Emotography – Week 29/2016

Mental (2)


This is a kitten we fostered last weekend.  We nicknamed her “Mental”.  She had no concept of gentle play, those claws were used to full power. The sight and sound of her galloping through the house was like a rampaging fluffy slipper crossed with a belligerent rhinoceros. She never slept during the day, but constantly zig-zagged in front of  your feet when you walked. She climbed everything.   I have never met such a hyperactive, insomniac kitten.

She tried, tried really hard, to be adorable.  She sidled sweetly, and walking sideways on four legs has got to be a hard thing to do to amuse people, she rubbed vigorously around your legs purring, but woe to you if you picked her up – those claws soon came into action.  She spat, hissed and showed those claws to our cat , the very placid Limpet, and then added insult to injury by trying to eat Limpet’s dinner.

Much as we tried to bond with her – she declined to be loved for anything longer than 0.5 of a second.  Regretfully we took her back on Monday. I hope she finds the right home, it just wasn’t ours.


If you would like to participate with your own Emotography, check out my  EPE Invitation where I explain what it all means and tell you how.

Emotography – Week 26/2016

 Rara ~ 2006 – 2016


no orange cat walking
shadowing me
no orange cat stalking
through silver birch trees
no orange cat sitting
waiting for tea
no orange cat purring

the grass will grow tall
under the trees
earth being nourished
by all that you were
marked by stone softly laid
to farewell the sun

© ceenoa


If you would like to participate with your own Emotography, check out my  EPE Invitation where I explain what it all means and tell you how.

My Cats don’t read – but they are Psychic!

I have discovered a very sad lack here at WordPress – you can’t insert a picture in a comment! Now, normally, I would not want to insert a comment, but my Cats have a pressing need to convey their feelings about a story I read yesterday.  (You can read the original story, written by Hugh Roberts, called “Needles” here).

Now, my cats do not read, at least I have never seen them doing it, their lives being composed of draping themselves comfortable over the seat outside, rolling in the gravel, curling in a ball and sleeping under the Hebe plant in the garden, following sedately behind me when I wander in the garden, the occasional half-hearted attempt to catch a turbo chook – oh, and eating.  Eating and sleeping, napping, snoozing and dozing.

Yep, no books are visible at all in the exhaustive list of events!  Therefore I conclude they are psychic (which should come as no surprise to those of us lucky enough to offer shelter and sustenance to them, as they always know when it is mealtime) and read my mind (after I read the story) and DID NOT approve (spoken in the Royal voice).

So, they knew!  They knew the terrible secret of the story, they knew and very NOT amused.

Limpet, she of the soft mottled grey, is a youngsterlimpet up tree, half blind and skittish with it.  Her response was to bound effortlessly straight up the tree to save her from the fate of Molly.  Happily she came to her senses and realised that I had not been to India, so she reversed shortly after.

Rara is a much older cat, of a certain disposition, and with definite ideas about appropriate content. Rara stalkingShe has indicated to me that she would like to discourse with the author about his story – in great depth, with the idea of clawing pointing out certain passages that she felt were entirely too familiar with her internal arrangements.

(Hugh, I recommend an immediate move to outer-outer-Outerland, and perhaps a change of name!)

So, there you have it.  Cats are people too.  (Oh, excuse me Rara, I certainly did not mean to infer that you are part of an inferior species …. really … NO really … there is no need for you to do that – please, stop it with the claws … look, if you don’t remove your claws I’m not getting you tea tonight …..yes, I apologise, I will never call you human again).  Sigh, Cats!

Question 20: When is a cat not a cat?

Last night, hearing lots of thumps and bangs from the back deck, I intrepidly went to investigate the source of the noise.
Something was eating the dry cat food, something that wasn’t a cat!
It was about the same size as a cat, it had the same number of legs as a cat.
It had a snout – not like a cat, and it hopped – again, not like a cat.
What was it?  I think it was a Bandicoot, but it hopped of so fast it was hard to tell.

So the question is:  why are my cats so pacifist that they sit there and watch the wildlife eat their tea?


The Forest that was Not

To call it writers block would be understating the fact.

Writers Forest is more like it.

Writers Doomsday Forest is even more accurate.

Nothing is happening in my brain-to-finger-equals-typing equation.

There is no funny verse percolating in my coffee pot brain, not humorous rhymes bubbling in my stew – in short, depression rules unto the 26th letter of the alphabet, and all combinations thereof.

What little that is rattling away in the very empty desert that used to be the forest, (said forest being decimated by the “blurgh” disease, that ran rampant and has only left little stumps which I keep bumping into and banging my head upon), is so downbeat that only moles are going to hear it – naked mole rats, those really ugly blind ones that crawl right over he top of each other in their tunnels, just to get to the tasty stringy root.

Not even a mother could love them, which is probably why they are blind, because if they could see themselves they would go into immediate spontaneous species extinction due to shock, seeing as they all thought they looked like Cap’n Jack Sparrow on a bad day (which is his good day), when in actual fact they look exactly like naked mole rats – something the cat refused to throw up as it was so completely beneath a cats dignity to eat something that ugly in the first place.

I hope the sun shines tomorrow, I can’t stand my own negativity!

A Friday Nonsense

I need to write a poem, about what, I do not know,
I just need to get the words down, to make the blah blah go.

I’m feeling kinda worn out, the work week has been long,
so if I have a little tipple, that wouldn’t be too wrong?

It’s just a little glass of schnapps, a nice butterscotch licquer,
I only have the one, or two, on the side of caution I will err.

I’m just typing gibberish, and squashing up the letters,
if I could get my brain to work I’d write you something better.

This poem is about nothing, it’s as nothing as can be,
but nothing is much better, than something else, you see?

I could write about my daughter, wearing “Tardis” beanie, “Dalek” gloves,
watching Dr Who on telly is something that she loves.

I could write about the cats, sitting yowling at the door,
they’ve already had their tea, but still they’re wanting more.

But it’s just a little verse, about nothing much at all,
’cause that’s the way I’m feeling – I’ve hit the versing wall!

© ceenoa 6/6/2014

3 Ireland (22)