and had some free dinner. (Fried Ravioli, a St. Louis thing). They had really good white chocolate chip cookies. I also learned things. (Keep in mind for this story that they were serving unlimited alcohol at the party since 3:00 p.m., and we got there around 5:30 p.m.).

One of J.D.'s coworkers (a woman) yelled across the tiny table at me: "Do you READ?"

I replied, "Yes, I read."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Mostly older things, classics."

(Frown) "Anything paranormal?"

(Me smiling, thinking I may have a chance here). "Yes, actually, I'm really interested in spiritualism and even some poetry written using the Ouija Board."

(Bigger Frown) "Oh, well, you should read Paranormal Erotica. It's fantastic, not boring!!!

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Paranormal Erotica! It's really sexy, like an X rated movie except with werewolves and vampires!

To my good fortune, they started playing the electric slide at this moment, and I was spared any description of hot lycanthrope on homosapien action. I did get a comforting look from J.D. that said, "I'm sorry," and his eyes communicated that he was about to step in, had the electric slide not come to the immediate rescue. I commented to him, "I certainly haven't written that chapter yet."

Picture from Wikipedia

What I'm "Reading"

I open Precipitations: Contemporary American Poetry as Occult Practice and my nose is hit by the scent of laundry. I read "Our sense of the situation we are in determines how we interpret things" and the rising smell of dryer sheets invades and permeates my thinking. I only read this book when J.D. and I do laundry--and now-- it has soaked in the smell of detergent, bleach, warm cotton socks spinning in dryers. Now I can read "intelligence requires a Heideggerian 'being in the world,'" but all I think about is 7 loads of clothes: darks, lights, delicates, reds. It's the smell of midnight and "20 minutes to go." The pages have been assaulted by those dryer sheet molecules--sinking into the fabric of the text with ink and paper. Downy "water lily and jasmine" or is it "vanilla and lavender" -- it doesn't matter, they smell the same -- merges with the smell of words: positions, capability, doubt, and composition.

Does one word smell more than another? I press my face into my book. Yes. "Descartes" on page 16 smells less than "world" on page 17. "Learning" smells pungent. "Uncertainties" is close enough to the binding so it still smells mostly vague, like paper. "School" in the top right corner smells like my fingers holding the book-- sliced cheese -- lunch. I put my whole face into the book-- pushing my cheeks up against "ecology" and "influenced" on both sides and smell-- nothing, just air, just the binding, maybe glue. I like that smell best.

Now I reflect that smelling my book instead of reading it, here in my office, must seem a little strange. My office mates are politely trying to ignore me. Maybe they're afraid next time I'll try drinking a book or chewing the book -- to test if "famous" tastes more salty than "Robert Duncan"-- probably not. Maybe "anthology" is sweet -- maybe "commitment" bitter? The truth is that I like inhaling words, tasting them too. Although, next time I'll find a book that hasn't soaked in the Delmar Laundromat.