Oh, Jean, it's snowing again I'm so tired of it. Wish I was with you in sunny San Diego. I'm afraid to let my cats out for fear they'll sink in a drift and be lost until spring. At least Tigger would. He's such a baby. By the by, have you heard of cat music? Send.
Don't you guys ever get enough? It's in the news all the time. 'And another storm is aiming for...' Any time you want, I'd love to have you. What's this cat music? The awful caterwaul the toms make outside when my Blossom is in heat? Send.
No, something very different. Not what you expect. It's music for cats to listen to the same way we do. Send.
You've got to be kidding me, Moira. Cat music? Cat concerts? What are you talking about? Send.
I'll send you the link. Some scientists and a composer came up with musical pieces that cats love to listen to. Give them Bach and it's 'meh,' but give them this and they rub themselves against the earphones as if it was preparing dinner for them. Send.
Cat music, what for? I mean what's the purr-pose? Sorry, bad, bad pun. Tell me more. I've got a couple of minutes before I head off to bed. I'm just stretching out here on my wild red sofa, you know the big soft one, and wondering, 'Will Moira sing me a cat lullaby?' Please do. Send.
It's getting worse outside. Visibility is way way down and it's accumulating quickly. I still have to feed my strays, but I don't look forward to going out in this storm. No, it's weird music designed for cats. I've heard three 25 second 'songs.' They're in the frequency range of cat vocalization. One sounds like a piano turning into a dulcimer with a overlay of bird chirps. Another sounds like Arvo Part music with purring. The third sounds like a rapid heart beat with little random chimes. The notes tend to slide from one to another. There are supposed to be suckling noises, but I don't hear them. Heaven knows what cats think when they listen.
Prescott, stop it. Sorry, he's pouncing again on my feet. You know, hunkering down, waggling his butt and jumping, and his claws go right through my socks. Ouch. Let me take him out to the other room to where Tigger is. Send.
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out 'Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
That's from Browning: the rescued rat reporting on the Pied Piper's tune. Is that what cats hear in the music? An invitation to dinner? Send.
Who knows? But both cats love it. Prescott sits next to the speaker, head cocked just like the RCA dog, and Tigger rolls over on her back. I find it, not eerie, not unpleasant, but strange. Anyway, I have to sign off. I should go now before it gets worse, and it's getting worse. Love you. Send.
Do stay safe. I want you to see you here soon. Love you too. Send.
The room, so cozy and warm, but the wiry sixty-something woman was not to be enticed. Snow pants on, boots on, parka zipped. She put on her hat standing, as always, in front of the mirror, crushed her short faded red-blonde hair down to her scalp, framing with the earflaps the narrow weathered face with the deep lines from nose to chin. She peered into her own eyes fiercely: 'Get going, girl.' After scooping a bag of cat food from the bin, on a whim she stuffed her phone and a portable speaker in her pocket. 'You be good to Tiger,' she called to Prescott sitting on the mantle as if contemplating a drop on the unsuspecting victim below.
Outside, it was crackling cold. The normally empty air was filled with slivers of snow, glinting in the streetlight, making their way down to join the myriad already on the ground; there seemed hardly any room for darkness between them. The air was cold but just a few gusts now and then whipping white dust into her face. The road, not on the main plowing routes, already had inches of squeaky snow for her to shuffle through down the road to the bottom of the hill at the back of the stores.
The feral cats, this year's litter, black and beautiful, sheltered somewhere behind the store, and wouldn't be out now but Moira knew they liked to leave their shelter and prowl at different times in the night. The plate of food would be a nice treat for them. She put the paper bowl down in the lee of a phone pole and filled it with dry food. She stood up straight and looked around.
No houses right here, but even so the neighbors complained that she was actually feeding the skunks and possums that were showing up on the street. Nonsense, and anyway, who was going to feed these poor cats if she didn't. Nobody else cared.
No traffic, no lights in any of the houses. Pulling off her mittens, she looped the cat music on her phone and Bluetoothed it through her speaker, loud, as she trudged home. The music competed with the occasional whoosh of wind, and won.
In the dark bedroom, coiled on the quilt, on top of the electric blanket, on top of the flannel sheet, on top of the flannel nightie, on top of the toasty, gently heaving bosom of Arlene Krill, a calico cat suddenly spread the slit pupils of his eyes, turned his head, climbed down from his perch, walked over the window sill, sat, and looked out into the light darkness, listening.
Don't you guys ever get enough? It's in the news all the time. 'And another storm is aiming for...' Any time you want, I'd love to have you. What's this cat music? The awful caterwaul the toms make outside when my Blossom is in heat? Send.
No, something very different. Not what you expect. It's music for cats to listen to the same way we do. Send.
You've got to be kidding me, Moira. Cat music? Cat concerts? What are you talking about? Send.
I'll send you the link. Some scientists and a composer came up with musical pieces that cats love to listen to. Give them Bach and it's 'meh,' but give them this and they rub themselves against the earphones as if it was preparing dinner for them. Send.
Cat music, what for? I mean what's the purr-pose? Sorry, bad, bad pun. Tell me more. I've got a couple of minutes before I head off to bed. I'm just stretching out here on my wild red sofa, you know the big soft one, and wondering, 'Will Moira sing me a cat lullaby?' Please do. Send.
It's getting worse outside. Visibility is way way down and it's accumulating quickly. I still have to feed my strays, but I don't look forward to going out in this storm. No, it's weird music designed for cats. I've heard three 25 second 'songs.' They're in the frequency range of cat vocalization. One sounds like a piano turning into a dulcimer with a overlay of bird chirps. Another sounds like Arvo Part music with purring. The third sounds like a rapid heart beat with little random chimes. The notes tend to slide from one to another. There are supposed to be suckling noises, but I don't hear them. Heaven knows what cats think when they listen.
Prescott, stop it. Sorry, he's pouncing again on my feet. You know, hunkering down, waggling his butt and jumping, and his claws go right through my socks. Ouch. Let me take him out to the other room to where Tigger is. Send.
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out 'Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
That's from Browning: the rescued rat reporting on the Pied Piper's tune. Is that what cats hear in the music? An invitation to dinner? Send.
Who knows? But both cats love it. Prescott sits next to the speaker, head cocked just like the RCA dog, and Tigger rolls over on her back. I find it, not eerie, not unpleasant, but strange. Anyway, I have to sign off. I should go now before it gets worse, and it's getting worse. Love you. Send.
Do stay safe. I want you to see you here soon. Love you too. Send.
The room, so cozy and warm, but the wiry sixty-something woman was not to be enticed. Snow pants on, boots on, parka zipped. She put on her hat standing, as always, in front of the mirror, crushed her short faded red-blonde hair down to her scalp, framing with the earflaps the narrow weathered face with the deep lines from nose to chin. She peered into her own eyes fiercely: 'Get going, girl.' After scooping a bag of cat food from the bin, on a whim she stuffed her phone and a portable speaker in her pocket. 'You be good to Tiger,' she called to Prescott sitting on the mantle as if contemplating a drop on the unsuspecting victim below.
Outside, it was crackling cold. The normally empty air was filled with slivers of snow, glinting in the streetlight, making their way down to join the myriad already on the ground; there seemed hardly any room for darkness between them. The air was cold but just a few gusts now and then whipping white dust into her face. The road, not on the main plowing routes, already had inches of squeaky snow for her to shuffle through down the road to the bottom of the hill at the back of the stores.
The feral cats, this year's litter, black and beautiful, sheltered somewhere behind the store, and wouldn't be out now but Moira knew they liked to leave their shelter and prowl at different times in the night. The plate of food would be a nice treat for them. She put the paper bowl down in the lee of a phone pole and filled it with dry food. She stood up straight and looked around.
No houses right here, but even so the neighbors complained that she was actually feeding the skunks and possums that were showing up on the street. Nonsense, and anyway, who was going to feed these poor cats if she didn't. Nobody else cared.
No traffic, no lights in any of the houses. Pulling off her mittens, she looped the cat music on her phone and Bluetoothed it through her speaker, loud, as she trudged home. The music competed with the occasional whoosh of wind, and won.
In the dark bedroom, coiled on the quilt, on top of the electric blanket, on top of the flannel sheet, on top of the flannel nightie, on top of the toasty, gently heaving bosom of Arlene Krill, a calico cat suddenly spread the slit pupils of his eyes, turned his head, climbed down from his perch, walked over the window sill, sat, and looked out into the light darkness, listening.
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