Posted on 09/17/2003 11:07:29 AM PDT by DittoJed2
Well me, too, Hank. And I'm not losing any sleep over it, because I really do try not to take them too personally.
Well me, too, Hank.
Betty, it was a joke. Do cat's really "insult" people? I've never been insulted on FR either. It was just a silly pretend dialogue with my cat. Good grief. Is there anything you don't take seriously? If you take everything seriously, the really serious things get watered down.
Take a break and read a book or something. You know, outside of dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.
(---Groucho Marx)
Hank
Just because I know how much you love Eric Voegelin, here's a little "teaser" from him, on the subject you raise, above:
"The good polis will become a nightmare when men forget that their existence has reality only as long as it enacts the dream-play of God."
The insight arises from certain problems in Plato -- who wasn't a Christian. Rather, Plato has been described as the greatest exemplar, perhaps even the apotheosis, of the Dionysiac soul.
tpaine, I know how much you really hate this stuff. Sorry, friend. I just find these ideas quite interesting myself. "Different strokes...." and all that.
Well, my cat insults me all the time!!! But then my little kitty shadow (my "familiar!") started out as a feral cat. Brought her home from the wild about five years ago, for winter was coming. She hid the first six months.
Now, most of the time, she loves me to death -- can't get her out of my lap, she follows me everywhere. She waits for me in the driveway each evening, anticipating my return from work -- my personal welcoming committee.
Jazzy IS my little loving shadow -- except for those times when she's lurking about somewhere, waiting to spring in "attack" -- suddenly starting out of the darkness, grabbing me 'round the thigh as I innocently walk by, and sticking her nastily sharp little kitty claws into my tender flesh.... Ouch!!!!
Personally, I just consider the latter an "insult."
But she is never punished for it.
Well, of course not, because she is being what she is, a cat. It would be tantamount to punishing a human being for being what they are supposed to be, self-supporing and honest.
Oh, I forgot. We are, aren't we. Punished I mean, for being self-supporing and honest. It's not called punishement, it's called taxes.
I think I'll come back as a cat.
Hank
Well, if you do, do be sure to put yourself in the hands of my next-door neighbor, who once, in the dead of night, delivered unto me a marvelous stray cat that we eventually christened Doddsworth. A glorious Maine Coon who was "lost" (read: abandoned), and showed up at his doorstep. So he came over to my house, cat in arms, and said: "Is this your cat?"
Well, it wasn't our cat, and I'm pretty sure my charming neighbor knew that perfectly well.
Still, I had to inquire about this glorious and charming animal that he had with him.
Perhaps needless to say, I took the cat in provisionally, whilst the neighbor "called the animal control authorities, to see if there had been a report of a lost cat."
Man, when my husband got home late that night, was he ever "surprised." (Actually, "surprised" would be to put it mildly. This was right after I had single-handedly taken in Jazzy. And she wasn't exactly working out great at the time.)
Plus we already had the first cat, Tillie (the diminutive of "Attila"), the long-established chatelein of our domestic establishment. Tillie resents Jazzy like there's no tomorrow.
In a nutshell, the LAST thing B wanted was YET ANOTHER CAT!!!
Anyhoot, Doddsie has been with us ever since. And he has bonded big-time with B. In a huge way, both ways. These guys really love each other. B thinks Doddsie is more dog than cat in that regard. That's saying a lot. But I see it, too.
So go figure.
Isn't it amazing what we can learn from animals in various social settings, if we just pay attention?
When I was a boy (10-11), My grandmother gave me a cat that was very agreesive, and doing a number on the rest of her cats. Bombey was big old non-descript tom with split ears and nose, missing tufts of fur, and other interesting scars. It was one of those big round-faced toms that looked like he as walking on his knuckles.
But Bombey was my baby. He slept with me every night and I used him for a pillow and he just rumbled and put me to sleep. Not a cat in our neighborhood would come into our yard, and more than one pidgeon was reduced to feathers behind our garage. But I could do anything to that cat and it never even showed it claws.
Every cat is different. I've only ever had one that scratched me, and it only did it once. It was still young, and it took umbrage to something I was doing and took a swipe at me.
I put that cat in a corner and kneeled down in front of it. I put out my hand and the cat took swipe. So I swiped back, just a little tap to the nose. I put out my hand again. I could see the cat was thinking it over. It took another swipe. So did I, a little harder. This went on about three more times. Each time he took I swipe I'd tap his nose a little harder. The last time the cat looked as though it could not believe I had actually hit it that hard. I put out my hand. It laid down, turned its head upside down and looked at me for all the world as thought it were saying, "you win, I surrender." It never scratched me again.
This is about the way you have to deal with kids, too; at least until you can explain things to them in reasonable terms, like, "this is my house and I'm bigger than you are. That's why you have to do what I tell you."
Hank
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