This One's For You
This one's for you, wherever you aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare, to say that nothing's been the same since we've been apart...
Yes, Barry Manilow lyrics. I'm sorry.
This one, in fact, is for Chelle. Since I just "told stories out of school," as they say here in the South, I thought I owed it to her. For the record, I've had no indication that she's pissed, in fact I think she is (or will be) quite flattered at my portrayal of her in the most recent post. But since I did, I'll at least be gracious and explain "Moaty."
We had a few different cats as we grew up, sorta by accident. The first one was Butch. Butch wasn't really our cat, he (she?) was the neighbors' cat, given name "Chaz." Chaz? WTF?!?! That cat was SO not a Chaz!!! Definitely Butch. Butch was a big fat fluffy white cat who could talk. Yes, talk. Butch spent more time at our house than at his... I'm gonna make a unilateral decision here and say he was a he... own. And Butch had a small but significant vocabulary. He could say "milk," and "mama," and "out." I don't remember what else. Butch was also deathly afraid of bananas, for some reason we will never know. But I think I'm going off-topic. The point of mentioning Butch, was to show how we went from a no-cat-owning family, to a family that almost always had cats.
We moved away from that house, and for a while had no cats. But then Chelle's friend had to find a foster home for her kitten when they discovered her father was allergic. And, as foster situations are wont to do, it grew into an adoption. The cat came to us as Winston, and quickly became known by another name. My memory is hazy, but I'm pretty sure the tiny white kitten was christened "Baby Butch." After his untimely and traumatizing passing, we wound up with Geno, and it is Geno, I believe, who was our "moatmonster."
See, when Baby Butch passed, none of us intended to get another cat. But after only a few days, all of us (even my father, Mr. Stoicism) admitted that we kept hearing his little meows, and that the house seemed so empty without him. So, off to the pet store. I blame/credit my dad for what happened next, because when we saw the kittens at the pet store, he picked Geno out right away, as the cat was placed on the floor and immediately made a scrambing attempt to escape. Dad, it seems, wanted "the lively one!"
Geno was an interesting cat. Cats always land on their feet, right? Not Geno. Geno always landed on his head. Didn't matter where he was falling from; the three-inch drop into the sunken family room was enough to have him landing on his little kitty noggin. (Note to self: "Little Kitty Noggin" is a good name for a band.) And Geno like to "moat." Not sure who came up with the term, or how. I just know that Geno would hide somewhere, and then when we would walk past, he would jump out at us and bat his paws at our legs "like some kind of little moat monster."
So how did I get the nickname "Moaty"? Welllllllllllllllllll... I'm not 100% positive, but I think it had to do with the time I "moated" Chelle.
See, we had a little half-wall that separated the entryway from the dining room. On the other side of the entryway, was the hallway. And so, knowing that Chelle would soon be coming down the hall, I did what could probably be considered an attempt at suicide-by-sister. Ever heard of suicide-by-cop? Same principle. I hid behind the half-wall, and waited for her to come past it. As she did, I jumped out at her, muttering in a guttural tone, "moatmoatmoatmoatmoat." At which my ultra-cool, totally self-possessed sister jumped about a foot in the air, and came down running. After me. Hand upraised in a pose not unlike that of someone trying to beat the crap out of an attacker - which I guess I technically was - and with the same ferocity, the same fight-or-flight adrenaline rush. Of course, as I was in PMP (Proper Moating Position), I was on my hands and knees. This made retreat a little difficult, but the lack of speed also made it possible for me to see the exact second when she realized that she was not chasing away a criminal, but merely her little sister. Not sure how old I was at the time, but I couldn't have been more than 13 or 14. It's a moment neither of us will ever forget, and I'm laughing about it at this very moment.
Admit it, you are too.
Yes, Barry Manilow lyrics. I'm sorry.
This one, in fact, is for Chelle. Since I just "told stories out of school," as they say here in the South, I thought I owed it to her. For the record, I've had no indication that she's pissed, in fact I think she is (or will be) quite flattered at my portrayal of her in the most recent post. But since I did, I'll at least be gracious and explain "Moaty."
We had a few different cats as we grew up, sorta by accident. The first one was Butch. Butch wasn't really our cat, he (she?) was the neighbors' cat, given name "Chaz." Chaz? WTF?!?! That cat was SO not a Chaz!!! Definitely Butch. Butch was a big fat fluffy white cat who could talk. Yes, talk. Butch spent more time at our house than at his... I'm gonna make a unilateral decision here and say he was a he... own. And Butch had a small but significant vocabulary. He could say "milk," and "mama," and "out." I don't remember what else. Butch was also deathly afraid of bananas, for some reason we will never know. But I think I'm going off-topic. The point of mentioning Butch, was to show how we went from a no-cat-owning family, to a family that almost always had cats.
We moved away from that house, and for a while had no cats. But then Chelle's friend had to find a foster home for her kitten when they discovered her father was allergic. And, as foster situations are wont to do, it grew into an adoption. The cat came to us as Winston, and quickly became known by another name. My memory is hazy, but I'm pretty sure the tiny white kitten was christened "Baby Butch." After his untimely and traumatizing passing, we wound up with Geno, and it is Geno, I believe, who was our "moatmonster."
See, when Baby Butch passed, none of us intended to get another cat. But after only a few days, all of us (even my father, Mr. Stoicism) admitted that we kept hearing his little meows, and that the house seemed so empty without him. So, off to the pet store. I blame/credit my dad for what happened next, because when we saw the kittens at the pet store, he picked Geno out right away, as the cat was placed on the floor and immediately made a scrambing attempt to escape. Dad, it seems, wanted "the lively one!"
Geno was an interesting cat. Cats always land on their feet, right? Not Geno. Geno always landed on his head. Didn't matter where he was falling from; the three-inch drop into the sunken family room was enough to have him landing on his little kitty noggin. (Note to self: "Little Kitty Noggin" is a good name for a band.) And Geno like to "moat." Not sure who came up with the term, or how. I just know that Geno would hide somewhere, and then when we would walk past, he would jump out at us and bat his paws at our legs "like some kind of little moat monster."
So how did I get the nickname "Moaty"? Welllllllllllllllllll... I'm not 100% positive, but I think it had to do with the time I "moated" Chelle.
See, we had a little half-wall that separated the entryway from the dining room. On the other side of the entryway, was the hallway. And so, knowing that Chelle would soon be coming down the hall, I did what could probably be considered an attempt at suicide-by-sister. Ever heard of suicide-by-cop? Same principle. I hid behind the half-wall, and waited for her to come past it. As she did, I jumped out at her, muttering in a guttural tone, "moatmoatmoatmoatmoat." At which my ultra-cool, totally self-possessed sister jumped about a foot in the air, and came down running. After me. Hand upraised in a pose not unlike that of someone trying to beat the crap out of an attacker - which I guess I technically was - and with the same ferocity, the same fight-or-flight adrenaline rush. Of course, as I was in PMP (Proper Moating Position), I was on my hands and knees. This made retreat a little difficult, but the lack of speed also made it possible for me to see the exact second when she realized that she was not chasing away a criminal, but merely her little sister. Not sure how old I was at the time, but I couldn't have been more than 13 or 14. It's a moment neither of us will ever forget, and I'm laughing about it at this very moment.
Admit it, you are too.
posted by SaraSmile | 6:50 PM
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