Deeper wisdom

I am very pleased to report that the Brat appears to be mending. He remained in his ceiling for about 16 hours yesterday; Pretty Lady greatly feared that he planned to die up there, and that she would be forced to appeal to her landlord for some assistance in removing him. Which would have been the nightmare to end all nightmares.

But lo! When she returned from hearing Maceo Parker in the Park (here I must pause to say how sad I am that Hip-Hop won out, culturally speaking, over Funk. There was a time, back in the early 90's, when they were neck and neck; Pretty Lady once saved a friend's girlfriend from getting trampled at a Fishbone concert, having gained a certain strength of arm and stability of balance after years of practicing in mosh pits. Funk, in Pretty Lady's opinion, has it all over Hip-Hop in terms of depth, musicality, and emotional affect. Listen:

There's another cry of murder
Policeman shoot down baby brother
Shot him, shot him down in the street
Did they know the mother's grief?

Were they sure they got the right one?
And did they know it was her only son?

The fact that these lyrics are sung in two-part harmony to a cheery, danceable melody only increases their effectiveness as instruments of social cross-communication, in Pretty Lady's view. When listening to Fishbone, Pretty Lady is inclined to prance, stomp, and ruminate upon the struggle of the individual for dignity and freedom. She does not feel annoyed, she does not feel guilty, she does not feel like a crowd of gangbangers is about to come into her studio and gangbang her. Plus she is very fond of bass and trumpets, particularly when the band members are all wearing snazzy suits.

She managed to acquire a moderate anthropological appreciation for Hip-Hop, after a few remedial dance classes and years of waiting for it to go away, but Funk, in her opinion, is Where It's At.)

Ahem. So when Pretty Lady returned home, bearing a DVD of 'The White Countess' and a pork burrito, the Brat was waiting cheerily for his supper. In her delight she fed him a can of solid light albacore tuna, hang the expense. Later that night, he resumed his nightly ritual of accompanying her to the loft, purring fiercely and requesting Reiki. She noted that his joy at communion with his horizontal patroness appeared to be more forcefully expressed than usual; he has never been one for extended displays of affection, but there was a depth and throatiness to his communications that had never been there before.

This morning, his relative cheer continues unabated. He still makes the occasional superfluous trip to the litter box or the flower pot, but thankfully his attentions to the couch have ceased. He has a look of superior knowingness on his face, as well. "I know what it is to Suffer," you can see him thinking. "I have Transcended. I am Wise. I Appreciate the Breeze on my Cheeks."

Pretty Lady's ad hoc diagnosis is that he passed a kidney stone. If anyone has any suggestions for palatable homeopathic feline diets that prevent kidney stones from forming, she is all ears.