Dewey, the Semi-Siamese

WANTED: A mamma. Species irrelevant. Must love me and
protect me. Lactation a plus.

Once upon a time, I was quite pregnant with Eleanor. I walked out into the garage, looked out across the alley, and saw a Siamese kitten. Our eyes locked. He began meowing, sensing that I was, if not exactly his lost mamma cat, somebody's mamma, which was close enough. He had clearly never been inside a building before (the ceiling freaked him out for hours), but without hesitation, he walked in and made himself at home.

Best. Bath. Ever.

Really at home. One night a month or two later, I was on my side, sleeping the uncomfortable sleep of the very pregnant when I felt a cold, wet nose nuzzling me. Awww, how sweet!
Then I felt some cold, sharp teeth biting me in a very sensitive area: Dewey was trying to latch on for a midnight snack. This was probably the first time my obstetrician had ever been asked whether a late-night nipple bite would cause any future problems with breastfeeding.

Although he was unsuccessful at nursing, Dewey still enjoyed some benefits of my pregnancy. For one, Eleanor as a fetus was very insistent about getting regular chocolate milkshakes from Whataburger. I was also getting pretty clumsy, and one night I dropped an entire milkshake on Dewey, who was in my lap. It was probably the highlight of his life.

Things only got better for Dewey when the baby arrived. For one thing, there was all the baby gear to try out.

And try it out he did, every single baby item. You'll notice it didn't take him long to reveal that he was not a pure Siamese. He was very clearly part Siamese and part something very big and very white. There were several white strays around that could've been his daddy. But no matter how big he got, he never gave up on being a baby. We named him Dewey, not as some sort of bibliophile reference to his suave intelligence and sophistication, because he had none of those things. He was the biggest goofball ever. Nope, we named him after the youngest child in the TV series Malcolm in the Middle--the not-so-innocent little brother who somehow manages to skate out of trouble on the strength of pure adorableness. That was Dewey.

It looked like this, only
significantly less healthy
because it spend most of its
time on the kitchen floor.

There was one other baby item that Dewey was particularly fond of...baby formula. He stalked us as we made up the bottles, licking stray granules of powder from the counter tops. If you left a bottle lying around, he'd start nursing from it. And he wasn't overly picky about whether his formula was fresh or...recycled. See, Eleanor had a bad reflux problem. So he would wait at the foot of the rocking chair for us to burp her. As soon as she spit up, he would run to lick it up off the carpet...at last getting the milk he had been denied.

Eleanor was not a big fan of the pacifier--but Dewey was. Every time she spat one out, he'd find it and carry it around in his mouth (usually backwards).

When he began teething, Dewey chewed on my cactus. I brought it home from work when I went on maternity leave because I was afraid it would die of neglect while I was gone. As it turns out, it died from slow torture and profound abuse at the jaws of Dewey. Cacti have rather shallow root systems, because who'd want to grab a giant ball of spikes? Dewey would. He would climb up to the kitchen window, wrap his jaws around it, pull it out of its pot, and carry it around the room, usually depositing it in the middle of the kitchen floor. I would pick it up and put it back in the pot. The next morning, I'd find it back on the floor again. Eventually, the cactus, no doubt dreaming of a pleasant death by dehydration at the office, gave up and died.

Dewey, the Headless Cat.

He was quite the cat. He had a loud, very Siamese meow and an easygoing disposition, and he was an affectionate lap cat. However, by the time Bruce and Betty came along, he was an adult, and found babies much less amusing...and toddlers even less so. When we moved back to Austin, he took advantage of an open door and ran away...and never returned. I was devastated. Dewey was truly one of a kind. I'll admit it--eight years later, I still look for him in the streets around the old neighborhood.

Yeah. I'm awesome.Got milk?

On the Dubious Character of Cats

At Windsor Park Elementary in Corpus Christi, we learned
speed reading using one of these gizmos (called a tachistoscope),
although I seem to remember a cheesy wood-grain plastic finish
on ours. You looked through the view finder and they displayed
a story, line by line. If you passed the test at the end, the next
one went faster. My brain fried at about 70 wpm. Or maybe
that was my max high school typing speed. Or both.
Anyway, I can read really fast, thanks to the tachistoscope.
I just don't remember any of it. And I don't seem to be able
to slow my reading down, either. I blame the tachistoscope.
Just look at that thing. It was probably some secret government
research project to reprogram kids' brains. At some point,
they'll send out a signal, and everyone who spent hours
in front of this thing will suddenly start trying to kill
Communists or start disco-ing. It was the 70's, could be either.

I just finished re-reading Susan Rooke's novel, The Space Between. I re-read a lot of good books because I have a notoriously bad short-term memory. I can read a book and tell you if I liked it or not, but the details are pretty fuzzy, fading away into hazy impressions almost as soon as I close the cover. I can tell you the basic plot (probably), and I may even remember the characters' names (major ones), but depth-wise, it's about as shallow as a South Texas rain puddle--and disappears about as fast.

Personally, I think of it as a positive quality. It means that I forget bad books pretty much as soon as I'm done, and when I re-read the good ones, I get to experience them as though it were the first time. Win-win.

Anyway, I really like The Space Between, for several reasons. I really admire a writer who is able to take a subject so common that we think we know everything about it--and then turn those expectations upside down. We've been telling tales of Heaven and Hell for 2,000 years. Over time, our imaginings have tended to converge--a shining city in the clouds, reunions with family and friends who have gone before, beautiful angels with golden harps. Or, its opposite--fire, brimstone, torture for the wicked, and horned demons with forked tails.

Bob likes The Space Between, too.
It elevates him nearly 2 inches--4 if you count
the blanket, and you must count every inch
when you're a wanna-be dictator who only
 stands a foot off the ground.

The Space Between makes you think just a little bit harder about those images. As I said in my Amazon review of the book, if you like your religion straight and narrow, this probably isn't your book. But that doesn't make it an un-religious or even heretical book--just an original one. The passage where Mellis gets a glimpse of Heaven is beautifully--and originally--rendered. You can feel yourself there with her, in the jewel-toned brilliance of a wild, untamed nature, connecting with loved ones and strangers in a powerful, compassionate way. And the passages with Satan and Hell are disgusting and repulsive, in a visceral way--because, you know...Satan is supposed to be actually disgusting and repulsive. Because of the author's powerful descriptions (she is a poet, after all), Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, are settings and characters--not just abstractions.

She also weaves a variety of inventively drawn faerie species into the tale, a dragon, and a talking vulture.

My favorite character, though is Kindle the Cat. One thing I missed in my first reading was Kindle's story of his origins. Without giving too much away, suffice it to say that Kindle (like his feline descendants in our world) has a little bit of Heaven and a little bit of Hell in his character.

At their best, cats are affectionate and loyal (at least to a person or two, most of the time, when it suits their interests), considerately pet-able when you're down, amusingly clownish when you need a laugh, and ridiculously adorable.

And elegant. Just look at Daisy.

And at their worst...well...let's just say Kindle's origin story explains a lot. That part might not have been fiction.

Yeah, I'm plotting something. Something awful. Something terrible. Something that will shake your world to its very foundations. It probably involves the sparkly snake-like feather toy that used to be on a stick, but I'll leave my options open, in case you're walking around in socks. Feet + socks = prey. Heh, heh, heh.

If you're looking for a great fantasy tale with an original premise and vivid descriptions, I recommend Susan Rooke's The Space Between. I can't wait to see where she takes the series next...it is one series where you definitely don't feel like you know where the story is going to end up.