Some photos from the past several days:
A small insect on a chamomile blossom (that must be one very calm insect, with excellent digestion):
Honkin’ big scissors, at a local repair shop where all the employees use them. (That’s my hand next to them, to give an idea of the scale.)
Does Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise have something to hide... like his Hebrew name?
Tiny stork’s-bill blossoms:
Ask that question on a local bus and the driver will give you one of these:
... a list of every stop on the line.
This list is for the new No. 5 line, which connects the Talpiot Industrial Zone to the Central Bus Station without going through the center of town. Sweet. It’s about time!
By the way, the two words at the bottom in large type are “Not for sale.”
Although Purim is over, the members of one of my e-mail lists are still discussing a few thoughts connected to the day. One of our recent topics was what happened to Vashti after she disobeyed the king.
Various Jewish commentaries assign Vashti a variety of dreadful fates, from banishment to execution by beheading and even by burning. In my opinion, the text of the Megillah shows that her fate was much simpler—and, in some ways, far more devastating.
The Megillah tells us that the women who had their night with the king but were not chosen as queen were not allowed to leave the palace and resume their former lives. Instead, they were kept in the harem as concubines, never seeing the king again unless he summoned them by name.
We know that harems were actually prisons: luxurious prisons, but prisons nevertheless. Even the queen, arguably the most powerful inmate of the harem, had no real power outside it. Once she fell into disfavor—well, imagine a present-day situation in which a prisoner who has been the most powerful and feared inmate in his wing suddenly loses his power, whether through physical incapacitation or for other reasons. To use a current phrase, sucks to be him.
So here is what I think happened to Vashti. The text tells us that the king’s advisers suggested that the king never see her again. They do not tell him to banish or kill her, merely to ignore her for the rest of her life. So she remains in the harem as an ordinary inmate, only with the added burden of the king’s extreme displeasure. Her enemies—and it’s likely that she had plenty if only by virtue of her position—probably made no secret of their schadenfreude, while any friends or sympathizers she may have had dared not show her compassion for fear of being accused of high treason.
Execution seems like a pretty good choice compared to a life like that.
I also don’t believe all the nasty stories about Vashti that we find in our commentaries. The rabbis simply had a problem: although Vashti had done a good, even heroic thing by preserving her dignity, they had no interest in encouraging disobedience among wives. Yet what about all the unfortunate Jewish women throughout our history who endured similar dishonor, or chose death in a desperate attempt to escape it? What about Esther herself, who was still stuck with that turkey of a husband even after she had succeeded in saving her people?
Finally, to the young men I heard joking about Vashti being “liberated, especially when her head was liberated from her body”—it sounds like if you had been there, you would have been as disappointed as the king when Vashti didn’t show. But what would you do if it were your sister or daughter whose husband had ordered her to show herself, even clothed, to a bunch of his drunken pals while he bragged to them about how hot she was?
I just had to post this.
Via my friend RivkA at Coffee and Chemo (click to enlarge):
Hey, Purim may be over but it’s still Adar!
There are actually dozens, but this year I attended (and read at) three: at Matan in Jerusalem, at a private home, and at the Western Wall.
Here is the Megillah at Matan last night, prepared for reading:
There was also a women’s Megillah reading at the Western Wall this morning, and it went beautifully. Here are some pictures:
The lady in the gray suit stopped to listen, as did many women who passed by:
One of our readers wows the crowd with her beautiful voice:
Ken yirbu—may there be many readings like this one!
One thing I’ve never told my readers: I am a disciple of a Hassidic rebbe.
Which rebbe might he possibly be? I can hear my readers asking. Perhaps the Maid of Ludomir, Hannah Rahel Werbermacher, who took on the function of a rebbe despite the fact that she was a woman and not related to any rabbinic figures of her day?
No. It’s the Ailurolover Rebbe, of course!
The Ailurolover is an obscure figure in Hassidic history. He is best known for his strong belief was that just as the redemption of the Jewish people from Egypt came through cats, our redemption from our present exile will come through cats as well. Therefore, he says, it is incumbent on every Jew, and indeed on every human being, to be as kind as possible to cats—and, by extension, all other animals.
Yes, tza’ar ba’alei hayyim (treating animals kindly) was one of the Ailurolover Rebbe’s favorite mitzvot, and he never tired of talking about it.
Now, you may ask: how did the redemption from Egypt come about through cats?
The following story about Bithia, the daughter of Pharaoh who found Moses as a baby in the Nile River, should explain. According to Jewish tradition, Bithia’s historic bath in the Nile was a symbolic renunciation of her father’s wicked ways, which allowed the slavery and suffering that she saw every day. However, according to a little-known tradition cited by the Ailurolover Rebbe, she decided on this drastic step only when she was already on her way to the river. Her actual reason for going there was slightly more mundane. Here is the story, redacted to one hundred words:
Bithia bent to her task. Like all royal children, she must serve in a temple, and today her job was to empty the litter pans.
Examining their contents, she smiled. Praise Bast, no more worms! Her formula had worked.
Outside, a whip cracked and a man groaned. Bithia’s eyes filled. “Lady Bast—or any god who may be listening—please put an end to that,” she prayed. “If only I could do so myself.”
Her work done, she summoned her maids. “I need a bath,” she said, leading them to the riverbank...
... for a dip that changed history.
But of course we can’t leave this post without some cat pictures. Here is Her Ladyship with a poofy tail after a German shepherd poked his head into the yard:
Here is Missy, after the same incident:
Here are both cats in the same frame:
And since Lady is also part of my life, here she is close up:
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
Happy Purim!
Last night I read Chapter 6 of Megillat Esther at Matan, an institution of high-level Jewish learning for women. One of the many services that Matan provides to the community is a Megillah reading by and for women, one of dozens, if not hundreds, of such readings that take place every year in Jerusalem and throughout Israel and the Jewish world.
When Matan invited me to read for them again this year, the woman who called me wanted to know what chapter I would like to choose. I asked for Chapter 6, which is my favorite. Not only is it wonderfully actable (can’t you just see Haman drooling over the prospect of wearing the royal robe and crown and riding the king’s own horse down the main street of the capital?), but it also contains the story’s turning point: just when it seems that things cannot look any worse for the Jews of the Persian Empire, the hidden hand of God intervenes and things suddenly begin to look a good deal better.
Although I have been reading the Megillah at various women’s readings for more than a decade, until last night I had only one recording of my doing so (on the interactive CD-ROM Purim Rock), which does not include visuals. So I asked a young woman, also a reader, to record my reading if it wouldn’t interfere with her concentration, since according to Jewish law, one must hear every word of the Megillah. She agreed, saying that it would be no problem.
I didn’t look at the camera at all while I was being filmed, so it was only when I got home that I discovered that in keeping with the topsy-turvy nature of Purim, I had been filmed sideways. Early on in the chapter, the woman who recorded me rotated the camera ninety degrees, not realizing that this would rotate the picture as well.
I rotated the picture back as best I could using Windows Movie Maker. So while most of the frames are now properly right-side-up, there is still some visual distortion, and everything there (including myself) looks a bit wider than it actually is.
All that said, without further ado, here is the first (and so far the only) visual recording of my Megillah reading. I will try to get more today, since I am reading two different chapters in two different places. If I succeed, you can be sure that I will remind the person holding my camera: “Please, whatever you do, don’t flip it!”
A happy Purim!
(Begin reading the Book of Esther—with the 1917 Jewish Publication Society translation—here.)
(Read about the Book of Esther—the story behind Purim—here.)
Radio Sefarad, that is.
Those who are interested can listen via modem or ADSL. Click on either option, and when you get to the following page, click on the image of the cover of “Day of Rest.” (My name is also there, so that should make things a bit easier.)
The broadcast is in Spanish, so if any Spanish-speakers out there happen to listen, I’d appreciate a paraphrase.
Radio Sefarad is run by Jorge Rozemblum, a musician and scholar of Madrid, Spain, to whom I offer a hearty ¡Muchas gracias!
(UPDATE: The program will only be up on the site until 11:59 p.m. tonight Spanish local time. But I have it saved, just in case.)
Some cats of different colors whom I saw downtown yesterday. Gray and white:
Gray and white with tux:
The dreaded Calico Pirate:
Not downtown, a beautiful bewhiskered beastie hunts a hapless shoelace:
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
The world is utterly mad. I think I need a cat picture about now. Here is Her Ladyship on the garden bench.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
My translation follows:
The Roads of Zion Mourn
the murder of our holy, precious students, heroic and gentle of spirit, lovers of our holy land, who were slaughtered at their studies, with books of Torah in their hands, holy martyrs in whose place no one can stand:
Doron Mehereta [aged 26], who will be buried in Ashdod
Yonadav Hirschfeld [19], who will be buried in Kokhav ha-Shahar
Roey Roth [18], who will be buried in Elkanah
Segev Peniel Avihail [15], who will be buried in Kefar Etzion
Yonatan Eldar [16], who will be buried in Shilo
Neria Cohen [15], who will be buried on the Mount of Olives
Avraham David Moses [16], who will be buried in Efrat
Yohai Lipschitz [18], who will be buried on the Mount of Olives
Earth, cover not their blood, and all the House of Israel shall bewail the burning that the Lord has wrought.
(More specific information about the funeral follows.)
I just read that US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice said in her condemnation of the attack: “This barbarous act has no place among civilized peoples and shocks the conscience of all peace-loving nations.”
I beg to differ, Madam Secretary. The perpetrators of this barbarous act have no place among civilized peoples. Nor do those who handed out candy and fired weapons into the air to celebrate it.
Terrible news. The Mercaz ha-Rav Yeshiva at the entrance to Jerusalem was attacked by terrorists tonight. The television news says eight killed, dozens wounded.
More here.
Students. In a school. On a Thursday night, when yeshiva students study in the main hall all night long. (The creeps must have known that.)
Tell me again how our so-called partners want peace. Tell me again how our do-nothing government is protecting us.
On second thought, don’t.
No, not political unless you have feathers. (Click to enlarge.)
The Disputed Nesting Hole in the nearby eucalyptus tree: now apparently occupied by a parakeet couple. In the photograph: Mr. Parakeet. Mrs. Parakeet was somewhere nearby, calling out to her husband. She was probably warning him about the suspicious-looking human below who kept aiming her Flashy-Box at him.
Other contenders for this nesting hole have been a family of woodpeckers.
I found a lovely model on the way home from work the other day:
Hello, stripey kitty. Thanks for being a good sport and posing so nicely.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
[rant ON]
This blog is usually my quiet little corner, my escape from all the madness that’s going on around us. Nevertheless...
Since when did it become a crime to be a college student sitting in his car?
Or a ten-year-old boy playing with his friends after school?
Or an eight-year-old boy going out with his older brother to buy a present for his dad?
Or a city that has the bad luck to be within range of rocket-wielding terrorists (who are financed by governments that are known to support terrorists, not to mention by billions of dollars in donations from the international community)?
This has been going on since 2001. Seven years! Any decent government would have acted long ago. Any government worth the name would protect its citizens. That, among other things, is what a government is for. That is what a government is supposed to do.
Not that our elected officials are going to listen to me, of course, or to the thousands of citizens of Sderot and its environs who have been putting up with these murderous attacks for so long. (Don’t tell me that they are not murderous because the death toll has been so low. It’s not as if our enemies don’t intend to kill us.)
When is our do-nothing government going to act? When is it going to do something besides... nothing?
[rant OFF... maybe]
In memory of my late friend Beverly Burge, who died suddenly a month ago and whose shloshim (thirtieth day after burial) we observe tomorrow:
“Beverly Burge?” asked the angel. “Welcome! Right this—” Suddenly she froze. “Goodness! Duck!”
Bev looked into the distance and grinned. “Cassowary,” she corrected as the cloud of feathers, fur, skin and scales hurtled closer. The angel leaped aside as a young Persian leopard sprang forward, knocking Bev to the ground.
“Roo, let me up! I’m glad to see you too, but I can’t hug you all at—”
Roo nudged her gently, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh,” Bev breathed, spreading her arms and finding that her embrace was as wide as it needed to be. “Oh. I guess I can.”
Bev, who was the section head of the Quarantine Unit at the Jerusalem Biblical Zoo, hand-raised many animals including a tiger, lion, kittens, ferrets and, last of all, a Persian leopard named Roo who died suddenly last year.
Bev was also a writer, musician and friend to people all over the world. She is very much missed.
May she rest in peace.
That’s what I said to a friend on the phone today. Between two bouts of sinus infection and today’s migraine, I probably should have spent this month in bed. Or in a cave.
The shimmer started as I was getting ready to go to work this morning. Since I already know the drill, I ran for the painkillers, hoping that they would act in time. They usually do, after all.
This time, they didn’t.
This was the worst migraine I can remember. I ended up spending most of the day in bed, with my whole body in rebellion. Ironically, after my body decided that it no longer wanted breakfast (there was no question whatsoever of eating lunch), I felt much better.
Well, tomorrow is another day. Here’s hoping.
It can cost a lot to be environmentally friendly in this neck of the woods. The principal brand of eco-friendly cleaners is quite expensive here, and the locally-made alternative is only slightly less costly. So I decided to find out whether I could make my own laundry soap. I figured that if I’m already making my own soap, why not see whether I can use it as a base for other non-toxic, eco-friendly (and far less expensive) household cleaning products?
Well, I can! After some searching on the Internet and reading comments by people who make and use their own homemade laundry soap, I found several recipes that looked helpful. Tonight, I made a bucketful according to this one at The Family Homestead. (I should point out that the recipe contains borax, but can probably be made without it.)
Other helpful links for making homemade detergent (including in dry form):
Modern Cottage: Home-made detergent
The Simple Dollar: How to make your own laundry detergent and save big money
For locals: even though we can’t buy pure washing soda or borax in the supermarket, we can get them from a local medical-supply store that delivers. So instead of lugging home big boxes of borax or washing soda, I get the items, which cost little to begin with, delivered to my door at no extra cost. I’ll be happy to give the medical-supply store’s contact information to anyone who’s interested in making their own homemade cleaning products. Just ask!
So now I get to wait twenty-four hours for my laundry soap to gel... or do whatever it’s supposed to do. I’m sure it’ll be great fun to use!
Oh, yeah, and because the stuff is unscented, I can scent each laundry load any way I like with just a few drops of essential oil. I can see it now: one week I’ll smell like geranium, another week like orange, another week like lemongrass, and so on. Great way to confuse ’em, eh?
Coca, who works at a pet-supply store in my neighborhood, takes a break.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
This is really getting to be a drag. I’ll be seeing the doc later today, though, so maybe we can find something to knock this bug out of me once and for all.
My dear friend Joanna, who knows a great deal about natural foods and their uses in healing, suggested that I prepare some congee for myself. Congee is a kind of porridge that you get from slow-cooking a whole grain for four to six hours, and it’s supposed to be very nourishing and healing. I’m using whole-grain rice.
Will congee save the day—or at least my sanity? Here’s hoping.
As a rule, I don’t like drugs of any kind. I’ve never tried an illegal drug; it’s usually tough enough to get me to take legal, prescription ones. It’s something I’ve felt strongly about since childhood: I don’t want anything messing with my brain.
But after waking up this morning with a relapse of my sinus infection and dragging through the day with a fever of 100.2, I decided that enough was enough. I needed to be functional again, if only in order to stop feeling so restless, depressed and generally awful.
So I took two things: some over-the-counter painkiller that also lowers fever, and a glass of hot water with a tablespoon each of cider vinegar and honey to improve my mood.
As far as I can tell, they both worked. Yes, I’m still sick, and it will take at least another day or two to get better. I may even have to visit the doctor to see whether I need—gasp!—antibiotics.
But at least I can think again, my head doesn’t hurt, and I don’t have those horrid feelings of boredom and depression anymore. So far, so good.
Years ago, when I was small, I saw an episode of “The Addams Family” in which the children, Pugsley and his younger sister Wednesday, wanted to go outside to play. Their mother, Morticia, remonstrated, telling them that it was not a good idea: blue sky, soft breezes and the like. Surely a day to stay indoors!
Morticia would likely keep her children inside today. It’s positively balmy out there, so pleasant that you’d never guess what tomorrow’s going to be like.
It looks like the Middle Eastern groundhog—if there is one—saw his shadow two weeks ago. We’re in for high winds, rain turning into snow, and temperatures even lower than our last cold snap. Our building just got another warning about turning on our water heaters and leaving our faucets dripping overnight so that our pipes won’t freeze. Morticia Addams would love it.
The only good thing about this particular slice of winter is that it’s going to be brief. The sun should be out again by Wednesday.
She and Pugsley will have to go back inside then, poor things.
(Want to know what the weather is like in most places in Israel? Visit Weather-It-Is-Israel.com, the newest addition to my sidebar.)
Seen in a neighborhood on the other side of town:
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats, which will be up at Mind of Mog on Sunday.
Who’s afraid of halakhic egalitarian minyanim?
Not Michal and Elitzur Bar-Asher, who wrote The Guide for the Halakhic Minyan. (It’s in PDF format.)
I haven’t read it all yet—too busy—but I hope to soon. In any case, a huge kol ha-kavod to them. It’s about time.
From a recent visit:
The Lady in Red loves her some tummy skritches.
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
I am a great fan of Reshet Gimmel (Radio Three), one of the Voice of Israel’s principal radio stations. Ten years ago, it switched its format to all Hebrew music, all the time. Though this may date me, I admit to preferring the older style of Hebrew songs, the “beautiful Land of Israel” songs as they are known here. Reshet Gimmel plays them from 6:00 to 7:00 a.m. on weekday mornings and at many other times during the week, particularly Friday afternoons.
My clock-radio alarm is set to Reshet Gimmel, and until recently I woke up to the 6:00 a.m. news followed by my favorite Hebrew music. But several days ago, I started hearing something strange that didn’t sound like Reshet Gimmel at all. When I listened more closely, I realized that it was a place-holder for an incipient station. Reshet Gimmel is located at 97.8 FM in this part of Israel, and this brief, repeating broadcast, a bizarre pastiche of historical and contemporary sound clips, ominous-sounding bass music, frequency identification and exhortations to “Get ready,” was coming from 97.7 and bleeding into Reshet Gimmel’s frequency—at least when I had the antenna pointed in a certain direction.
I have no idea what this could be, where it comes from, who is behind it or whether it is even legal. I found it fascinating at first, until the repeat broadcasts of “Get ready!” got old.
I’ll keep listening periodically, though. I always did like unusual radio, and this weird ad has piqued my curiosity.
OK, so the title’s not original, but I couldn’t resist. Here are some pictures from my neighborhood during last week’s snow.
The front yard:
A nearby traffic circle:
A snowwoman (taken from the front for modesty’s sake; after all, this is a family blog):
Equal time for the opposite sex:
The park in snow:
Oh, my goodness, what can these be?
Downtown, a study in black and white:
Finally, a snowscape.
There is an artistic exhibit of manual typewriters at my workplace. It’s been in place for some weeks now, so I almost don’t notice it on my way into and out of work.
Today, on my way out, I noticed the exhibit and joked with the security guard about our fossil collection.
He said, “I want to show you something. Have you looked closely at one of the typewriters?”
He told me which one to look at, and I went closer.
Look over the number 3. (Click to enlarge.)
That’s the SS sign. The SS.
My first reaction was: “Oh, my God, what’s this doing here? They should take it out and burn it!”
But then I had another thought. The Nazis, may their names and memories be obliterated, had plans to build a museum of the “vanished Jewish race,” and had done their murderous best to make us disappear.
They failed, as do all the enemies of the Jewish people. Today, proud, free Jews can look at this relic of their vanished regime behind glass in downtown Jerusalem.
I have no idea whether the artist knows it’s even there. In any case: take that, antisemites of whatever stripe. And then, if I may quote the Yourish.com mantra, just die already.
But don’t worry. We’ll take good care of your old typewriters.
One year ago today, on January 28, 2007, my old friend, the Lady in Red, took up residence in her forever home, a stray no more.
After more than half a year of intensive veterinary and home care (thanks again to all those who helped to defray the costs!), she recovered from all illnesses and now lives happily with her human companion. She runs, plays, washes, cuddles and eats well—in short, she does all the things that healthy cats do. And she gets lots and lots of love.
The Lady in Red is not young. We figure that she must be at least thirteen years old by now, since we knew her for roughly ten years when she was still living in the park and she was fully grown when we first met her. She’s a bit white around the muzzle, but as far as I can tell, that is the only sign of age that she has. I have it on good authority that at least several times a day she plays with her toy mice, leaping and pouncing and catching them between her paws like a kitten. I also hear that she can leap to some pretty high places.
I am privileged to be able to visit her and take pictures. The one above shows her in her blanket nest, giving herself a bath—something she could not do when she got so sick a year ago. But I’m told that since her recovery, she washes so much that she needs regular doses of hairball remedy—a minor problem, yes, but a “healthy” one.
There is just one sad note in all of this. My dear friend Bev, who died suddenly last Saturday morning, followed the Lady in Red’s progress regularly and provided a lot of helpful advice during the more difficult points. Last week, I planned to celebrate the Lady’s first anniversary in her forever home with Bev somehow, even if only with a phone call. Unfortunately, it was not to be.
But I hope that wherever Bev is, she knows, and I hope it makes her smile.
On 9/11, Bev phoned me. When I told her that I was worried sick about my family in the New York area, she said, “Come over.” We hung out that night, had dinner and talked as we watched the developments on the news.
When our mutual friend Larry died two years later, Bev was the one who called to tell me. “Come over,” she said, and we spent the afternoon together, sharing memories about him.
When Bev, who worked at the zoo, was hand-raising a leopard cub, I said I’d love to see him. “Come over,” she said, after making me promise not to touch any animals on the way, since the cub’s immune system hadn’t developed yet.
Whenever I needed help, Bev always seemed to know, even when I hadn’t said anything. The phone call or IM would come: “Come over.” And we would hang out, and eat, and talk.
We spoke over IM yesterday, and then she had to go. She was in the middle of an on-line writers’ meeting and had to pay attention.
A few minutes later, I put up yesterday’s cat post and sent her the link. She typed back: “Lovely.”
It was the last word I would ever hear from her. I just found out tonight that she’s gone.
I want to go over to Bev’s to hang out and talk and process this.
And I can’t.
Roast me a wren to start with.
Then: Brisket of Basilisk Treat.
My breakfast is “on the house”?
What a curious place to eat!
There’s no accounting for customs.
My tastes are simple and few,
a fat mole smothered in starlight
and a heavenly nine-mouse stew.
(From “The King of Cats Orders an Early Breakfast” in A Visit to William Blake’s Inn by Nancy Willard. New York: 1981.)
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
How cold is it?
It’s so cold that a few days ago, when I was baking pita bread in the kitchen, wearing three layers (the top one a bulky sweater) and with the oven temp at 550 degrees F, mixing, kneading and rolling out dough, I didn't even break a sweat. (I was comfortably warm after all that, though, so I’m not complaining.)
With the price of heating fuel so high, our monthly building maintenance fee has gone through the roof. And that’s only for four hours of heat per day! I’d just like to give up the central heating and do it myself. I’m sure it would be cheaper.
Fortunately, I’m fine. My little heater is doing an excellent job of keeping the place cozy. I’ve put a deep bowl of water in front of it to keep the air from getting too dry.
But two people in Israel have already died of hypothermia, one in the south and one in the central region.
This cold snap is due to end in approximately two days. Do I hear one? Do I hear none?
It’s at times like these when I use the old sense-memory exercises we used to do in acting class. For much of the year, it is very hot here, blazingly, relentlessly hot. So I’m trying to recreate the feeling as much as possible.
Hey, it can’t hurt.
Besides, I have an audition this evening, so it’s good to keep my hand in.
A rainy day at the Western Wall last week.
Note the size of the men’s and women’s sections, respectively.
Also, note that the men’s section looks pretty sparsely populated. This is because there is a great deal of indoor space, directly facing the Western Wall, just to the left of the men’s section, where the men can take shelter from the sun and rain and still be able to touch the Wall. The only indoor space for women that faces the Wall directly is a tiny room up a flight of stairs on the right-hand side. Which is why the women are exposed to the elements all year round in the small outdoor space allotted to them.
By the way, the divider between the men’s and women’s sections was recently bolted into place so that it cannot be shifted.
To the best of my knowledge, nothing in Jewish law mandates this inequity.
Sound fair?
I didn’t think so.
Here are several photographs from a cat colony I saw downtown last week.
Dignity? Yeah, right.
Dignity restored, four times over.
See my pretty white spots!
A clean tuxedo of the Old City:
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
Frisky, Laurence Simon’s fluffy, gentle cat, passed away last night.
My condolences to Laurence and Gina and Nardo. I will miss seeing Frisky on the catcams.
Rest well, Professor.
Saw a lovely tux the other day and got some pics. Here are three of the best ones:
Fast blur through the clover...
Time to wash up!
What’s black, white and furry, with a splash of pink?
The Friday Ark. The Carnival of the Cats.
