surprise
Often Bobbie and I have something of a one-sided conversation, at least on the face of things. But, that’s not exactly true. I read the other day about “Attentive silence”, and for me, this is what Bobbie brings to each day he’s kind enough to grace us, and me, with. A zillion years ago there was an LA musical group named “Missing Persons”, who sang in their song “Words” – “What are words for, when no one listens anymore?” Bobbie’s different. What are words for, when silence says it all. I’m thinking of paying a few dollars if I can find a cool button business, and having a personal button made – which I can proudly wear on my jean jacket. “Be like Bobbie.” The way Uncle Buck zips his mouth closed – sound effects and all. Enough talking already.
Which was the way this final day of the “As Bobbie Sees It” chronicles was destined to end. Commissioned to end. Yet, we get to open to the offers of each day, and if we’re lucky, we become fetchable. The day comes to fetch us – fetch me as this storyteller – and maybe play catch; maybe encourage a dance or two. Say, The Bristol Stomp.
So, it’s Thursday morning and I’m parked way down the left side of the street, and the yard and home of Bobbie is up there on the right. I amble down the middle of Harrison and cut over. I see the owner of the home backing out of her driveway, getting out to close the gate, and taking off. I figure since I saw Bobbie give her real cat love, maybe he’s up and about, and that is in fact how it is. I slowly walk my way toward the gate and Bobbie’s in the middle of the driveway doing cat licking fur behaviors. And then the most remarkable thing happens. He kind of stands up to lick or nibble or caress or some such kitty act on his tummy, now he’s pretty straight up, and to my amazement I see what look like five or seven cat nipples. And bang and pow, the completely out-of-the-blue Barbarians song which showed up here in Couch Surfing yesterday – “Are You a Boy or Are You a Girl” – immediately moves into some mystical space. And then there’s the Zen-like Koan question Ann’s four-year old grandson Logan posed a month ago, and which I once in a while spend quiet time with in something like meditation. “Why his name Bobbie?”
“Why her name Bobbie?”
Friday. Oh my head.