Tuesday, December 3, 2024

Eighteen Interesting Quotes for Cat Lovers

Batman and Robin enjoying my Patio with Guards- Photo Taken, June, 2024

I received the following article from Jane Williams recently. Since I am a cat lover, it is with great pleasure that I am sharing this article with you.

💚"Around 8,000 years ago, cats started hanging around at farming communities, mainly to feed off mice and rats that were attracted to the crops. Cats being cats, at first they weren’t too bothered about the nearby humans. The humans, however, were happy for the cats to help out with their rodent problems. And so began a long spell of domestication — or semi-domestication, as most cat-owners will attest.

Despite living alongside humans for thousands of years, cats are still often considered semi-domesticated, unlike dogs. Dogs offered a whole range of helpful abilities, such as hunting, guarding, and herding. Cats, well, not so much — they have always tended to do their own thing. What’s more, while dog breeds are often more than 500 years old, most modern cat breeds only emerged within the last half century. House cats, therefore, have much more in common, genetically speaking, with their wildcat ancestors than dogs have with wolves — just look at a Chihuahua or a pug. kip Ad

Today, however, cats are the most prevalent furry pet in the world. (Freshwater fish in aquariums outnumber both cats and dogs by a wide margin, but you can’t really hug a fish.) Cats are eccentric and often mysterious creatures, but for many cat-owners, that only makes them more lovable. Over the last few centuries, many famous figures have expressed their love and admiration for their feline companions, as the following quotes reveal".

I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through.

Jules Verne

Batman-Photo Taken 11-26-24 ( yellow collar)

There are no ordinary cats.

Colette

The cat is above all things, a dramatist.

Margaret Benson, author and Egyptologist

What greater gift than the love of a cat?

Charles Dickens

If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.

Mark Twain

I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.

Jean Cocteau

Robin-Photo Taken 11-26-24 ( Blue Collar)

If you want to be a psychological novelist and write about human beings, the best thing you can do is to keep a pair of cats.

Aldous Huxley

A cat has absolute emotional honesty. Human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.

Ernest Hemingway

Anyone who considers protocol unimportant has never dealt with a cat.

Robert A. Heinlein

The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter. You don’t buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical.

William S. Burroughs

If you’re feeling bad, you just look at the cats, you’ll feel better, because they know that everything is, just as it is. There’s nothing to get excited about. They just know. They’re saviors.

Charles Bukowski

Cats know exactly where they begin and end. When they walk slowly out the door that you are holding open for them, and pause, leaving their tail just an inch or two inside the door, they know it. They know you have to keep holding the door open.

Ursula K. Le Guin

In ancient times cats were worshiped as gods. They have not forgotten this.

Terry Pratchett

I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats.

Eckhart Tolle

I've met many irresponsible people in my life but never an irresponsible cat.

Rita Mae Brown, author

Way down deep, we’re all motivated by the same urges. Cats have the courage to live by them.

Jim Davis, creator of "Garfield"

Miko and I- Chateau Du Mer, Marinduque, Philippines, 2015

Owners of dogs will have noticed that, if you provide them with food and water and shelter and affection, they will think you are God. Whereas owners of cats are compelled to realize that, if you provide them with food and water and affection, they draw the conclusion that they are God.

Christopher Hitchens

You can train cats to do anything they want to.

Ricky Gervais

Photo credit: Alena Ozerova/ iStock

Batman and Robin, Best Buddies, Photo Taken- September. 2024

💚 https://www.inspiringquotes.com/18-quotes-for-cat-lovers/YZu4kv448gAGJ-OH?liu=0f06337c5125b35f1a4d7511406c59be

Lastly, here's an interesting article on Harold Sims, Jr from the New York Times issue of Nov 22, 2024.

Harold W. Sims Jr., Whose Museum Honored the House Cat, Dies at 89

He displayed some 10,000 cat-themed artifacts at the American Museum of the House Cat in North Carolina, which welcomed several thousand people a year. By Clay Risen

Published Nov. 22, 2024Updated Nov. 26, 2024

HTTPS://WWW.NYTIMES.COM/2024/11/22/US/HAROLD-W-SIMS-JR-DEAD.HTML

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Tuesday, December 3, 2024

Eighteen Interesting Quotes for Cat Lovers

Harold W. Sims Jr., Whose Museum Honored the House Cat, Dies at 89

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