It’s a peaceful morning. The sun casts wide beams across my bed. I – terrified of heat – spend the time in my living room, which is in the shade at this time of day. (Later on I’ll migrate to the shady bedroom when the sun makes it way to the living room. There’s a solid chance I’m Dracula). I sip my coffee (no blood).
The peace of the morning is destroyed when my dog realizes that my cat has gone almost an entire 45 minute period without being tortured by a dog. To rectify such a crime against canine, Maisy the Shih tzu springs off the bed, runs to the cushions where the cat enjoys a deep sleep in a position impossible but permanently envied by humankind, she jumps up and buries her nose in the cat’s face. The cat, whose makeup is about 30% fur, 30% ears, 20% razor sharp bits, and 10% deranged war criminal reacts in the way you might imagine given that description.
Despite my pleas for peace, a scuffle ensues. The cat makes horrible yowls, hisses, and guttural warnings. The dog barks once or twice and like the soldiers do to Sergeants Elias and Barnes, Burke and I pull them apart and calm things down. Burke takes the dog into the living room and I soothe the cat’s fur which is now reaching towards the ceiling. I offer her ham, the only known sedative for my cat, and she sniffs it and allows me to pick her up. While perched on my shoulder, she meows into my face. It’s not aggressive, but as if she’s trying to tell me something. I put her down and she disappears into the flat somewhere.
Later, I notice the dog looking from room to room. She stomps in, looks around, comes out, repeats in the next room. She gets on the bed and snuffles through the blankets. It’s then I realize – she’s looking for the cat.
At first I don’t really care. If anything I feel for the cat. But when the dog’s search ends in frustration, I can’t help but notice. Why can’t the dog find the cat? What the dog lacks in sight and personal hygiene regimen, she makes up for in an amazingly strong nose. She should be able to sniff out the cat with no problem. I am now worried. Did the cat escape? We’ve not left the house, so it’s unlikely she’s outside, unless she’s learned to push a stool to the door, stand on it, turn the key, open the door, move the stool away from the door, and then leave while shutting the door, then this isn’t an option. But it’s happened before.
After dinner Burke brings up the Astral Plane. I ask many questions and she answers them. I will provide a summary now so that you too do not require an aspirin. The Astral Plane is something like an invisible realm between the physical world and a spiritual realm. This is the hunting blind from which our guardian angels watch over us – some of them are drinking, evidently, and some of them are not. (Mine’s in recovery, I think). I believe it is where Elvis lives and where Bigfoot hangs out just after he’s stomped into someone’s campsite. This plane has been postulated since before Plato and its existence is part of the mythology of dozens of cultures. Not coincidentally, most of these cultures have comedic queries regarding the mystical whereabouts of a sock’s lost matching sister.
Only occasionally are we are allowed to project into this plane and it’s done through intense meditation, hallucinogens, lucid dreams, or when our favorite sports team wins a game simultaneous to the pizza guy’s arrival. When we pass through into this world we apparently come through the Astral Plane – a uterus having exclusive through-way rights. And we evidently pass through it again on our way out of this world – hopefully the tunnel which leads to the light doesn’t require a toll.
And it’s where my cat goes when she’s hiding from my dog. Of course I consider this dribble, but after a couple of post dinner Scotches, I get to thinking. My cat is 15 years old and should have died a number of times, but she always seems to manage to eke it out. She leaps up on tables like a ninja, she can disappear for hours on end and then appear out of nowhere .005 seconds after a package of ham is opened. It only makes sense. Also, she seems to notice things around the flats we’ve lived in that I couldn’t see. Often behind me. And seconds before I was thinking of getting into bed.
At Scotch #3 I begin a search of her hideouts: the hallway scarf box, under the blankets on the bed, the chair in the office, in a pile of recently laundered clothing. Nothing. I naturally decide on a fourth Scotch and then fall into a deep sleep.
That’s where I find her. Or rather, she finds me. My flat’s Astral Plane looks just like my flat only the floors are cleaner and all the plants are alive. The moonlight and the shadows switch spots here, but it’s somehow still darkish. My cat walks around it on hindlegs. Columbo is on TV there. I make a note of this, as I gather it’s her favorite show. She points towards my couch, where I take a seat. She sits on the armchair. I await whatever wisdom she will impart that she has gathered through the ages.
“More ham.”
I am surprised, but not as surprised as the fact that she’s got Elvis’s voice.
