Neither Month Nor Year of the Cat


If she indeed kept either her word or a calendar, Goldilocks would proclaim June as “just right”. Jupiter gave us such a month to nourish and be nourished. The air is breezy and soft. It’s neither given to snow or swelter.

Squirrels chase the cascading cherry petals to the ground. The pusses, in relay, shoo those tailers up the ancient pine trees to their given lodgings. Marigold’s beloved birds sew the earthy cloak as they go to “seed” for show. The hummers hover. The peckers hammer. All is indeed right in springtime.

The errant and wayward pup may get waylaid some morn. He’ll come here. He’ll frolic. He’ll dine until he’s had his fill. And still saunter home by ten.

May God bless all the beasts.

In June, however, she blesses the dogs and tosses them treats. Those silly canine scalliwags! They’d laugh if they could and indeed laugh the last. It is their joke to share: they have the rite of summer.

And the doggone dog days are theirs.

The cats will wait until the last is home and be bedded without fanfare. They lost their race, lost their month, and will wait until another year.

Thank you, Mr Stewart.  Thank you, Miss Goldilocks.

(Image: “Chrysanthememes” by Fabius Lorenzi, 1930.)

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