...it's 7:22 a.m. and I'm already sitting in my office attempting to write another post in the style of Nicholson Baker. I woke up extra early this morning and the fire has been going strong for nearly two hours already. After balling up some newspaper, I put some charred bits of last night's logs that had fallen to the back of the stove on top, then I put some split kindling on top of that and finished it off with bigger pieces. The newspaper lit quickly but fizzled into a black papery heap, defeated by the wood's refusal to succumb to peer pressure. I made several attempts to manually nurture a flame, but finally broke down from cold and slid a fire starter stick under the pile. The house is now a toasty 73 degrees.
The cat woke me up today by sitting next to my pillow and nibbling on my fingers. When I sleep, I usually tuck everything under the down comforter except my head, which gets snuggled into a deep crevice at the center of my overstuffed pillow. This morning, before I was awake, one of my arms decided to crawl out as I lay on my side because it was more comfortable stretched out than crushed under my torso. Hunger sent the cat to my fingertips in order to let me know that he wanted to be fed as soon as possible. He didn't like yesterday's can of food—sliced turkey in gravy—and spent the day picking at it but not eating. When the cat first arrived, he would wake me up by rubbing his wet nose against mine but has changed his technique because I respond to that by rolling over. Finger-nibbling is more likely to get me out of bed since it subtly sends the message that he would have no problem eating me if he became hungry enough.
My cat's name is Mocha because he has the coloring of a cup of coffee with a little bit of chocolate and cream swirling in it. He's a street cat who showed up here one day and never left. I also have two parakeets who don't have actual names and have gotten by with being called "green bird" and "blue bird." Emmett's family in A Box of Matches
The duck emerges, making her tiny rapid cheeps, excited over the prospect of the warm water, which steams when I pour it in the bowl. She makes long scoops of water with her under-beak and then straightens her neck to let the warmth slide down. I hold out a handful of feed, and she goes at it with her beak, very fast, with much faster movements than humans can make, moving like the typing ball on an old IBM Selectric (pp. 13-14).Greta, although not very bright in some ways, is shrewd about cats. What you do is you walk up to the cat slowly, as if you want to say hello, and when the cat tentatively extends its nose in the willing-to-sniff-and-be-sniffed stance, you peck at him sharply. Then, when the shocked cat turns to walk away, his ears back, his feelings and nose hurt, lunge at him and peck him directly on or near his anus. That makes him gallop off—for no animal likes to be pecked on the anus by a duck (pp. 51-51).
In the comments of the previous post, Ana mentions that her favorite subject in the book is the duck. Did you find yourself wanting to hear more about the duck? Do you have a pet of your own and do you ever make observations about its activities?
