A Touching Story

One small thing she’d taught him was that it’s okay to touch your eyeball. Be careful, but don’t be squeamish.

     His first girlfriend and her first contacts, constantly stopping along the street, a small mirror from her purse, and a moment to fish out the grit—a useful skill for when they broke up, and he took in a cat to comfort him, a long-haired thing that shared his bed and shed on his pillow. And all that time in front of his bathroom mirror, he thought of her, searching for whatever it was that was making his eyes water.

Inspired by The Dog Ate My Retina. Image by DALL·E.

The Dog Ate My Retina

“Just do the Senior Social Dog bit,” Roy, our editor, suggested, referencing the time I took Nimoosh to an older-dogs-only play session. After I just texted, “Okay, you win”, the white flashes in my left eye intensified. So, it wasn’t because something sparkly was on my eyelash—like salty crud or unicorn tears—after all. Now, back from my emergency eye appointment, I can report that it is all about drying jelly and eyeballs and age. But there’s some serendipity in Roy’s suggestion: I’m getting old like Nimmy, and I prefer the company and activities of bitches my own age.

Inspired by Forward Bound. Image of my retina, courtesy of the University Eye Clinic, Toronto.

Forward Bound

We snowshoe up the ridge, our host leading the way, and in front of him his two Australian shepherds. Frankie, at the tail-end of his puppyhood, gambols ahead then circles back—already obedient to his master’s call, and to the electronic collar that zaps him when he wanders out of bounds. Willow, older, pudgier and with shorter legs, sinks too deep into the snow and tires quickly. Often, like a toddler on a hike, she refuses to move, and plops herself at our feet. Her master nudges her on and, heaving with the effort, we all take another step forward.

Willow on Doug’s feet, photo by Doug Bennet. Inspired by Printemps.

Printemps

Winter navel-gazing has led me to wonder if, at the tender age of 60, my best days are behind me. Have I used up all the good times allotted to me leaving only diminishing returns of mildly-amusing events until the day I cark it? My mood has spread to everyone else in the house, in osmosisy-patches, like whiffs of burning hope. Rich’s stomach hurts. Dan hasn’t picked up his guitar since October. Nim mopes. But this Tuesday we started adoption proceedings for a new pup to take up Siko’s Mantle of Happiness. That was the day the sun came out.

Photo of Nim by Laurie Leclair, styling by Roy. Inspired by Claws Out at the Corpse.

Claws Out at the Corpse

Exquisite Corpse’s drabbleers reached deadlock this week over a proposal to convert their site into a dedicated cat blog. Ron’s threat to quit and start his own non-feline site was dismissed by Roy as “creative differences.” (He was later seen smiling enigmatically and humming “Ob-la-di Ob-la-da” to himself.) “Give peace a chance,” Nancy said, urging mediation. Laurie, lighting a stick of incense, suggested relaxing the all-cat mandate to include dogs. Ron stormed out of their meeting. Observers wondered whether the group’s best days were Yesterday. Perhaps their intractable differences will tip the Drab Four into the litter-box of history.

Inspired by our recent cat madness and the sundry bugs, ants and beatles circling Left Overs. Image by Alfra Martini; compare it to the real Let It Be cover here.

Left Overs

The rented house my mother moved us into after the divorce had been empty of humans for years. In this absence others had laid claim to it—scurrying feet and squeaks inside the walls and above our heads in the attic; tiny beetles up through the drains in the bathroom—sharp black against the chipped white porcelain; and in the kitchen sink among the dirty dishes, left there sometimes for hours until my sister and I finished arguing about whose turn it was to wash them, a hoard of minuscule ants feasting on crumbs, living on left overs like us.

Inspired by just wanting to get off the cat track. Image by DALL-E.