Oh, Hello.
So, that’s Canarsie up there. Okay?
Will you stop badgering me now?
I have never received as many specific story requests from readers as I have in the last two weeks for news updates on Canarsie, Francine and Pittsburgh and their mom, Grandpa. Those are the three kittens unexpectedly born to the scowling stray whom Rachel rescued, in the summer, in the street, from a cat carrier during the summer in 90 degree heat …
… and who got that name because we thought she was a he until she ejected offspring in our spectacularly cluttered basement storage room one day about three months ago. We were traveling at the time and did not learn of this event until we got home and Rachel went to the basement to feed Grandpa and returned upstairs a wiser but paler woman.
Do you want a recent video? I do have one here, somewhere, but you probably won’t like it. It’s just of the first moment Lexi the dog met all three kits.
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Okay … fine. Hang on.
So, that’s Lexi, on the right. You’ll notice her tail wagging. She’s intrigued.
That’s Canarsie and Pittsburgh, moving in tentatively for the food on the floor, warily watching that thing with big teeth behind the gate. In a moment, Francine will join them.
Ignore the background ticking. It’s not a bomb. There are many ancient mechanical clocks in this house, and their sound is weirdly amplified by video. But do not ignore the background hissing. We cannot. That is Grandpa, hanging back out of sight, snarling at the world. She does not like this development — her kittens leaving the nest, warming to us. She can’t prevent it. She can just yell and try to draw blood if we get too close.
Grandpa had been getting incrementally more civilized of late, much better than before — at one point she ate from Rachel’s hand — until disaster struck. Rachel stubbed a toe and yelped out in pain. She was in the room with the kittens. Grandpa, who was in another room, came bolting out to their defense against the woman who was presumably whooping with glee prior to dining on the kittens. Rachel’s bare feet wound up shredded. She’d had to fling laundry at Grandpa to get her to stop.
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We’re hoping to get Grandpa to the vet next week to try the next step in the dubious prospect of taming her: Spaying. It might work. Rachel just pointed out that this is at least the second time I’ve told you all the vet was a week away.
This is hard. The logistics are daunting. The stakes are high.
Anyway, now that I’ve delivered what you demanded, we can move along to the Mailbag, which….
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Okay, fine.
This is Francine. It is the first time she permitted physical contact:
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Here is Canarsie, who has great-grandfather-style hairy ears, and who later joined for a meal by the other two:
Here are Lexi and Canarsie, finally meeting one on one:
And here’s me and Pittsburgh:
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And finally, Grandpa, not happy, watching over her family. As she sees it, she is their only line of defense.
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Today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll:
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From the Mailbag:
Q: I answered your poll by saying that I like going to funerals sometimes. Premature or unexpected passings, no. But where one is celebrating the life of an elder, inevitably you run into someone you haven’t seen in years and you remember why you enjoy seeing them. The funeral is the reunion.
A: I would have answered yes, too. I generally come away from a funeral feeling I know the deceased better than I had, know more dimensions of his/her life, and that I like him/her even more. For Invitational people reading this, it was particularly true at Elden Carnahan’s memorial service.
Q: Your poll about liking to attend funerals — I said yes because I’m a priest. And yes, it’s a whole bunch of theological stuff. But yes, I like them. (And I do cry at all of them that I do attend.)
The only one I vehemently disliked (which was out of my control) was one held at a funeral home and the cremains were placed in the center of 2 MAGA hats. I did a little vomit in my mouth. The only good thing about it was that it was not in my church, it was not in a room full of Christians (yes, I said that), and I was not preaching. God help us.
A: Oh, man.
Q: Dick Cheney always struck me as a guy in a bad mood, who wasn’t having any fun, who would rather have been someplace else. So, if you concur, what would you have suggested as an outlet, a bit of fun perhaps, something he might have embraced, if he had only asked? – Roger the Artful Dodger
A: I think he would have enjoyed “rabbiting,” an old spectator sport in which you watch chemically enraged rabbit fight each other to death. Margaret Wise Brown, the children’s author most famous for “The Runaway Bunny” and “Goodnight Moon,” liked this sport. She also hunted rabbits for fun. When asked about this, she said: “Well, I don’t especially like children, either. At least not as a group. I won’t let anybody get away with anything just because he is little.”
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Please send Questions and Observations here:
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And please send money here. It will keep us ALL alive. Maybe even Grandpa.