If you are within a certain age bracket, the above-referenced song has been irrevocably ruined for you by singing hamburgers.
Perhaps “ruined” is a strong word. But at any rate, you are now unable to hear that riff without singing in your head — against your own will — “…and I hope you do; you’ll always have a friend wearing big red shoes.”
Carley Rose, that little clementine of a cat, arrived in my office a few short weeks ago. She promptly began excavations — or at least attempted excavations. Contrary to the claims of
saner less-informed individuals, I do not believe Carley was “hiding” beneath her blankets. Nay; our sweetest soul simply longed to see more of the world, and her method of travel was mining straight through to Indonesia.
OK, she was hiding.
Persistently. Pathologically. Painfully. Hiding from all humanity, felinity, reality itself. Maybe she was tormented by visions of Ronald McDonald. Maybe she did not appreciate my singing voice or Bucca‘s squawks or Valkyrie’s violence. Whatever the cause, if there was a blanket, Carley was beneath it.
Until she wasn’t.
One ordinary day — if such a thing exists — Carley found the courage to emerge.
The next thing I knew, the little clementine was all sweetness in my lap, a living lavish lovefest of huge eyes and huge-heartedness and profound purring. Once semisweet strangers, we became the best of friends (yes yes, of course I mean second-best, Bucca). On cold days, Carley would perch on my computer tower for its mystic mechanical warmth, but she’d continually patpatpattapat my knee if I stopped stroking her for a second.
Bucca inexplicably tolerated all of this, with a minimum of hissing and zero bloodshed.
It bore the marks of magic, mirth, a miracle.
So, naturally, my foolish heart decided that we three should share this office eternally, world without end, amen. I’d always have two friends wearing big green eyes.
Magic arrived in the form of one Carrie, known to longtime blog readers as Mother of Sirius and Forever-Foster Mother of Patches. Following Sirius’ heart-shredding passing, Carrie’s heart flicked on a “Vacancy” sign, beginning a search that ended in my office.
Carley Rose found her true best friend. The little clementine was whisked to the citrus grove of her dreams. Carley and Carrie are soulmates, it’s clear, and the light-trails of magic are all that remain in the air for me. OK, those, and Bucca’s merrier-than-ever meows at once again being Top Cat, Only Cat, Cat Who Evicted Allllllllll Other Cats.
Not so fast, Bucca.
Almost as slow on the uptake as her hapless human, Bucca does not yet fully believe in Magic. Which is to say, she does not yet realize that there is a large, mellow cat named Magic living under our desk.
This ignorance behooves Magic. This ignorance is bliss. This ignorance is temporary.
As I type this post, Magic is still just 36 hours into his tenure as Deputy Office Mate. He’s biding his time in a getting-to-know-you crate, although neither he nor Bucca seems to know much about the other’s existence. Middle-aged and glorious and mellower than James Taylor, Magic came to us from certain death, only to face uncertain life in one of our suites. Magic’s catty neighbors decided he might be better off mashed to a magical pulp, and so they began stomping him with their big red shoes.
But then, Carley Rose’s magic opened a door.
No hamburgers required.
Wait, breaking news from Magic’s crate: copious hamburgers required.
We’ll see what Magical thinking awaits us all in this office.