The Art of Blogging and the Sacred Science of Cats

As an early Valentine present, at the time of posting, the author of this blog – Sandra Peachey, published the gorgeous book ‘Peachey Letters – Love Letters to Life’ 2 years ago… To celebrate, the cost of the Kindle edition has been reduced to just £1.99 / $2.99 for 3 days starting from Tuesday 11 February 2015. At the time of posting there are just two days of this promotion left, before the book returns to it’s normal selling price of £6.00. For the UK click http://ow.ly/IRSbQ, for the USA http://ow.ly/IRTkK or check out your nearest Amazon site… And have a very Happy Valentines! 

george - Kitten

George then – an impossibly pretty kitten

It’s Day 12 of my blogging journey… And I’ve finally decided to do some proper introductions… So you may like to do things in a 1, 2, 3 / A, B, C linear way, but I live in an anarchy of chaotic thoughts; so, instead in my own 7,5,1 / Z, W, B sort of a way, I let those thoughts fly, I capture them, then I let them lie and percolate… And then I come back to them, or not…

For some people blogs are rigorous, diarised outputs… Yet for me they are for splurges of free thought and feeling, which I can leave to float through the Universe until they bump into something or some one else…

Or… I can use them as a beginning – to later take them and make them into a super crafted whole, where I will edit and shape and give them a place in a more straitened structure, playing their part, a section in a chapter, now out of my head and waiting, patiently, to be slotted into a future grand scheme…

In this sense, they are an experiment. A testing and trying of ideas, and style.

And for me, more importantly, they are also an electronic letter to the world, (what ever that world may be composed of, or who ever it may be peopled by); replacing my lost (to time) love of pen and paper – of that reminisced crafting and weaving of news and musings, and the committing of them once and for all, to a for ever piece of parchment…

I remember, in times past, the nervousness of putting a ‘controversial’ letter into a post box, and I have experienced this in my more recent times when I started to blog – that scary second just before pushing the final ‘publish’ button; then to sit back and be damned, or damned with faint praise, or even, possibly praised, or even more likely ignored, or (I really suspected at the time) judged, or what ever else I might lay myself open to, when ever I share my stuff…

What actually came back (in those scary, early blogging days) was overwhelmingly positive, yet being a sensitive soul, what ever was negative stuck with me and tortured me for a while, until I processed the comments, then learnt their lessons; and found myself, ultimately smiling at ALL the feedback that I have received…

However, I digress! I promised you some late introductions, now that I am further than a third of a way through my February blogging challenge…

So I shall start by introducing George, and as I write this in real time, here is a picture of him, taking just now, sweetly sleeping…

Geo recumbent

George now – recumbent, right this minute

You may have to look closely, but there is definitely a cat in there, merged into slumbering obscurity, blending in beautifully with the surrounding softness of MY blanket…

I remember in perfect detail the day we first met… He was one of six male kittens, all of which were snoozing together, in an unbelievably tangled and cute way, in a large basket. One of the kittens had his head over the edge of the basket… and I knew, then and there, that he was the one…

They all stirred awake and I was introduced to them, one by one… but I knew… And I took him home with me that self same day…

Till that point in my life I had been living a conventional existence, working 9 to 5 (well 8 to 7 actually…) in a professional, corporate role, and yet was starting to flirt with the thought of living my life in a different way.

George came to me just months before I started a new phase in my life, one where I have experimented with life and work and writing and coaching, and in doing so being more of myself (cliché alert). So he has literally been with me (I’m actually not afraid of clichés), on the ‘journey’ – my feline friend and helpmeet, and in many senses, a fur covered guru…

He was the most beautiful kitten in every way, with an easy, sweet and friendly nature. And despite the fact that I was, at that time living with a partner who worked at home, and I worked out there – in ‘the jungle’, leaving my kitten behind for long, long hours, George had decided, from day one, that without any doubt, that I was ‘his’…

His ‘what’ has long been debated between us… As far as I am concerned, I am the head of the Pride, and I will be harmoniously and unconditionally obeyed (she stated in megalomaniacal tones).

Now I have heard it said, that in urban legend, a dog regards you as his master, whereas a cat regards you as his parent. Yet I am, quite frankly, at this middle aged stage in my life, rather embarrassed to be known as a cat’s ‘mummy’.

So to elucidate and (quite frankly) to grossly generalise – just in case you are not a pet person: Have a cat or dog in your female life, and you are nearly always referred to, in the third party idiom of pet owners, as the animal’s ‘mummy’. Not an owner, nor a mum, not a mother, no – a mummy…   This language tick emanates from a whole, latent sub culture of baby talk based pet dialect. As I am not a scholar on such issues, I cannot tell you from whence it arose, simply that it is one of those latent linguistic phenomena, that is

So I have evolved a new word for the relationship that I have with my cats – I am, (Oxford English Dictionary 2016 edition please note), the ‘hu-mamma’ – the responsible human / adoptive parent / head of the pride.

In my new definition, therein lies a dictionary difficulty… The word mamma is insinuated there, a more (I like to think) charismatic version of mummy. A stronger, more cosmopolitan statement of the position that I hold in my cat’s lives. Not a baby-fied, mummified personage, but a blend of care taker and leader. I position myself as the Chief Cave Lion, lazily and effortlessly in command of the family group; and the ultimate hunter (I go forth into the ‘jungle’, hunt, and then return with slayed pouches and boxes of cat food for them). Fundamentally, I advertise myself as ‘she who roars and must be obeyed’.

Maybe I don’t roar enough, or maybe I have done it too much over our 8 plus years together, but now George has grown, and has met and matched me in middle age, he clearly and constantly demonstrates that we should at least be equals (on a good day), or in fact that I am in actuality, a soft inferior, put in place in his cave to provide food and adoration and a soft stomach to purr on.

Like all relationships, the one I have with George ebbs and flows from moment to moment. It is clear that of all my cats he is the one closest to me, preferring and purring to be constantly by my side and taking a keen interest in all I do around the cave. When I meditate he likes to join in. When I have coaching clients around, he takes a keen interest, watching these precious people working through their stuff and acting as an emotional indictor of what is going on within. He will stand aside when there is confusion, and he will gravitate towards the client who demonstrates clarity, rubbing and purring his royal approval.

Oh, and speaking of indicators, did I mention that George is a ‘pointer’ cat? I discovered this one day when I had a new visitor to the home. George as always, graciously introduced himself to her. I then wondered aloud where my cat Taz was, so that we could effect that introduction too. It was a warm day and so George sauntered out into the garden and over to a bush, under which my beautiful black cat Taz lay, smoothly snoozing the summer away.

A few months later Easter came around and I had hidden a cache of chocolate eggs around my garden for a friend’s two children to find.

In their excitement the children did not see that George had walked up to and sat by all the eggy hiding places, one by one, in turn. Instead they shrieked and scrabbled through the under growth and found all but one egg hidden away, all by themselves. Frustrated at not being able to find the last egg, they started their round of the garden again; parting and peering through armfuls of foliage and a bounty of bushes, all to no avail…

I eventually relented and told them that George held the clue, and sure enough, there he was, posed and poised roast chicken style, pointing at where the final egg lay, out of sight of super excited children.

So there it is… much as I try to exert my gentle dominance, George actually knows that he is the one in charge. He clearly points the way to greater treasures in life, if I would but acknowledge that so called sacred fact, and take due, diligent note. George, of course, knows the score, he has life licked, in many and various ways. If I take the time I can learn so much from his confidence, his insouciance and the easy way in which he loves himself greatly, and so has the source and strength to love me on, in spades, paws and purrs.

You see, as much as I would ascribe to my self the title of head of the pride, George actually knows that he is in fact, undeniably, indisputably the actual Head of the Peachey Pride.

PS: Remember that there is a special Valentine Gift promotion on the book version of this blog! The cost of the Kindle edition has been reduced to £1.99 / $2.99 for just 2 more days (at the time of posting, Thursday 12 February 2015). Happy Valentines from the author and her cats! For the UK click http://ow.ly/IRSbQ, for the USA http://ow.ly/IRTkK or check out your nearest Amazon site…

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