Ever since I saw The Octopus Teacher, I've been thinking about my relationship to nature and animals, and I realized that my version of a coral reef and an octopus is a garden and cats.
The garden's not exactly wild, of course, but like nature, it's a constant reminder that nothing is static, that humanity, for all of our technology and architecture, is still bound by cycles of life and death, and that these cycles are the source of much beauty and heartbreak.
Then there are the cats.
Of our cats, Clio is the most attached to the garden. Every day, she patrols the perimeter and looks for strays, whose scent I'm sure she can detect because they move through the space in the night and sometimes sleep under the ferns. Watching her, I try to imagine the fears and desires running through her mind. There are obviously limits to this kind of speculation, which is what makes animals fascinating, particularly those we see every day. They are obsessed with worlds that have very little to do with ours, and their relationship with the worlds in which they live makes these worlds in some ways seem better than ours -- more harmonious and balanced, more in sync with something primal and essential -- even if, at moments, they seem more cruel and frightening (as was apparent with the world of the octopus that was the source of so much speculation on the part of the filmmaker).
INTERMISSION: 'THE OTHER SIDE' A NEW SONG by DEATH CULTURE @ SEA
Links to the song and playlist.
If all three cats are in the garden, we often try to cajole them into getting on the table at the same time, which they will do, but they always seem as perplexed by our motivations ('we want you to look cute') as we are by theirs. It's a good reminder that many -- and possibly most -- things humans do with great moral imperative are the result of desires far more arbitrary (and more destructive) than those of any animal.
Sometimes Zephyr decides to watch the proceedings from the deck, which is a relief because he likes to eat plants, an impulse that -- if unchecked by us -- will result in days of vomiting and, a few times in recent years, fearful calls to the vet. Zephyr is now fourteen and we worry that his vomiting is a symptom of chronic kidney failure, which spells the end for many cats. (His recent bloodwork came back clean, thankfully.) Sometimes I wonder if this kind of neurotic behavior (eating plants as if they were all part of a big salad) is a result being domesticated, held captive by a life he didn't choose.
And then I remind myself that, to extent, we are all held captive by lives we didn't choose.
Were these toad lilies happy to end up in a trough in the city? If not, at least they are making the best of it.
How about this new azalea we recently bought, engineered to flower in the spring *and* the fall? It was raised somewhere in the midwest and sent to us through the mail, after which it emerged from a dark box and was planted into a new spot in our garden. I look at it every day in its new home in our garden and hope that it will be happy.
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