Literary Cats

I don’t really understand the idea of a yoga mantra, but I do have a verse of poetry I repeat to calm myself. 

Let us go then, you and I…

It’s “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock”.  I cannot get enough of this poem.  My first real paper was about it.  Since, I’ve written two more about the verses.  Nothing touches me in quite the same way.

I remember in high school, learning about Eliot’s love of cats.  I remember learning about characterization for the first time in this poem, learning about how the fog in the poem is actually a cat.

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The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,          

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,      

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,           

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,        

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,          

And seeing that it was a soft October night,   

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

*****

After reading the poem in high school, I knew I wanted a cat named Eliot.  Preferably orange, as I’d somewhat erroneously imagined the one in “Lovesong”.

As my literary knowledge grew, so did my collection of cats.  After reading The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald joined the ranks.  Then Hemmingway.

My real life collection now has all but Hemmingway.  As of this summer, an orange fluff of a cat happened upon my family as they explored the nearby river.  I heard tales of the orange cat via Viber, of how sweet he was, of his motorboat purr.  After returning from Brazil, I quickly renamed him Eliot, to my siblings’ dismay. The youngest still insists on calling him Fireheart… 

Obviously, I tried to work too diligently.

Eliot has chosen me as his own.  He follows me around the house, at a distance so I don’t notice.  I can never notice.  Because he takes his time, Eliot often finds himself confronted with a closed door.  He bats at the obstruction until the magic opens it (or we the humans get annoyed) and continues after me.  When we’re in the same room, he doesn’t want anything to do with me… That is until I’m busy.  When I’m reading, he pounces.  When I’m sleeping he attacks.  When I want to cuddle, he hides under the bed.

Ready to attack!

I’m still working on gaining his affection on my terms.  The first step has been feeding him, though this somewhat backfired this morning, when he was hungry and eager to eat in my room.  In the midst of my morning rush, I shoved him out, not wanting him to be locked in the room all day. I’ll see if he’s forgiven me after yoga tonight.