My dreams have been absurd of late - I have been on the edge of consciousness and utterly convinced of odd truths about my character and surroundings. Should I rebel against my subconscious for the sake of purity and truth, or just let it have its run in order to achieve the goal of rest? James Thurber commented on this phenomenon in an autobiographical series of essays about his life. One night he was frustrated by his inability to name a small town in New Jersey, so this quirk of the night hours is not a malady limited to my discordant imagination.
Shall I tell a tale of the top of my head? This may have a point, but if you are unable to find a usable moral, take comfort in a substitute one - "Editing would make impulsive stories like this easier to read."
This is the tale of Bardo the brash, non-anthropromorphic cat. I have no particular reason to care for the species, as it hardly deigns to make notice of me. I would be much afraid if I met a cat that was anthropomorphic. However, Bardo wasn't possessed of a human personality, and my mind and narration are much eased by the fact.
How did Bardo come to be brash? The title was bestowed one fine summer's evening when I was working out in the barn. As I walked the yard, I happened to sight an orange and white example of the feline persuasion. At first, I mistook it for some toy or lawn ornament not prudently removed by parental taste standards. Bardo turned its head before this idea could gain traction in my brain, and that shattered the notion straight in the bud. I was determined not to pay heed to this inexplicable cat which trespassed on my family's yard - it wasn't worth the effort to tell it otherwise. Have you ever tried to tell a cat what to do? It is like talking to a toddler in Olde English - the child may pick out bits and pieces of what you mean by your tone and body language, but it isn't interested in your point. Only worse, because cats like Bardo look like they are pleasantly contented with their state in life, a state which I never reach for more than a lucky hour.
No sir, I ignored Bardo, and went back to my work. That cat walked in the barn after ten minutes and stretched on the concrete ramp at the entrance. See, our house is on a flood plain, and we learned early it is easier to prepare for the inevitable than to clean up after the mess that an improbable deluge would cause. I had a wheelbarrow full of logs to split outside for our wood stove in the winter. It is easier to start our burn wall early with the fallen trees of our neighbors than to be scrounging for kindling scraps in the fall when everyone has the same idea.
Well, I couldn't get out of the barn without running over Bardo, and I knew that cats don't listen to reason. That cat was concentrated on what a delight it was to bask in the sun warmed surface of the ramp, probably no plans for the future - no meals, no feline school, no ladycat with which to raise kittens. Just sun, living for the moment. It isn't that cats are stupid, by any means, just that they are stubborn, ornery, and dominated by a one-track mind. They're rather like my younger brother Stevie, come to think of it. He manages to avoid work as if it was the Grim Reaper of all the happiness in his life. Stevie is always either asleep, in the bathroom, brooding in silence, or just vanished from our plane of reality.
So, I dealt with Bardo the same way I dealt with my recalcitrant brother when he was in one of his moods. Setting down the barrow, I knelt down and got eye to eye with the creature, staring it down. Bardo, lazed in his posture of recline, just shut its eyes and basked in the sun. One-track mind, it just has a nature unfathomable and unreachable to us moral mortals of reason and intellect. We might never understand instinct, and it irks us to know that they don't even try to understand us the way we do them.
Knowing that Bardo had no give in its catty confidence, I returned to my barrow. I plodded forward steadily in a show of strength and will - the cat would have to yield to the stimuli of personal harm. Bardo didn't bother, and I ended up driving the barrow right over its contented form. Bardo just looked as pleased as punch to be on the concrete, and none the worse for wear. It went that way all day, until the sun settled behind cloud cover. Bardo stirred and licked its hindquarters, tail twitching, then arched its back and leapt into the barrow for the ride to the woodpile. This routine went on for the next fortnight, then Bardo broke the tradition and headed for our fence line in the distance, angling for the next property over.
For all I know, Bardo the Brash continued its wandering ways. I haven't seen the orange and white feline since those obstinate fourteen days, but it just goes to show - animals are not to be humanized, as they don't follow reason and they won't remain faithful. They are a part of nature, that great bountiful system filled with the beautiful butterflies, the bizarre blue-footed boobies, and brash beings like Bardo, who defy our dictates and look smug in the meantime...
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