Top Buttons and Cat Fights

Mum’s hair wasn’t good. I do hope there is a better celestial hairdresser sorting her out. She had lovely thick white hair, and was always careful of her appearance. I get my scruffy gene from my father. Bear was lying on her chest. Much too regimented. I moved him to one side and tucked the poem I wrote to her in January underneath him. I put the pink scarf on the other side. Something else was wrong but I didn’t work it out until after I had left; her pyjama jacket was done up to the neck. Over formal, and very un-Mother. I spoke to the undertaker later and told him. He’s going to fix it.
At the newsagents I picked up a local paper. I was fussily looking for the nicest copy. The woman behind the counter looked at me oddly. “My mother’s death notice is in it,” I explained. She understood. Her own mother died in January. She guided me to the correct page. I am not sure why I bought it, but I expect I’ll get a copy of the national paper on Saturday where it appears too. I gave my card in at the florists’ and had my handwriting admired. Things are slotting into place. In some ways I never want the funeral to happen. I remeber after my father’s funeral most people seemed to think that was that, for us, a strange new existence was just beginning. You would think that since all of us experiences bereavement we would be better at understanding its effects. The time allowed off work following a death is derisory. Would you want a recently bereaved surgeon to operate on you? I shouldn’t. The idea of a train driver whose concentration is distracted as mine is just now is terrifying.
MasterB has other concerns. During our absence, the fluffy pale ginger I saw a couple of months ago seems to have decided this is a nice bit of territory. He has shown MasterB aggression. MasterB is getting the idea that he is going to have to fight back. He’s practising. A perfectly innocent black cat from down the road was walking by minding its own business. MasterB gave a yowl that Mel Gobson would have been proud of in Braveheart, and the black cat fled. Pleased with this effect, MasterB decided to follow up. He followed his quarry across the road. Mistake. By this time the black cat had got over its initial shock and looked to see the source of the aggression. I’m guessing it knows MasterB as the normally friendly Beta-male of the neighbourhood. It turned to face him. MasterB tried hissing, but it was clear he ddin’t really know what to do next. I picked him up and brought him home, but my visits to the garden are accompanied by a water spray to discourage the ginger fluffball.

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19 thoughts on “Top Buttons and Cat Fights

  1. I often wonder how people with ‘important’ jobs (doctor, pilot, etc..) function while grieving. Although it may be soothing for them to return to normalcy. And I had to chuckle at MasterB’s bout with aggression. πŸ™‚

    • I reckon we should assign them to desk jobs for a while and give them space. Safer all round. MasterB could do with some pointers about fighting. Some I can’t send him to karate classes.

  2. When I was young mourning people in Catalonia would wear black clothes as a sign of bereavement for two years. They would go back to their jobs and cores after the funeral which takes place two days after death. But others would know that being dressed in black you would probably have tears episodes and would not be the most humourous person. So, there was accepted space and time for grieving even at work. Now, that tradition is gone and it is more difficult to be “openly and freely” sad.
    The mixture of dealing with the activities of one’s professional and social life, as well as with the private ones may help to interpenetrate sadness for the loss with the many different shades and aspects of daily life and might heal the deep wounds of sorrow.
    Good night, dear friend. xxx

    • Yes, I have often thought a black armband would be useful to alert others that you might be a bit distracted or over sensitive. However, I guess the whole process of grieving became formalised and formulaic; a business, which then again stifled the expression of true feelings.

  3. It’s much like sleepwalking isn’t it…..I remember and I think you’re doing a grand job of carrying on as we must do – somehow. MasterB will reclaim his territory I’m sure…..he’s just been away for a while and needs to do a bit of “re-scenting” of plants, etc. to stake his claim again. Life really does go on….just a bit differently.

    Hugs, Pam

    • I deployed the water spray on the Furball today. He fled. Result. πŸ™‚
      I have never seen MasterB spray. He marks territory by scratching though. I am working tomorrow, and it will be a gradual return to usual routines after that, excepting the funeral.

  4. It’s a big brain fog and lets us carry on to do what we have to do like Pam said. The visual of you taking your young Ginger Ninja to karate classes or getting out there and giving him some pointers on fighting took me back to the movie The Bells of St. Mary where Ingrid Bergman teaches a young boy how to defend himself and then gave me the chuckles!

    • Yes, I think the blurriness is part of the healing. Unfortunately, modern life doesn’t really allow enough time to benefit from it fully. I don’t know the film. Maybe I should get it and make MasterB watch it.

  5. Brain fog describes the grieving process very well! It takes a while for us to get rid of that fog.
    If anything can help normalize things, MasterB’s escapades will do it!
    June

  6. Turns out the brain fog is protective…. a bereft life softened at the edges for a bit…. May I say: befriend the fog while it is here–no hurry for unsoftened reality.

    Ah, MasterB… skritch, skritch…

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