The handsome feline fellow shown here is Spats Herman-Verastique, a theater cat who ended his run of close to twenty years just this week. This photo was taken while on the road from Austin to Chicago with his humans, Danny Herman and Rocker Verastique, as they were off to direct and choreograph a musical theater production. As my fictional theater cat, Atticus Finch, (not to mention our real life Atticus Finch) might say, it's nice work if you can get it. Even when that work includes riding herd on the irrepressible Danny and Rocker. As you can see, Spats is making sure Rocker gets a good picture, while Danny does the driving.
The sketch below introduces one of my fictional theater cats, a fancy free fellow who adopts a dancer, illustrated here by one of Robert Sijka's gorgeous Maine Coon portraits. Imagine having one of these beauties guarding your dance bag or bouncing your dressing room door.
The sketch below introduces one of my fictional theater cats, a fancy free fellow who adopts a dancer, illustrated here by one of Robert Sijka's gorgeous Maine Coon portraits. Imagine having one of these beauties guarding your dance bag or bouncing your dressing room door.
Nice Work If You Can Get It
I am an anomaly. Or so I've been told. A freak of nature, a cat who should not be. First off, I am a Maine Coon, a country-sized cat, built for country-sized rats. In the city, I am sometimes mistaken for a bobcat, an escapee from some park zoo or other.
Now I ask you, have you ever seen a tortoiseshell bobcat? An epic Jackson Pollack riot of cordovan brown splashed on and swirled through long black fur. Of course there's nothing unusual about that, for a cat. If I were a she cat, which I am not. Nor am I really a tom, if the yowling of other toms in scorn is to be taken seriously. Rather difficult to take it seriously when the inconsequential yowlers stand off a substantial distance to preserve their personal safety.
Even on feral rations I outweigh them by a good ten pounds. I would ignore their crude songs, but I well understood the words of the vet, as he tried to explain me to my dimwitted human. The bleached blonde stock broker, who fancied herself intelligent because she manipulated imaginary numbers. She couldn't grasp the idea of XXY, that her rare male tortie wasn't going to make her a fortune in stud fees.
Nor can one accuse me, a debonair cat about town, of wanton littering. I haven't the inclination. Indeed, since finding myself liberated from the mind-numbing confines of the stock broker's condo, I've found it much more profitable to woo the human ladies. The ladies who lunch, that is. One strolls up to the tables so strategically placed on sidewalks, or in wide open french doors. One presents an immaculately groomed coat, drawing attention to it with a plumy wave of the tail. One pays homage to their equally stylish turnout with rumbling basso profundo song. One gazes upon the delicacies, culinary and otherwise, with wide and soulful golden eyes.
Such a performance is always rewarded with tidbits from the various plates, so one must choose the proper venues. The best choices are those which serve fish for lunch, though I am not opposed to the occasional morsel of chicken or beef, or other, more exotic treats such as can be found in the city. The trick however is to eat and run, before someone gets the clever idea of taking the cute kitty home.
Or the despicable idea of calling Animal Control. You might think restaurant food too rich for a cat, and in most cases you would be right. But when there is no warm bed to curl up in, when one must snarf one's food on the run, those calories get burned just as fast as they're found.
A tortie coat is excellent cover, I've learned. Especially at lunch time, when it is easiest to bus the tables. This, I've found, is much more satisfying than playing the cute kitty begging for treats. One may take one's pick of the spread, provided one times the snarfing immaculately.
It is most necessary to arrive between the departure of the guests, and the arrival of the actual bus person. It's nice work, if you can get it in the right places. The lunch sittings are the best, as people don't usually order dessert after lunch, so one can bus the table directly after the entree.
While the fish is still warm from the grill, succulent, and not too muddled up with the veg. Mind you, I'm not opposed to the occasional slurp of melted ice cream, a nibble of cheesecake, a discarded corner of tiramisu.
Oh, but show me the fish, baby.
I'll admit it freely, salmon is my downfall. Grilled, smoked, raw rolled in rice, cream cheesed in a bagel, I don't care. The lure of salmon has provided me with more adventures than I care to speak of, from shameless cat lady pandering to crashing a ballet gala party.
Granted, that last little soiree not only landed me a forever human, it got me a job with the 86th Precinct. Officer Atticus Finch, feline familiar and protective companion to the one and only Alejandro Valdez, ballet star.
Spiffy, if do say so myself.
Now I ask you, have you ever seen a tortoiseshell bobcat? An epic Jackson Pollack riot of cordovan brown splashed on and swirled through long black fur. Of course there's nothing unusual about that, for a cat. If I were a she cat, which I am not. Nor am I really a tom, if the yowling of other toms in scorn is to be taken seriously. Rather difficult to take it seriously when the inconsequential yowlers stand off a substantial distance to preserve their personal safety.
Even on feral rations I outweigh them by a good ten pounds. I would ignore their crude songs, but I well understood the words of the vet, as he tried to explain me to my dimwitted human. The bleached blonde stock broker, who fancied herself intelligent because she manipulated imaginary numbers. She couldn't grasp the idea of XXY, that her rare male tortie wasn't going to make her a fortune in stud fees.
Nor can one accuse me, a debonair cat about town, of wanton littering. I haven't the inclination. Indeed, since finding myself liberated from the mind-numbing confines of the stock broker's condo, I've found it much more profitable to woo the human ladies. The ladies who lunch, that is. One strolls up to the tables so strategically placed on sidewalks, or in wide open french doors. One presents an immaculately groomed coat, drawing attention to it with a plumy wave of the tail. One pays homage to their equally stylish turnout with rumbling basso profundo song. One gazes upon the delicacies, culinary and otherwise, with wide and soulful golden eyes.
Such a performance is always rewarded with tidbits from the various plates, so one must choose the proper venues. The best choices are those which serve fish for lunch, though I am not opposed to the occasional morsel of chicken or beef, or other, more exotic treats such as can be found in the city. The trick however is to eat and run, before someone gets the clever idea of taking the cute kitty home.
Or the despicable idea of calling Animal Control. You might think restaurant food too rich for a cat, and in most cases you would be right. But when there is no warm bed to curl up in, when one must snarf one's food on the run, those calories get burned just as fast as they're found.
A tortie coat is excellent cover, I've learned. Especially at lunch time, when it is easiest to bus the tables. This, I've found, is much more satisfying than playing the cute kitty begging for treats. One may take one's pick of the spread, provided one times the snarfing immaculately.
It is most necessary to arrive between the departure of the guests, and the arrival of the actual bus person. It's nice work, if you can get it in the right places. The lunch sittings are the best, as people don't usually order dessert after lunch, so one can bus the table directly after the entree.
While the fish is still warm from the grill, succulent, and not too muddled up with the veg. Mind you, I'm not opposed to the occasional slurp of melted ice cream, a nibble of cheesecake, a discarded corner of tiramisu.
Oh, but show me the fish, baby.
I'll admit it freely, salmon is my downfall. Grilled, smoked, raw rolled in rice, cream cheesed in a bagel, I don't care. The lure of salmon has provided me with more adventures than I care to speak of, from shameless cat lady pandering to crashing a ballet gala party.
Granted, that last little soiree not only landed me a forever human, it got me a job with the 86th Precinct. Officer Atticus Finch, feline familiar and protective companion to the one and only Alejandro Valdez, ballet star.
Spiffy, if do say so myself.