“Singin’ the blues while the lady cats cry…”

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I’ve said many times:

 

I prefer to date a woman that has a cat.

 

Because it tells me, with startling accuracy, how she’ll treat me in three months and beyond.

 

 

 

Will she feed me regularly?

 

Will she keep me at arm’s length?

 

Will she be affectionate?

 

Will she give me space or will she smother me?

 

Will she care for me when I’m sick?

 

Or will she leave me to fend for myself, only returning when I’m well again?

 

Never have my observations mislead me.

 

Not even once.

 

 

 

It cracks me up that so many men want to reinvent the wheel.

 

When, like Leonardo Da Vinci:

 

I simply observe nature (God’s handiwork), and copy it.

 

And, like Da Vinci, nobody ever seems to figure out my secret.

 

 

 

See, I’ve been given a great many nicknames over the course of my life.

 

My two favorites:

 

“The Jersey Devil” (I’m originally from NJ).

 

And “Outdoor Cat”.

 

The latter having been coined by one of the co-eds that live across the hall.

 

Saying of me:

 

“He’s not a roommate but he’s not really a neighbor.

 

He’s the Outdoor Cat that comes in when he wants food or attention and leaves when he’s full of either.”

 

 

 

It’s not a tough strategy.

 

I have the conversations I want to have; avoid or hiss at those I don’t.

 

I cuddle for a very brief time (if no one is watching) but push away quickly.

 

I enter the room with purpose (“Feed me; give me attention”).

 

And exit as soon as the mood suits me, or I’m sated – whichever comes first.

 

I arrive with semi-regularity; enough to be expected but not enough to be predictable.

 

I meet their needs but I’m careful not to overindulge them.

 

Remembering, most of all, to give them plenty of opportunity to miss me.

 

 

 

I’ve always been of the mind:

 

A wise man is willing to learn from anyone.

 

And has sufficient humility to realize some have figured out the trick long before he did.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

 

“She’s afraid of a light in the dark…”

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It’s elemental warfare.

 

Men are fire.

 

Women are water.

 

And these days, Prometheus’s gift confuses females more than ever.

 

If for no other reason than their lack of familiarity with it.

 

 

 

See, like fire, masculinity can create and destroy.

 

It brings light.

 

It brings warmth.

 

It brings a lack of shelter, by razing such to ashes.

 

It brings death by agonizing burns.

 

 

 

This dearth of touching enough stoves causes women to seek out (due to their fondness for extremes) either the smoldering embers.

 

Or the dangerous conflagrations.

 

Rare is the lady that sees the spark as what is:

 

A gift when properly handled.

 

 

 

The ultimate irony here is, in this primordial conflict, is that women are given the advantage.

 

(Indeed, far too many have drowned in what should be a comforting bath.)

 

As water, they’ve the power to quench the flame far more easily than their opposition can reduce them to steam.

 

 

 

However, should the ideal balance be struck:

 

She confines him to the point of utility and safety.

 

While he boils her enough to power the engine that is the family and its greatest extension:

 

Civilization.  

 

 

 

 

 

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