Day 7

We’re drinking today’s tea late, and honestly, it’s not because the day was busy. It was busy, but the plain fact is that you don’t drink camomile tea in the middle of the day unless you are actively trying to nap.

Normally, we make an excellent cat. We like sun, and we like lounging and a general sensibility of coziness. We’re less keen on sleeping all day, though. Miss Resi makes an absolute specialty of it. It’s a whole production. First, she circles thricely. Then, trhicely she pads her blankets. Next…Oh, hang on, that’s a poem, isn’t it? A really terrible paraphrase about the cat that drowns in a goldfish pond. What was wrong with Victorians?

Where was I? Ah, all that glisters is not always gold, and camomile tea is never a good idea before two and a half hours of Scottish Country Dance. Actually, by the time we got to the dancing bit, we were doing a pretty good job of losing the plot without our least favourite sleepy-time tea.

No, really. Lavender’s nicer. What is it about camomile that tastes inherently of dry hay? Please feel free to leave your favourite way to improve it in the comments. We wished we loved it.

But we’re drinking it now, right before bed, where the cat will join us. She has a very busy day. She gets up, and she sleeps. Then she sleeps and gets up. Then she rest before napping and – oh? You say we’re paraphrasing another cat poem? Well have one we haven’t poked fun at in the blog.

The Cat’s Dream
Pablo Neruda

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings-
a series of burnt circles-
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.