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Mar. 12, 2007 Cat Born close to Queen St. West, it was a small Torty. It was in the late part of a humid summer. There was a hotdog vendor at the brighter part of the alley, where it met the street, and he sold sausages and pops also. There were sesame seed buns, and all the condiments too. The cat didn’t go that far from the rest. It could smell the Italian and Polish sausages though, and lifted its head up to the air. It was mean streets there, and the alley, as dirty as it was, was a sanctuary from the coughing mufflers, the horns, the loud voices, and numerous other noises. That cat slept beside its brothers and sisters, staying in a big cardboard box. Sometimes it would rain, and the cardboard box would leak, and then collapse altogether. At times like this, they would have to find another box. They ate what the restaurants there threw out for the garbage. Black bags were put there, and there was an actual dumpster along the way. Autumn came though, and it started to get colder. Someone came and gathered the cats, and took them to a shelter. There they had examinations and received shots. They were put in cages and outside of the cages of the felines were nametags with some info about their medical status, and even a few words that the workers had written there about the animals' personalities. The small Tort’s read: BOOTS LIKES TO HEAD BUT PEOPLE AND IS VERY FRIENDLY. HE LIKES TO BATH OTHER ANIMALS AND TO ROLL AROUND IN HER CATNIP. HE IS LOOKING FOR A LOVING FAMILY. A family did come in, a farming family, from Northern Ontario. They came every weekend, to sell fruits and vegetables at the farmer’s market. They were planning on getting a few cats. They bought three. They bought two Tabby cats and the Tort. The farmer wore overalls and a plaid shirt underneath. He watched on while his wife and children had picked out the animals. Off they went a little later with the three cages for the long drive ahead. The animals purred a bit, and sometimes seemed to cry with fear, and the family tried to talk the strange talk that people engage in while trying to communicate with animals under such circumstances: HEY KITTY. DON'T WORRY. HEEEERE KITTY-KITTY-KITTY. SOON YOU'LL BE AT YER NEW HOME PRECIOUS. SHHH...SHHH...AHHHH...NICE KITTY...HAPPY KITTY... And there were clucks, and kissing sounds make in the air... Back at the farm, the cats were let out, and began their new life. The Tort no longer heard the sounds of horns, or any of the other strange city sounds, though there was a tractor sometimes that started up, and power tools also. However, whereas in the urban place, the walls echoed and contained these sounds, sometimes seeming to magnify them and make them linger forever, this rural setting absorbed noises, yes the endless sky, or the miles of wheat, or the good dirt earth itself absorbed everything, and housed everything, and accepted everything. The Tort played with the other cats, and searched out mice. Sometimes the three of them cornered one, and closed in, a small feline triangle of what was usually certain death. The three killed birds too, and sometimes pawed a cricket or larger green grasshopper. Even in the winter they went out, and sat on some logs or a frozen square of hay that was there. After some time, Boots never really remembered the alley and his origins. He was untouchable now that way, safe and solid, so aligned as he was with his good and right destiny, part and parcel of the barns, the house, the wrap around porch, the summer skies, and the winter winds. Worlds Canyons and cartridges, crows and canteens, or the birds on the wire. Flack jackets and rudimentary blues, or the trees under the world. Hollow earth dandies, and the floral pencil sadness. Drive thru windows and cans of salt, the pop from the cushiony billowy world, and the Jupiter over Mars. Trains and tracks and traveled tall flats. Going to the mountains, and going to the shores, or going for broke, or going to the floors. Look for the moons, and look for the rings, walk with the bells and listen to the dings. Hair and silver, and visceral hues, perms and whistles, and the good subtle cues. Look at the walls and look at the malls, or watch the big sweaters or the lowly old shawls. There in the fan, they make so much wind, the man in the radio, talking of sin. Red or green, or the ways in between, buckets of gold and the wolves are so lean. There are greedy old bitches, with a head full of sin, don’t know where they go, only know where they bin, and the rocks and the hearts or the swollen stream too, there is no room, not even for Sue. Go down to the valleys, where the strange people play, go down to the pebbles, and look at their way. The world it ended, and the new one began, no countries, no borders, not even Japan. Buttons and earrings, and white teeth of war, went down to the past, and caused trouble no more. Speakers and lectures and ways it could be, by the old church and bells, for you and for me. There were women and giants and dogs all alone, there were posters and boasters and rotted old foam. Belts and links and ski slopes at night, the flaky white fluffs, falling down in the light. The shirts and the prints, and the skulls with the snakes, the leaves and the pills and the old taped up rakes. Radios and dashboards, and songs banging loud, nicotine and good chords, and the whole forlorn crowd. Blouses and buxom candy cane dreams, there are sinister looks in the souls of old queens. Denim and black drinks where the people descend, rouge and some engines, if all can defend. Fingers and rings and their thick types of ways. The new world, the old world, and the glorious days. The planets, the spaces, the four moons, and their places. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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