Join me for Part One of a new series entitled, “Not My Cat™️.”
I first noticed Star in 2016, after new neighbors moved in. Star moved in with her two dog brothers and her human family. I walked past “her” house on many occasions. Shortly after Star and her family moved in, I noticed her sitting on the front stoop. Because I am unable to walk past a cat without calling out to it and trying to get it to come to me, I slowed down my pace in front of Star’s house. Star glanced over. She was intrigued, perhaps sensing I speak Cat, and made her way over to me. She sniffed then rubbed my hand. This was the beginning of our friendship. Much to my surprise, it was also the beginning of Star walking with me on my walks. I had never known a cat to walk with a person before, nor have I met another.
Star doing her thing
And so it went. I would round the corner and Star would strut at her own pace down the driveway to meet me, and we would commence our walk. The whole time, I whispered to her that she should go back home. It wasn’t safe. There were dogs and cars. She did often stop eventually and returned home on her own.
As spring turned to summer, I saw Star’s human father, and told him that I loved his cat. He told me that she runs the house. She was a feral stray at one point and she does what she wants. Her two dog brothers were much larger than she, but I witnessed Star corral the two dogs after they had escaped the fenced backyard. She went out to the driveway where they were, hissed and swatted at each of them until she could get them back to the fence. Star was very tiny, but very, very mighty. She reminded me of my own cat, Kitty. Kitty has been long since gone but Star had her personality. And star was aptly named.
Girl, bye or follow me – your choice
One sweltering summer day, I looked out my window and saw members of Star’s human family walking their two dogs. Then I saw Star trailing behind, her humans oblivious to her struggle to keep up. It was so very hot and I knew she was an elderly cat. I scrambled out of my house to get Star. I scooped her up, but she didn’t want to be scooped up. So, I tried to bring her some water. But she didn’t want any water. She kept walking, so I walked her home. We went very slowly as you can imagine an elderly cat in humid, hot weather would move. I felt awful that I could not pick her up, but she was not willing to be held. We reached her home and I knocked on the closed door. I had trouble holding back my anger and concern. I said, rather rudely, “I found your cat. She’s old and she’s hot and probably needs to come in and drink water immediately.” I was met with a couple of blank stairs from a couple of teenagers. I hope that they let Star in that day, even if she didn’t want to come in, and that she had all the water she could drink.
I didn’t see Star after that day. I walked daily, and as each day passed and I still didn’t see her, I knew that Star was among the stars. A star. I have a picture of Star hanging in my kitchen along with many photos of cats that I’ve met or have been owned by in my life. She fits right in. And yet, she doesn’t. She shines bright. ✨
Star was a Shepherd – a rare cat breed The photo I display on my kitchen wall
Most importantly, I excel at bumping into inanimate objects and asking for forgiveness for my transgressions from said objects. The objects usually accept my apology, but not before inflicting nasty bruises on one of my limbs. Do the objects ever apologize for this bodily harm? Nope.
I am great at singing – in a terrible voice – to my plants, who each have names and who bloom better when they’re spoken to. For example, Chris, Princess Peaches and Penelope are all in bloom right now. They are Christmas cacti. Of course, the blooming has nothing to do with the time of year, it is all due to my singing.
I’m well known for naming my cars and my house appliances. For example, my new refrigerator is named Elizabeth, and directly across from her is Mr. Darcy, the stove. Elizabeth stands there, tall and proud, minding her business. Mr. Darcy stares at her from across the room. He seems frustrated. Maybe that’s because he’s anchored to the wall.
I’m world-renowned for talking too much when I’m nervous, which often gets me into a pickle, which is unfortunate because I don’t like pickles.
Finally, you can ask any of my cat children and they’ll tell you: they each have 10 to 15 nicknames what I prattle off one after the other, whenever the feeling strikes, in that dulcet singing tone I possess.
What is one thing you would change about yourself?
The vitamin manufacturers know exactly what they are doing. They are making very expensive candy. It’s an outrage. Fifty dollars for a thirty days’ supply of CoQ10 gummies?! This supplement, as well as others, are recommended for me to take due to my chronic migraines. Vitamin D is necessary and very important for bone and immune system health. Probiotics are essential for gut health. Turmeric is amongst the most beneficial supplements due to its anti-inflammatory actions. Vitamin B12 is recommended for energy, and a host of other essential nerve functioning processes. Biotin is helpful for hair loss and fingernail growth. I could go on, but I will spare you, because I’m going to run out of space to type if I continue extolling the benefits of gummy vitamins (which is a very weak argument, let’s be honest).
Before you believe me to be complaining about all of this, you should know that when I lay out each of my gummies on my morning napkin, I have an order in which I chew them. Some brands are delicious, and some brands are trash. I eat the yucky ones first. I save the two best for last: the turmeric and the vitamin D. I alternate between these two until they are (gasp!) gone. There comes a point every morning where I reach for one more only to find an empty napkin. With a frown I glance at my white napkin with its yellow stain from the turmeric, and I want more gummies.
I am a willing participant in this scam that is known as gummies with a bit of vitamins sprinkled in them. I am an active gummy vitamin addict. And I have news for you: I’m going to do it all again tomorrow morning.
Not even the lure of Santa visiting the night before could get this toddler out of bed. Mommy and Daddy had to come gather a grumpy groggy me to see the presents under the tree in the morning. Me, probably: “This is cool and all, but can I just go back to bed and see these in a couple of hours?”
If left to its own devices – which means not needing to work – my body would wish to be a night person. It has been a night person in the past, especially when I was a teenager. But now…I’m lucky if I see 9 PM. Welcome to adulthood. Sleep is interrupted and brief, something is always broken or needing to be replaced, and you have now become an afternoon *person.
*subjective use of the word. May be substituted for caffeine-fueled skin bag with sputtering, smoke-spitting brain.
If you’re a tennis fan, you know that Rafael Nadal has been sidelined by injury for the past year.
Today, December 1, 2023, Rafael made the announcement that he will be returning to Brisbane, ahead of the 2024 Australian Open. Anyone who has followed Rafa on social media knows that he has been working hard to come back for one more year before retiring from tennis on his own terms. It’s not a secret that he – and most tennis fans everywhere – knows this is his final year on the pro tour. At 37 years of age, his body has essentially decided that it’s time to do other things. Rafa turned pro at the age of 14, which is a lot of mileage on a body. But, as one would expect from someone of Rafa’s ilk, he’s making one final push to achieve more. On his terms. I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to be forced out of my life’s calling, either.
I first became aware of Rafa Nadal during the Davis Cup competition when Rafa was 16 years old. I sat in my chair in my living room and stared in amazement at my television screen. I’ve been a tennis fan since I was 15 (which was 137 years ago), so I know when I see burgeoning greatness. But with Nadal, the greatness was already evident, the burgeoning had already happened, somewhere, somehow, without anyone seeing.
Since then, I have attended several tournaments where I have seen Rafael practice and play – there is a little distinction between the two, the ball is struck just as hard for a seemingly unrelenting amount of time. The quickness Rafa displayed, especially early in his career, was a marvel to witness. The sheer size of a tennis court doesn’t translate on a television. Sitting courtside, you become more aware, and standing on a court with a racket in your hands, you are painfully aware of the ground you must cover, but I digress. And I may be projecting, so please forgive me. I’m not able to chase down all the balls, but Rafael Nadal is otherworldly. He arrives to the court to battle. To chase every ball down, to attempt to hit every shot. When the score line reflects the opponent is winning, he still fights. The belief never leaves him. Never.
As I mentioned, I have attended several tournaments and have seen Rafa play firsthand. A most fortunate occasion occurred in 2006 at the Cincinnati Masters (as it was called then). I was given the opportunity to interview Rafa Nadal. He is intelligent, humble, funny, clumsy, and gracious. He has the heart of a warrior and his body that is now battle-proven (forget about tested – been there, done that) – is testament to his warrior spirit. But in 2006, Rafael Nadal was a youthful 20 years old, was not yet fluent in English, and I couldn’t speak much Spanish. More on that later.
I’ll leave you with this, for now. If you’ve ever shaken a professional tennis player’s hand, you’ll immediately notice the calluses. The blisters. The evidence of how hard they work every single day is just at your own perhaps smooth fingertips. The feel of hand of a warrior is a bit alarming. At the same time, as a tennis fan and as a less-than-mediocre tennis player myself, the feel of a hand of a warrior is exhilarating. To be able to sense with your own touch the mind, body and soul that goes into being a professional athlete is awe-inspiring.
I’m still in awe, but not about the calluses. I’m in awe at how long and successful a career Rafael has had, and how fortunate I have been to see it evolve. I am in awe of how time flies without realizing it even does. In his final year on the ATP tour, and in all endeavors to follow, I wish Rafael the very best.
In the next few days, I will be posting the interview that I conducted with Rafa back in 2006. It will be my contribution to the celebration of Rafa’s hugely successful tennis career. I’ll take you back to the beginning, as we look now to the end, with a smile on my face, and yes, a few tears. ¡Vamos, Rafa!
I think she did. I’ve told her to stay off the laptop numerous times. Usually she types something like, “bfnthrhfbdvrkihgdbd,” but I see this time she’s given it some thought
Well, it looks like she’s conducting a poll, and will be utilizing this information to convince me to buy the larger size of beef treats.
(She doesn’t know I bought the large bag of chicken-flavored treats, so I hope you understand that your answer to the question will be recorded and used at a later date.)
Cat owners (“staff”) will understand what I mean about the cat hair thing. I not only wear it, I eat it. It also regularly gets into my eyes, where it lives for days at a time, hugging my eyeball until it decides to release its grasp. Eyedrops don’t help loosen the grip, but they do add more tears to the already tearful eye.
Working from home affords the luxury of wearing a robe most of the day – OK, all of the day. Robe is the new sweater. Cat owners (“staff”) will also understand that you can’t wear a robe without wearing cat hair on your robe.
“It's Amy,” I said. 