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Florence in Words

Mr. Taksi's World

If you’ve ever had a cat, you know what I mean when I say that cats live in a world of their own. My apartment is on the 24th floor, and there is precious little going on outside my windows. But not to Mr. Taksi. His favorite spot is the especially wide windowsill in the living room. And he makes getting to that spot a challenge to be conquered every day in a new manner. I’ll try to illuminate with a picture or two, but only those who know cats will be able to envision how delicately Mr. Taksi has to step among succulents so as to avoid knocking them from their stems.

There is no single way to get to the place where he can spread out, and getting there is half the fun. I’d have to run a video for you to see how it happens, but there are other things to talk about in what I am calling Mr. Taksi’s World. There is the question of closets: I have an abundance of them, and they open either with sliding doors or with ordinary doors. Some of them are large enough for a cat to get lost in. And Taksi has been locked in almost every one of those closets, since among his skills is an ability to slip through a door even when I think I am watching for him.

And then there is the question of eating. Mr. Taksi won’t accept that I have offered him a place mat on which I would place his food in a beautiful Japanese bowl. Not on his life. He treats the place mat as his resting place, even when it’s crammed into the corner of the kitchen where he’s fed. He demonstrates twice a day that he must sit on the place mat, no matter my wishes.

Finally, a word about depression for those who know that virus. It’s not gone, but it’s not grabbed me as before. For this cat makes me laugh out loud, and if you’re laughing, it’s hard to be depressed at the same moment. He makes me laugh by turning everything he can into a toy: favorites include the ends of pens, crinkly paper squeezed into a ball, an old sock rolled into a ball; in short, anything that can be batted around the apartment from wooden floors to carpets and back again. He’s knocked some things under the couch and the fridge, where they are inaccessible, but he hasn’t forgotten them. Searching for them, he comes up with his white front paws turned charcoal. And my hollering “no, no, no” dissuades him only temporarily. To be continued…. Read More 
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