Editor’s note: This column appeared in the Oct. 3, 1958 edition of the White Center News. The author is our mother Lee Robinson. She wrote a periodic column about life. She died at age 46.
By Lee Robinson
This age when the wilder speculation and fancies of man become realities is a constant source of wonder. As we struggle to survive and keep pace with the rapid changes, I sometimes wonder where we’re all going—where will it lead? What happens next?
I was talking to a fellow just the other day and he knows where he's going. He strikes me as a type who has the determination, positive attitude and plain old-fashioned grit to get there.
We were lunching together and suddenly he slammed his fist down on the gable and stated in ringing tones “I’m going to the moon!”
I’ll have to admit I laughed.
I’m sorry now. I could see I had offended him. He scowled at me and his lower lip jutted out. I’ve seen him do that before—it’s a sure sign that nothing can change his mind. Apparently we wan’t discouraged tho, for he related his statement almost defiantly.
Soberly, I asked “But how?”
“Rocket” was the terse reply. He isn’t much of a talker and prefers to take action right now. Well, it’s nice to know somebody who knows what he wants and where he is going. This fellow may make it. He has a long time to plan. Not too long ago, I saw him up on our roof, reaching for the stars—probably calculating distances. Like I said, he has a long time to make plans.
He was two years old last May.
***
Every now and then I encounter someone who tries to convince me that cats are snobs. Imperious creatures who will have no truck with us human types. A pox on them. They haven’t met our four (count ‘em, four) cats.
Now I am a feline fancier of the fanciest type, in fact. And my steady beau is a canine cuddle. Natcherly, he is not overly fond of sharing his board with our furry friends. These cats will eat anything any time and all the time. I have even caught them looking slyly at me a time or two. If I even glance toward the kitchen, they race madly for the cupboard and roll cans of Puss and Boots around the room.
Since they are not fed on any set schedule, our home is a monument to chaos. They remind us in plaintive and persistent tones that chow time is due.
Recently, we tried to adopt a policy of making them sleep outside. This is pretty effective if we seal ourselves in by bolting all windows and doors. It is disconcerting to hear a voice in the pitch black of night, just as I have dozed off, “Someone is standing on my eyeballs.” I SAID—SOMEONE IS STANDING ON MY EYEBALLS AND BREATHING HIS FISHY BREATH IN MY FACE.”
(Come to think of it—it’s pretty funny, too.)
He has hinted to Charles Brown, boy Bassett Hound, that he could be helpful in escorting the cats off into the toolies. But Charles is no fool—he likes cats like crazy—and he knows the majority rules.
