The Frostfrog would like to publicly thank Kohala, Sandy Frost, the frog (well, the two frogs, its just that one of them stayed in the dark and so did not become imprinted upon my mind in the same way as did the one that sat upon the back of my hand and crawled up my arm) and all the cats for so graciously allowing me to come into your homes to meet and photograph the critters.
It was grand to finally meet some Cat of the Day folks in real life.
It was a bit odd, and striking, too, to see so a bright sun and feel such dramatically warm temperatures this time of year. It was odd, too, to stroll down the beach in front of the cliffs and to come suddenly upon a naked man, dangling his way down the beach, then to keep walking and find that he was just the first of many.
All the naked people walking on the beach were men. Not one woman. What's with that? What's the point?
A woman could have looked quite exquisite and wonderful - COULDN'T THERE HAVE BEEN JUST ONE? (perhaps one who would have smiled, maybe even winked, as she sauntered by? Oh! then I would have had something to think about!) - but these men just looked odd and strange - silly, even. Makes me wonder what women see in us in the first place when, truly, it is they who are the works of art.
It was also something to one day be sitting under an umbrella in front of Rubio's, eating a three-cheese quesidilla smothered in jalepenas and quacomole, the temperature in the 80's, and then, four air-legs to the north later to be sitting in a log cabin along the frozen Chandalar River, just south of the Brooks Range and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, where the high noon sun was just a dim, orange orb cruising the southern horizon, the temperature - 15 F, eating fresh, boiled, beaver while everyone complained about the warm weather and wondering what the hell is going on and wondering when is the river going to be good enough to snowmachine one and when is Alaska going to be Alaska once again; talking about bear, moose, caribou muskrat, beaver, and lynx in a way that folks down south don't talk about them, talking about them that the way that people who actually live with them do, noting that in just over five months ducks will be flying back to the dinner plate and hell, it doesn't even look or feel like winter yet.
The black cat is on my left shoulder, purring, kneading, constantly shifting position, nuzzling my face with his cool nose one moment, knibbling my elbow the next, forcing me to enlarge his platform by extending my left arm, forcing me to type with just my right hand.
He is glad to have me back from both San Diego and the Chandalar and I am glad to be back with him.
We belong together, the black cat and I.
Now I will go into the house and join my youngest daughter as she blows out the candles that symbolize her 17 years outside the womb. The black cat will follow and will climb in and out of the boxes as she empties them of her gifts. So will the kitten, Pistol, and soon the two of them will be tumbling and rolling across the floor.
The other cats, being older and more staid, will likely not join in but give them time and they, too, will try out the boxes.
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