Monday, January 19, 2009

Hera hurling Zeus-borrowed bolts

Death dodging in Weehawken this week.

The "Miracle on the Hudson"... !!! What a beautiful thing...

The plane landed around Midtown Manhattan, in the Hudson across from Weehawken, where I live. The plane's pilot, "Sully," grew up in Denison, Texas, where I was born...


In other death-averted news:

My cat Gracie has been sick all week. All of a sudden unable to walk straight. Not eating. She's only 10.

When she was a kid, she used to hunt birds and lizards for me, eating every bit of them except for their hearts, which she would leave on my balcony for me to admire.

When I moved to a small house from the apartment with the balcony, she was a real porch kitty. Sitting there, and to leap from the porch rail up onto the roof in a single bound... That was at least 6 fucking feet! I can't think of any little beast that could ever even dream about doing that!

And then there was the time that I was taking some boxes out to the dumpster that sat catty-cornered across the street from my house... I dumped the boxes off, then started back home... Only to have a maniac-cat leap out at me from a drainage-ditch! SURPRISE! (There was a drain off the street... Gracie had, for some reason, jumped right down into it---hopefully she saw the platform below-ground before she jumped... And she waited on that subterranean platform for me to walk back... When she saw me, she SPRANG!)

Before I moved to NYC, I used to talk to her: "Are you a New York Kitty? You ARE a New York Kitty, I know you are..." In Austin, she'd always been an indoor/outdoor cat, always had her freedom. In moving to New York, there was the scary plane ride, then the first apartment with 6 other cats, several of them vicious; then the second apartment, with the basset hound; then the third apartment, with the manic roommate always trying to grab under my bed for her... She put up with all of it.

It's been peacefully just me and her in this current apartment since last February... I thought she was OK, I thought I had her with me until she was at least 16 or 17... I'd always promised her a ground-floor apartment, where I could let her outside when she wanted...I'd always promised her a little brother for company...

If she dies now... Not Gracie. Not at only 10... She's always been a wild, healthy cat... I keep nuzzling her, saying, "You have got to get to at least 17, honey; please be with me until I'm 50, when I'm old and you're old..."

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