Found!

Just after we got home from walking the street in case he'd been hit by a car I received a text from our neighbours on the ridge above us.   A text with photo.  A photo of Matisse sitting on their wood box, looking sleek and at ease. 

By the time I'd rung them back he'd disappeared.  Disappeared because they'd chased him away.  Or tried to.  To protect the many little birds which live there.  Matisse, people lover that he is, couldn't understand why these people were chasing him around the house shouting.  So he hid.

I combed their hillside looking for him, calling and calling and calling.  My usually voluble Meezer Cat stayed silent.   After an hour I gave up and came home.  At least he was alive.  Whether he'd find his way home or to another house was the question.  To make matters worse we had severe thunderstorm warnings.  I could see muscular clouds swelling on the horizon.  My poor coddled cat.

But we had things to do so Richard and I drove to Bray Park for fuel, intending to carry on to town for groceries.  Then the phone rang.  It was Tina.  She'd found him.  Would we come right away?

You bet!

Poor Matisse was hunkered down behind some yoga mats right next to the house.  He hadn't gone anywhere after all.  He was stiff with fear.  Even his tail was fluffed.  After all that time had elapsed, still a fluffed tail and dilated pupils.  I carried him to the Caddy and we came home.

It's taken him almost 24 hours to return to normal.  His faith in humanity has been severely shaken.  His entire life has been one of love.  Even going to the vets he has been treated with kindness.  No one has ever chased or shouted at him.  He has always been a People Cat.  Loving attention and giving attention.

I thought when he came home he would, after eating, go to sleep.  He didn't.  He stayed alert and on guard for most of the day, only falling asleep in late afternoon.  He was also a little distrustful of me.  Wanted to be near me but not too near.  He wouldn't purr for me until late afternoon.  Happily he did sleep with us last night, even changing his usual sleeping position from the bottom of the bed to the middle.

I lock that door now. 

Matisse is Missing

My darling 15 year old Siamese cat, a strictly suburban cat with no street or bush smarts, cracked open an unlatched door and got out some time during the night.  This is a cat who loves his food and when he didn't turn up for breakfast it got serious.  It's 8:30am and no sign or sound of him.  I am very worried.

Post 42 of 92

Have no idea why I am still numbering these posts as the original purpose (getting me to write regularly) has fallen by the wayside.

Am writing today as I want to record - just in case it is of interest later - just when I started trying to learn classical guitar.  A couple of weeks ago, at a garage sale, I bought a beat up (broken bridge with screws to hold it together) Valencia guitar for $50.   It had steel strings so found a reasonable website devoted to teaching beginning acoustic guitar (justinguitar).  After a few days and excruciatingly painful fingers, realized I didn't have any desire to learn blues or rock or jazz - that what I've always enjoyed is classical guitar - a cousin to the harp - my real but unattainable love.  So off to the local music shop where I looked at $300 and $400 and $1000 guitars.  Then I looked on ebay and found a beautiful (to me) Yamaha G-55 guitar for sale in Brunswick Heads.  With nylon strings and good, to my uneducated ear - tone.

What is surprising is how much I am enjoying this.  It's been 50 years since I read music while taking piano lessons - so that is as good as never knowing.  Yet there is no pressure.  My fingers get tangled, the tips of my fingers are sore - my mind hurts with trying to memorize things but because I can stay on the same 'page' virtually forever, it's enjoyable and oddly relaxing.  A friend said when she was going through a particularly bad time learning the guitar helped her cope with the stress.

Another good thing is Richard.  For a very long time now he wages war during the night, or attends parties with lots of conversation and laughter, or runs half marathons, or practices boxing.  He wasn't sleeping a restful sleep and I wasn't sleeping much at all.  Even bought a cheap single bed so I could have a place to crash after an unsuccessful night on the couch. 

On a punt, reduced his Madobarb by a quarter of a tablet every four hours.  Voila!  He's sleeping through the night and I, although still coping with insomnia, am sleeping better too.  He also said he feels 'lighter'.  Know when the specialist increased his dosage Richard was affected badly, became 'lumpen', even sitting at an angle for minutes on end, or not moving at all during the night - fairly unresponsive during the day too. 

It's only been this week but I notice he's been busy in the shed, doing odd jobs and generally exhibiting more energy - and interest - than he has for awhile.  So life is good again.  Sleep makes all the difference in the world.  Even spurs one on to learn something completely new! 

Post 41 of 92

Have previously written of my opinion that art should be 'life enhancing'.  Not that art has to be pretty or chocolate box or that it shouldn't show the darker aspects of humanity (thinking of Goya's horrific images which certainly aren't 'pretty'), but even within his paintings there is a glimmer of life, of hope. 
 
Came across a quote of Albert Camus' which struck me as something similar only much more eloquently and clearly put.

In 1948 Camus spoke at a meeting of intellectuals for peace.  This was during the time of Franco's dictatorship in Spain.  Quoting from Herbert Lottman's biography of Camus:

'He described the contemporary world of terror, affirmed that art was opposed to such a world.  "In an era in which the conqueror, by the very logic of his attitude, becomes executioner and policeman, the artist is forced to be insubordinate...In the face of contemporary political society, the only coherent attitude of the artist ... is refusal without concession."  So it is useless to demand justification and commitment of the artist; he is committed, even if against his will.  "By his very function, the artist is witness to freedom...."  True artists are on the side of life, enemies of no one save the executioners.'