Our House is the Sierra Club Headquarters

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this yet, but I've become a cat lover. If you're seen the commercial for the allergy medicine in which a young woman has a cat, her man an allergy to cats, and the two an uncompromising love for one another you already have a clue as to how my relationship with cats began. G has been a cat lover for years, myself a cat allergic and thereby cynical of their true value to humankind. You could definitely say that times have changed. I've been adopted by a loving Burmese cat named Sierra. Ther was once a child in the house, a child who pronounced Sierra's name with the shrill cry of a 4-year-old not yet familliar with the "r" sound. Place great emphasis on the "EE" sound of the word. The resulting cacophony fills the house - "SEE-EH-WA!" We have no idea how this has become her real name nor when she began to respond only to the new pronounciation, but that's the way it is now. What else is interesting is the versatility of her name when making up alternative lyrics to various classic songs. Classic, because its fun and more to the point, addictive to our friends and family members. In a way, its our cat's secret weapon of ultra-cuteness that when coupled with her paramount fear of everything that moves faster than herself (she has an older "sister" with a very tempermental alpha-cat attitude so Sierra gets picked on quite a bit and has therefore developed something like a nervous constitution) - once you meet Sierra you think she's all that but when you learn the speed at which and good times that can be created by these songs, you're totally hooked on them. Example: Buffalo SEE-EH-WA Dreadlock kitty Fighting for survival in the heart of Sharon South Sung, of course, to the tune of Bob Marley's classic, Buffalo Soldier. That's basically the deal, and we have a lot of fun with it. Sierra is the brunt, of course, of many inside jokes. If you've had a cat, you know about the biscuits. Biscuits are what we refer to as the kneading actions a cat engages in prior to rest and/or sleep. Sierra, we believe, could be an excellent candidate for a series of Bojangle commercials. See, we'd just get a kitty-sized Bojangle's cap, put it on her, and then allow her to do her thing - knead - on my stomach, the ottoman, or whatever else we find to be biscuit-worthy at the time. Sierra, you see, is no typical cat, no typical kneader. When she begins the process of making biscuits, she kind of... I guess you could say... Well, she sort of goes into a trance. She just stares into the distance, her two front paws alternating in a damn-near transcendental rhythm. One, then the other, deep into the surface of the blanket, gut, etc. She lowers, looking from one side to the other, the whole time her eyes focused on something thousands of miles away. This continues for what could be minutes (sometimes accompanied by slow spinning and readjustment). And then she does something truly odd. She drools. Yes, drools. She smacks her jaws - smack, smack, smack - as if to swallow the collected drool from her meditational trance. Consistently failing in her retrieval, you see drops, a glisten, and feel a spot of moisure land on your shirt (or cheek, chin, or lip, depending on where she's chosen to engage in her biscuit-dance). Finally, she collapses. This is occassionally followed by a thorough cleaning session, but either way, the same thing is always true - the complete bliss that obviously washes over her, from her crooked tail to the end of each whisker, in having gotten "situated" for a nap. What makes me think of this is that it has just taken place as I've created this post. I'm on the couch, my computer in my lap, Sierra on my chest, observing each keystroke as though she's reading a tribute that's being written to herself. Perhaps she's guiding my keystrokes with some pet-pet-owner-mind-melding thing at this very moment. Smack smack smack.