chicken lessons...

It's not a proper homestead until the hens come home to roost. So, having survived our first winter on the farm, the spring of 1976 found us building ourselves a sturdy chicken coop.

Compared to the splendid backyard coops showcased in Country Living, ours might be kindly described as "rustic", but I always thought it a pleasant, welcoming place. Three multi-paned windows formed the south wall, above a hen-sized hatch and ramp. The west and north faces sported whitewashed board and batten siding, the east a human access door. The roof was steeply pitched, nattily shingled in a mostly-green patchwork. Doors, windows, and shingles were leftover odds and ends salvaged by hubby and my roofer brother-in-law. We learned to be frugal recyclers back in our days on the farm.

Inside the coop, six spacious, straw-filled nest boxes and a series of sleeping roosts spanned the back wall, with food and water stations opposite, on either side of the hatch. I remember standing in the newly-built coop for the first time, warm sunshine streaming through the windows, fresh straw rustling beneath my feet. A good place to be a chicken, I thought, and imagined easing my hand under a warm, contented hen to retrieve a fresh egg for breakfast. The only thing missing was a flock.

A Saturday morning trip to the local Farmer's Market solved that problem. In the bustling livestock area, we spotted a huddle of six red hens, retired working ladies who, according to the seller, still had plenty of good egg producing days ahead. With trimmed beaks and clipped wings, they certainly weren't the prettiest birds on the block but we liked them – and goodness knows they deserved a better life. We took them home. Upon seeing their new digs for the first time, our six ladies stood wide-eyed and open beaked for one surprised moment and then lunged, squabbling and clucking, for the food tray.

Lesson #1: Chickens have absolutely no manners and very tiny brains.

Instead of roosting on the thoughtfully provided perches, two of our six hens preferred to sleep in their nest boxes. Come morning, instead of choosing empty boxes with fresh, clean straw in which to lay their eggs, the rest of the ladies decided the occupied nests must be best and so they piled on. It's a wonder the eggs didn't wind up pre-scrambled.

Lesson #2: Easing your hand under a pile of warm, contented hens results in a wickedly pecked hand, three mightily disgruntled hens, and a couple of lovely brown eggs smudged with evidence of the previous night's chicken poop, thank you very much.

One of our girls was a rebel. We called her Ludlow. At first, she made a habit of dropping her egg-of-the-day wherever she happened to be standing at the time – usually on the bare floor in a corner of the coop, but sometimes out in the spacious fenced yard, well hidden from hungry humans. ("Cluck-cluck-cluck" sounds suspiciously like laughter when you're bent over, peering under burdock leaves.)

Within a month, though, hens and humans settled into a comfortable routine. Eggs were almost always deposited where we could easily find and collect them. And, oh, those eggs! The flavourful, bright orange yolks and firm whites were as different from pale, bland, watery supermarket eggs as our happy free range hens were different from their sad, battery-raised sisters. Some of our ladies regularly gifted us with giant double-yolkers. What bounty! We couldn't possibly eat all the eggs they produced, but neighbours were eager to buy whatever we couldn't use. Opportunity knocked. It was time to grow the flock.

We ordered two dozen baby chicks from the local farmer's co-op, half Leghorn and half Barred Rock. The day-old chicks were delivered in a big cardboard carton and when the lid came off – talk about cute! J and his brothers were beyond thrilled with our box of fluffy peepers. The chicks spent their first weeks of life confined to a comfy cage in our sunroom, eating, sleeping, peeping…pooping.

Lesson #3: Baby chicks may be the cutest things under the sun, but 24 of them together produce a mountain of poop. Also, they grow fast. Very fast.

Lesson #4: Between the fluffy baby chick stage and the handsome young chicken stage comes a gangly stage of ghastly pin-feathered ugliness. Also, just like their elders, chicks have absolutely no manners and very tiny brains.

Our sunroom smelled a whole lot better once the chicks moved outside. Their temporarily fenced-off corner of the coop had a baby-proof water fountain (because, given the opportunity, chicks will fall into their water and drown or be trampled by their siblings), a makeshift automatic feed tray (because chicks are non-stop eating machines), and a heat lamp to keep them all cozy at night.

Lesson #5: Temporary fencing keeps young chicks in but won't keep a fat Ludlow out when she's got her beady eyes locked on all that delicious baby food.

Weeks passed. Chicks ate and peeped and grew…and pooped. The youngsters sprouted sleek, shiny feathers. A few handsome lads grew impressive tail plumes, wickedly sharp ankle spikes, and youthful cocky attitudes. Crowing practice began every morning at dawn and continued throughout the day whenever the guys felt like showing off. Our peaceful chicken yard erupted in frequent rooster fights, sending hens young and old into frenzies of squawks and flaps as the males worked out who would be King of the Coop, the Alpha Rooster.

Lesson #6: Don't tease the rooster!

One of my most vivid memories of those early chicken days is the sight of our landlady's eight-year-old granddaughter, dressed in her prettiest pink Sunday dress with matching ribbons in her hair, running full-tilt down the lane, screaming for her mother. In hot pursuit was Lancelot, our newly crowned Alpha Rooster, puffed up to twice his normal size, looking and sounding like an angry, feathered demon from hell.

Turns out, Darling Girl had decided to have an uninvited snoop around the chicken coop and encountered Lancelot, loose in the yard. Spotting his impressive tail feathers, she decided she'd like to have one for herself. Cue one very angry rooster!

In a classic case of turnabout's fair play, Lance the Rooster was forced to beat a hasty retreat minutes later with an angry Italian grandmother hot on his heels, wielding her broom and cursing his ancestors.

Ah, farm life. Never a dull moment.

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Images are my own work with the exception of Fresh Eggs and Attack Rooster.  

stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

   

window cats...

The black and white cat showed up one sunny afternoon, lounging on the front porch of our old farmhouse as if she belonged there. Tail twitching in response to my murmured, "hello, stranger," she eyed me warily as I climbed the steps to unlock the front door. When I turned to introduce myself properly, the cat had vanished.

She turned up again an hour later, nose to the kitchen window, gaze fixed on the chicken I was preparing for the stew pot. She opened her mouth and meowed loudly – a hopeful, "feed me now" plea. It is a wise cat who knows a soft touch when she sees one.

I found an old saucer, filled it with milk, and delivered it to the porch. Poor cat was obviously hungry and fell upon that milk as if she hadn't seen food in days. I sat on the steps and watched her lap-lap-lap until the saucer was clean. She gave her whiskers a quick swipe and sat back on her haunches to study me for a long, thoughtful moment. I spoke softly, inviting her to move closer, asking where she'd come from and if she had a name. The cat blinked and walked away.

She appeared at the window again at dinner time and scored herself a small plate of chicken scraps along with a chorus of can-we-keep-her-pleases from my three young sons. I was tempted. Their Dad took a firm stand in the absolutely not camp, claiming he'd never liked cats and we were all a bit allergic and there was absolutely no way that thing was ever coming inside.

Window cat came back the next day, and the next, quickly abandoning her stand-offish manner in favour of pats and strokes and much admiration from four out of five of the humans in residence – never inside, of course.

A few days later, I might have accidentally added a box of cat chow to my grocery cart. And middle son might have dug out an old curry brush, unused since the death of our much-loved dog the year before. Soon, the kids and I had christened our window cat Cookie – a name reserved for favoured family pets. 

Our window cat had managed to make herself a member of the family in less than a week. She was beginning to look quite plump and healthy, too, her dingy grey coat growing cleaner and glossier by the day, thanks to an entourage of willing brush-wielders. Somehow she'd even forged a truce with hubby. He grudgingly admitted she'd be useful for keeping the mice away from the chicken feed. She could stay, but only as an outside cat. It wasn't long before I noticed him leaving the greenhouse door ajar for her. Nobody likes to stay out in the rain, after all. (We did not speak of this.)

And did I mention that our window cat was looking a bit plump? The reason soon became obvious. Cookie was pregnant. First order of business was a trip to the vet, who pronounced her fit and healthy and sent us home with a vitamin supplement and a strict deadline for a follow-up visit and spay. Cookie was tremendously annoyed by the car ride, shredding her cardboard travel box in protest, but once home again all was forgiven, thanks to a little sweet talk and a generous handful of her favourite treats.

We set up a large wooden box on the side porch and lined it with newspaper, hoping Cookie would think it suitable for a nursery. A smaller, covered box at one end contained clean straw and a comfy old blanket for mama cat's nesting pleasure. She took to it right away. She also took to wearing the collar we gave her, complete with her name and our phone number on a metal tag. The latter caused much grumbling and rolling of eyes on the hubby front. But when Cookie disappeared just before her due date, guess who lead the search party?

Thankfully, Cookie hadn't wandered far. She'd given birth in a nest of dried grass, sheltered by a pile of rubble in a hollow on the far side of the lawn. Heavy rains were forecast and we feared her four tiny kittens would be washed away in the deluge. We needed to move the little family to the shelter of the porch, but in order to do that we'd have to coax Cookie away from her babies. Food was the answer. She'd been gone for three days and was sure to be ravenous. I gave the cat chow box a noisy shake and, sure enough, mama Cookie appeared, trotting eagerly up to the porch. While she ate her fill and lapped up some water, hubby rescued the litter, gently tucking the babies into their nursery box. I confess to holding my breath as I introduced Cookie to this new arrangement, half expecting her to either reject the kittens or stubbornly return them, one-by-one, to her den across the lawn. But she seemed quite pleased with the comfortable arrangement and settled in to enjoy life as a proud and pampered mama.

The kittens thrived. And while they ate and played and grew, (and grew!), I got busy. Four little kittens were soon going to need new homes. I put the word out to family and friends, pestered, cajoled, and described their adorable kitty paws and sweet pink noses until people ran to hide when they saw me coming. But honestly, how could anyone resist these little cuties?

This photo was taken on one of their first explorations beyond the big box. The wee cutie on the far right, sporting a single black dot on her left side, was an enthusiastic climber and extremely fond of my youngest son, J. He'd always been a bit nervous around dogs and cats, preferring to watch from afar but not touch or be touched, so when he named the kitten Dot and welcomed her onto his lap, we were doomed. Dot would stay with us. And not only stay, Dot would become an indoor cat. (Hubby, like the rest of us, would do just about anything for J.)

If you look closely at the far left of the cat family photo, you might spot a tiny black blob with four white paws, neck-deep in the daylilies. Always adventurous, that black kitten went home with Kate, my best friend since childhood. Named Pepper by her new family, she lived a long and happy almost-twenty years as a city cat in west-end Toronto. Here she is, still adventuring as an elder cat.

The two remaining fluff balls eventually found homes, too. One with my niece, the other with a co-worker's mum.

But that's not the end of the story. Not even close.

One evening a week or so after her kittens moved on, Cookie appeared at the window with a friend in tow, a calico cat, grubby and hungry and very, very pregnant. Hubby issued a firm and final pronouncement: "Absolutely not!"

We named her Patches.

The two cats settled into Cookie's big box nursery and together they raised Patches' litter of five. 

Somehow, we found new homes for all those kittens, too. Cookie and Patches both eventually visited the vet to be spayed and vaccinated, and both returned to the farm as carefree lady-cats with plenty of mice to chase and a warm greenhouse where the door was mysteriously always left ajar.

I'd love to end this tale with "happily ever after" but the truth is bittersweet. In 1993, we purchased a home of our own, a move that took us less than half a kilometre down the road from our much loved rented farm on the outskirts of Box Grove to a sturdy heritage home in the village. Unlike the isolated farmhouse, our new home sat close to a busy road. Outdoor cats Cookie and Patches would face danger from traffic there, and we knew they wouldn't willingly abandon the farm they knew as home. Our sweet Italian landlady came to their rescue, admitting she already loved her piccoli tesori (little treasures). It seems they'd been walking up the lane to enjoy second breakfast with her for months. Who knew?

Mama Giuseppina promised the cats would have plenty to eat at her house and said we should visit whenever we liked. Within a month, those two sly felines were sleeping on Mama G's bed, feasting on her table scraps, and toasting their toes by her fire – outdoor cats no more. It makes me happy to think of them that way.

Of course, little Dot moved with us to the new house. We did our best to take the right precautions, confining her first to her crate and then to a single room while we settled in. But somehow, amid the chaos of the move, she escaped. Our first hope was that she'd made a desperate run back to the farm, but there was no sign of her there or anywhere along the road. Weeks passed. Little Dot had vanished without a trace. I wanted to believe she had her mother's good instincts. That she showed up at a window and convinced some kind person to take her in, feed her, and care for her. But I couldn't help fearing the worst.

Months later, I was surprised to see Dot's sweet little face gazing out at me from a window on the far side of the village. At least, it sure looked like our Dot. When I tapped on the door to inquire, the woman who answered was brusque. No, she hadn't found a stray cat. No, her Molly couldn't possibly be our Dot because Molly had been hers "forever." Maybe that was true. Or maybe the woman simply feared I'd try to claim the cat she obviously loved. Whatever the truth, J and I chose to believe the little face in the window really was our Dot, gone from our lives but safe and loved in her forever home.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

oh, traitorous nose!

Close your eyes and sniff:

Photo by Marisa DeMeglio | CC-BY-2.0

On second thought, don't close your eyes. Just gaze upon the pretty lilacs and let your olfactory memory go to work.

For many people, the image alone will be enough to trigger a vivid scent memory, a scent likely to conjure thoughts of springtime, sunshine, warm breezes and gentle rain.

I should be so lucky.

Oh, the lilac image does trigger a scent memory for me, no doubt about that. But no sweetly perfumed breezes come to mind. Instead, my traitorous nose conjures a dank and earthy funk.

It all began on a warm spring afternoon in 1986. Friends and family had been invited to the farm for a celebration of my parents' wedding anniversary. After days of intense preparation, the feast was ready. Our little house looked bright and fresh as could be. Even our three rambunctious sons had been scrubbed clean. As party hour drew near, I took a moment alone to admire the table. Set with grandma May's treasured Limoges china and our special occasion crystal glassware, it sparkled, ready for company.

"Mom!" The screen door slammed and middle son bounded into the house looking slightly less scrubbed than I remembered. "Dad wants to know if—"

He fell suddenly silent, his smile fading away and his nose wrinkling. Before I could ask what was wrong, he took a giant step back and said, in a horrified tone, "It smells bad in here, Mom."

As I moved to join him in the hallway, I caught a whiff of it, too. And there was no mistaking that smell. Dead mouse.

Mice are an inescapable fact of country life and, for the most part, we chose to live and let live, as long as the mice chose wisely and stayed outside. Inside, they were rodent non grata and definitely not welcome at our party, dead or alive.

Middle son rounded up his brothers and we organized a search. The odour was strongest in the front hall and near the cellar stairs but despite poking, prodding, and sniffing in every possible nook and cranny we had no luck finding the stinky culprit. Our guests were due to arrive in less than an hour. The smell was growing stronger by the minute. What to do?

The day was warm, with a gentle, steady breeze, so my first step was to open all the windows. That's when middle son remembered what he'd been sent to ask me. "Do you want Dad to cut some lilacs for the house?"

Yes! Our lilac hedge had some of the most aromatic flowers I'd ever encountered. Their sweet, long-lasting fragrance was exactly what we needed to disguise the presence of a not-so-dearly departed mouse. While I pulled out every vase I could find, plus a few big mason jars for good measure, the boys helped their dad cut lilacs. Masses and masses of lilacs. We placed them in the front hallway, beside the cellar door, in the living room and sunroom—even in the bathroom. They looked lovely and, more important, they smelled lovely… like springtime.

The party was a success—great company, good food, happy times. Everyone loved the lilacs. We even sent bunches home with a few people. Only later, with windows closed against the cool evening air, did the scent of mouse begin to insinuate itself again, mingling with the fragrance of cut lilacs until the two smells became one.

Days passed. As the flowers faded, so did their fragrance. The smell of death faded, too, and we never did find the mouse. Its dry bones remain entombed forever inside the walls of that old house.

Liam Moloney | CC-BY-SA-2.0

The following year when the first lovely lilacs burst into bloom in our garden, I was eager to visit them, to bury my face in the pale purple flowers and revel in the scent of springtime. That's when I first discovered the awful olfactory truth. And thirty years later, that truth still applies. For me, the sweet, heady perfume of lilacs will always carry a base note of mouse.

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Mouse image by George Shuklin | CC-BY-SA-1.0

stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

a cat's tale...

Sam the Cat takes over the blog this week with a frank and uncensored look at a day in his busy life. (I suspect he is secretly writing a memoir. Not surprising. He's always been a bit bookish.)

* * *

In my youth, I roamed all night. Now that I am an elder cat, I prefer to sleep until sunrise. For some reason, this makes Ma'am happy. Hmm. I may need to re-think. There is much to be said for rising by moonlight.

Wake yourself, Ma'am, for I am hungry and require my morning kibble.

It is impolite to speak with one's mouth full.

I prefer my water cold and inconveniently located. 

At last, I have the bed all to myself.

Ma'am sits on this machine to huff and puff. (Humans are weird.) I prefer my quiet perch behind the curtains, my own private window on the world.

Curtains are also useful for playing hide and seek, a game at which I excel. Sometimes, just to keep her happy, I let Ma'am find me.

Time for another nap. Ma'am thinks this is her chair. Ma'am is wrong.

Ma'am puts my toys away in a basket, then runs machine-that-roars back and forth over the carpet. Afterwards, I help by putting all my toys back where they belong. Always considerate. It is just my nature.

Dinner time means wet food. Today's menu is turkey, my favourite. Next, a thorough clean-up, first the floor, then my paws and whiskers. A wise cat is never too busy to keep himself well groomed. 

Lap time with massage. Oh ... oh, yes. That's the spot.

At last, my busy day is done. Time for a few stretches before bed and then ... 

... lights out. Say good night, ma'am.

Goodnight, Sam.

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This week, stillpoint is the blog of Sam the Cat 

courtesy of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

dear little friend of mine...

A few weeks ago, while searching for something interesting to post for Throwback Thursday, I unearthed this smile-inducing photo of my Dad with our dog, Cookie. A rescue from the Toronto Humane Society, Cookie came home in a big cardboard box in the summer of 1957. I'd been quarantined at Grandma's house with a miserable case of mumps and the puppy was intended as a cheer-up present from Mom and Dad. It worked!

Cookie was a sturdy mixed breed, fluffy and white with brown ears and a feathery, perpetually wagging tail. She quickly became my best friend. In fact, much more than a friend, Cookie was the sister this only child had always wanted. Naming her Cookie was a no-brainer – our family name is Cooke – but the moniker suited her. Cookie was a real sweetie and, as far as I'm concerned, she will always be the Best Dog Ever.

This photo of us from September '57 is the only one I've been able to find of Cookie as a puppy. I'm sure there were lots more but since Dad was infamous for leaving his photo subjects completely or partially headless, this one with 'just a little off the top' might be the best of the lot anyway. (Sorry, Dad, but you know it's true.) Cookie was mid growth spurt when this picture was taken. She had doubled in size since the day her tiny puppy-self emerged from that box in Grandma's kitchen.

One afternoon, when she was still just a wee thing, we were playing with a ball in the backyard. At the time, the fence between our neighbour's yard and ours was a rusty metal grid of 4x4 inch squares. When next door's spaniel ran into their yard, Cookie was so excited to see another dog, she raced to the fence and stuck her little head right through one of the openings. Doggy kisses were exchanged, tails were wagged, and the older, wiser neighbour dog wandered off to do her business. That's when Cookie realized she was well and truly stuck. Her head and ears fit neatly going in but, once through, those pretty ears of hers perked up and prevented retreat. I'll never forget her terrified howls – hard to believe such a tiny pup could make such a big noise! Dad and the neighbour eventually had to take a hacksaw to the fence to release her. Mom was apoplectic. I wish I could say Cookie learned her lesson that day but, well, let's just say it wasn't long before the old fence was replaced with a new, puppy safe model.

Cookie's misadventures continued inside the house, too. Mom's prized Singer sewing machine soon had permanent gnaw marks on all four legs, as did my piano. Even the heirloom sideboard in the dining room wasn't spared. And speaking of gnawing on wood…

Our sofa sat in front of the living room window. Whenever we were out, Cookie would climb up onto its back where she could sit comfortably and watch for her people to return. Mom usually remembered to leave the venetian blinds pulled halfway up so Cookie's view would be unobstructed. One day, probably running late for work, Mom left the blinds down. The slats were in the open position, so a curious dog could see through. But a teething puppy, presented with lovely, thick wooden slats, did what any teething puppy would do in the circumstances: she chewed. She watched and she waited and she chewed. And when the first delicious slat was gnawed all the way through, she started on the second. Etc., etc., etc. Baaaad puppy! I wish I could say Cookie learned her lesson that day but, well, let's just say it wasn't long before the venetian blinds were replaced with new, puppy approved curtains.

Years later, a fully-grown Cookie was once again implicated in a domestic disaster: the Terrible Coffee Table Incident. She and I were home alone one afternoon, having convinced Mom and Dad that we were perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves while they went grocery shopping. We read for a while, played ball in the yard, shared a glass of milk, and then went to the living room to watch TV. 'Somebody' decided to sit on the coffee table. It was all good fun until the glass top made a loud cracking noise and shattered in a spectacular starburst. Luckily, 'somebody' jumped off in time and wasn't injured by the shards of broken glass.

I looked at Cookie. Cookie looked at me. There may have been tears.

I did all the talking when Mom and Dad got home. "It wasn't Cookie's fault," I said, trying hard not to cry. "We were playing and she jumped up on the table. She didn't mean to. It was an accident!"

Cookie stayed by my side the whole time, looking hangdog sorry and thoroughly ashamed. We were both sent to our room. The coffee table top was eventually replaced – at considerable expense (being a custom cut oval piece of glass in a mahogany frame) – and the incident wasn't mentioned again until, finally, I couldn't stand the guilt and confessed the truth to my parents.

I was the one who'd thought it might be fun to sit on the table. Cookie was innocent. It was my fault. All mine! Mom and Dad listened and nodded. I'd been expecting an angry reaction and suitable punishment, but all they said was, "We're glad you finally told us." They'd known who the culprit was all along. And they'd understood just how badly I'd feel after making poor Cookie take the blame. My angst was far worse than any punishment they could have doled out. I was the worst sister ever. And the Best Dog Ever loved me anyway.

Aside from her family, Cookie had three great joys in her life: rides in the car, cows, and ice cream cones.

The Nash Rambler

Like most dogs, she loved going for drives with her people – all that lovely wind ruffling her ears and so many strange smells in the air! On summer Sundays we'd often swing by the house after church, pick up Cookie, and head out in Dad's metallic green Nash Rambler for an afternoon drive in the country. Cookie would begin the trip full of excitement, eager to see every sight and sniff every single scent on every single breeze. But eventually the rumble of wheels and hum of the engine would lull her to sleep on the back seat.

In those days, there were still lots of dairy farms in the countryside around Toronto and Cookie was positively fascinated by cows. We always knew when to expect cows in the next field because Cookie would twitch awake and head for the window, ears perked and tongue lolling in a happy grin. On the rare occasion when her cow early-warning system didn't work, all I had to do was whisper a quiet, "moo," and she'd spring to attention, nose at the ready. She never knew the thrill of a face-to-face encounter with a cow in its field – Mom was afraid the dog would get herself trampled, cause a stampede, or (more likely) enjoy a good roll in the cow pats. But Cookie didn't mind. She relished every molecule of cow essence her nose ever encountered. Mom was probably right about the patty rolling thing.

Cows in their field. Photo by Bernie Janssen

Another favourite Sunday destination was the soft-serve ice cream stand on Kingston Road in Scarborough. Dad would order three medium cones for the humans and a baby-sized cone for Cookie. We'd sit at a shaded picnic table to enjoy our treats and Cookie usually drew a crowd of onlookers. Everyone loved watching her eat her cone. She'd lick politely until the twist of ice cream was gone. Then, with Mom holding the cone, pup would nibble dainty circles around the wafer, revealing more of the good stuff deep inside the cone. Lick and nibble, lick and nibble, all the way to the bottom. Then she'd chomp the final morsel of cone, give her chops a clean-up swipe with her tongue, and settle onto her haunches to stare hopefully at anyone not clever enough to have finished before she did. Thanks to those dewy brown eyes of hers, Cookie could usually score a second or third 'last morsel' – sweets for the sweet.

Cookie Cooke - 1957 to 1968

Sweet Cookie was my sister, my friend, and my faithful companion for nearly eleven years. She left us far too soon but she'd lived a good life, her dog days filled with love and smiles and tail-wagging happy times. I've loved other dogs since, but there will never be another like Cookie, my one and only Best Dog Ever.

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Wondering where you've heard that before? The title of this post is a quote from Verse For A Certain Dog, a poem by Dorothy Parker:

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

cat wisdom...

Sam the Cat found me nearly fifteen years ago in a PetSmart store. I was there to buy birdseed. He was all alone in the cat enclosure. A yearling boycat with strange markings and a scarred ear, he was the only moggy still homeless after a week-long Humane Society adoption fest.

Our eyes met.

I smiled.

He meowed.

I crouched to say hello.

Yowling, he launched himself into my arms, his message crystal clear: "Get me out of here!"

I've been doing Sam's bidding ever since, and he has repaid me by sharing nuggets of catly wisdom. Here are just a few of the many lessons I've learned.

1. Be curious.

2. Curiouser and curiouser.

3. Eat healthy.

4. Don't over-indulge. (Everything is good in moderation.)

5. Comfortable shoes are best.

6. Friends appreciate a helping hand. (They may not know it, but they do.)

7. Be persistent.  (Persistence often pays off with a treat.)

8. Get plenty of sleep.

9. Remember to wash your behind your ears.

10. Go outside!

11. Stay warm.

12. We all need a little personal time. Savour it.

13. Ponder the great mysteries of life.

14. Practice patience. It's not easy being green, but count to ten before you freak out over the stupid Kermit hat. (Then go ahead and freak out. People remember and will never try such a silly thing again.)

15. Stretch often.

16. Read widely.

17. Appreciate your friends. (Hi, Jay!)

18. Play!

19. Think outside the box. Because, of course, the cat is in the box, so there's no room for you there. (This applies to all boxes.) (Also, always recycle.)

20. Enjoy life. Every little sunbeam is a gift.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington