My story began as a backyard kitten on Olive Street. Grabbed by Fortune’s hand, I was selected to join the Seventh Street ABCD Collective. What a tormenting tease I was to that senior miri, Miss Douglasina Prickle Puss, when during my kitten days we shared the kitchen with a pair of American Eskimo dogs, two macaws, Baldey Crow, and three small unimportant birdies. Miss D., you never forgave me my transgressions despite my obvious admiration for your plushy black coat and witch bright eyes. “Little Crumb,” you sneered, whiskers aquiver. Although my Kani name Malka Ilka or “Last Crumb” lacks regal resonance, I felt myself to be a sable prince until Yotur, Esmeralda, and finally Whiskers mewed their way into the Collective. Any title I had was then paw batted into the trash. Nevertheless, I have continued to conduct myself as a noble personage of Siamese heritage should among commoners, cultivating aristocratic manners, subtle taste, and erudite conversation in consequence of which I am always assigned to welcome our Collective’s guests. Upon how many laps have I graciously bestowed a royal purr? How many compliments have stroked my fur sleek? How many felted souvenir balls have been made from my excess hair?
In the role of property manager, a cat requires free access to all rooms, closets, and drawers. Hilary’s workroom and bedroom have always been the contended exceptions. An employed miri does not need Collective permission to move property about or to alter its appearance. View the handsome red wing armchair residing in the living room as an example of my decorative clawwork. I’ve left my signature clawprint on sheepskin bed covers, bookcases, chair seats, the kitchen bench and table. In the future, my two trainees, Yotur and Esmeralda, should maintain this standard of care.
To sum up those fabled nine miri lives I’ve experienced: I’ve loved Miss D. (unrequited), Uli dog while she was tiny enough to be pounced upon, bedspreads (any variety), the taste of fresh catnip, Brenda Biscuit’s lap, gloved grooming, a full begging bowl not licked by Yotur. I’ve learned to loath cat carriers with their stink of a vet office, flea treatments, pills, needle punctures, claw clipping, closed doors or gates, and mini American Eskimo puppies and I feared the fangs of the Great Devourer. Despite being deprived in kittenhood of a mother, I have acquired wisdom by taming my claw instincts and developing my mind’s eye.
Finally, I would like to make a few bequests to you who remain on Willis Avenue.
To you, Yotur, my rotund friend, I leave my two begging bowls from which countless times you have snatched tidbits. Now you may expand into the rest of the cat bed we shared. It was a tight fit. You may also have my new leather collar if it can go round your chubby neck.
Esmeralda, I will no longer dispute ownership of the back hallway catbox. The smell is yours. Let Yotur ask permission to use it as did. Sharpen those sweet scimitar claws on him when he protests.
Whiskers, my quota of minutes allowed on Brenda Biscuit’s are yours. So is my quota of acceptable complaint minutes. You run out of yours by noon. I believe your persistent nasal meerow should be heard.
Uli dog, I promise you dreams of our tussles together when I was your puppy-sitter. As you remember, I always landed on top. Sadly, you never learned cat skills. Additionally, since you will be the senior four-paws, I wish you best of luck in teaching the pup to quietly snooze away her afternoons.
Well, Old Birdo, you can congratulate yourself for having outlived another miri. Chomp another notch in your perch while you are gloating. Sorry, it’s a steel one that’s replaced all the wooden ones you ate. Whispered gossip hints you arrived in San Jose a humble parrot sans tailfeathers. Since humility is considered a primary virtue even for birds, may you re-earn it by loosening all your flight equipment as a result of continuous squawking.
Varna Macaw,I’ll just hope you crack a upper beak as Baldey Crow did (actually it was broken when trespassing). This too, can be a humbling experience. Remember, during a lifetime you issued only one nut-cracking, seed-scooping beak set. Silent vocalization is my advice.
At last I’ve arrived at the bottom of my bowl of bequests. Laihainai Ourai, the spring wind who has whirled us creatures around until, like exhausted leaves, we dropped from a previous pleasurable existence onto the cold tile of our present reality, what appropriately just gift shall I leave you, pup? I think I must bequeath you the sum of my many misdeeds multiplied by your own (and that’s a lot, believe me), the total to be commandeered by General Malka into an army of haunts that will charge yowling into your sleep dreams for as many suns and moons as you will continue wearing your white hair coat. Happy naps!
It is well known that we midnight miri are especially dear to Moon Mother Uma, who governs the ebb and low of our life water. She quickens this water so we prance a lifetime in the green world. When our earth-heavy forms have worn away, she draws up our water like a moonbeam, so we can again dance in her honor as we did in our youthful bone bodies at cat neighborhood full moon socials. Clothed in soft sky pelts, shaking silver whiskers, pirouetting on cloud paws, star bright eyes wide, we thrash our night wind tails in joyous rhythms that thrill living creatures. While it is true that in daytime I may only appear as a transparent moon miri memory, during your sleep dreams, I will forever be Malka wearing midnight heaven’s fur.
