Here is what the people don't know: a whole lot of life goes on without their knowing. In specific, a whole lot of living takes place in their backyards.
I will give you an example; I will tell you about something that happened just this past week, and then perhaps you'll understand.
And who am I?
I am Felix.
I am the neighborhood cat.
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This is not my story, but I will tell you quickly that once I was housed and loved and cared for by a luminous lady. Years after I left kittenhood, she passed out of this life, and people tried to trap me, take me elsewhere,—to put me, maybe, in a strange new house.
I eluded them, and I found my way to this neighborhood, tucked between a steep ledge and an old folks' home and an alley that backs up houses on another, more accessible street. Nobody comes here unless they have a reason to—people don't drive down this street unless they live here, or unless they come here to visit someone whose home is on this street.
And I like that. I know all the residents of this small neighborhood. I sleep in an old wooden crate that someone threw down the ledge. It didn't get far, and it wedged tightly between a rock and one of those scraggly trees that spring up when people don't interfere. The crate's top is fairly solid, and the tree gives cover, so very little wet leaks in. I dragged an old blanket, perhaps once a baby's blanket—it is small and light—in, and pushed and prodded until it was soft and I could roll in it, molding it to just the shape I needed. On most nights, I am warm and snug.
There are chipmunks and squirrels and field mice abounding; I could, if I wished, live very nicely on the bounty of the land. But there's a singular woman who lives in the big white house just at the edge of the ledge; her name is Siobhan, and she noticed me right away. She puts food and water out for me every day, and, on the very rare days when it is too cold to sleep outdoors, she opens a tiny door by her garage, and I crawl in. (I shut the door behind me, not being inclined to open Siobhan's space to such marauders as raccoons, squirrels, or blue jays.)
I do not miss being housed, but I miss the old lady. Siobhan reminds me of her.
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At any rate, shortly after I moved into the neighborhood, I discovered the Back Yards. They stretch behind the houses across the street from Siobhan's; they are like a little universe unto themselves. All kinds of creatures wander through—deer, raccoons, birds of many, many kinds, bunnies, chipmunks (they live in an old wood pile that the people pay no attention to), squirrels of three colors, and big-eyed field mice. I call them The Citizens.
There are others there, too,—things that the humans would say have no voice and no soul. The Citizens know this is not true. The first of this tribe I encountered was Shelfie, who nestled between two wrought iron posts that hold up the roof over the little back stoop behind the gray house. I was curled up on the bottom shelf one rainy day when I was pretty sure that house's humans were away.
I was damp-cold, not cold-cold, and I couldn't quite get comfortable. I kept stretching up, circling and trying to find the least drafty spot. And then I heard this voice.
It said, You have trouble finding cozy spot.
The voice was kind of vibrating from the shelf itself, and that, of course, was Shelfie.
Shelfie's life and mine were not so different; he was once housed, too,—was built, in fact, by a young man who lived in the gray house. The young man was a good maker, and Shelfie was strong, sturdy, heavy. And years passed for the humans, while time was relatively unchanged for Shelfie; the young man and his young wife aged. They gained more things as they grew older, and one day, a new set of shelves arrived and Shelfie was placed down in the basement.
Then those people passed on, just like my lady, and the house stood empty until new people came.
And they put Shelfie out on the stoop, used him to hold their garden tools and leaf blower, put their hot drinks on his top shelf when they sat outside on breezy summer mornings.
All that time, I said to Shelfie. All those people. Did no one ever realize you can talk?
Once, said Shelfie, once the First Lady say something to me. Man say, not talking! He tell her we human-made items live in different place.
Live in a different place? I asked. How can that be? You are right here.
Shelfie sighed. Let me remember, he said. There was a busy silence. Then, I think, said Shelfie, it was somewhere like Grandma Glove.
Grandma's GLOVE? I repeated, puzzled.
Wait on me, said Shelfie, whose grammar and grasp of things like prepositions and articles was always a little rough. Thinking. Thinking.
I was almost asleep when Shelfie crowed triumphantly
Nana Mitt! He said. That man said we human-made things all in Nana Mitt.
Ahhh, I said, and I pondered. It took me a long time to figure that out. In Nana Mitt, indeed.
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But I must tell you the story.
Last week, I visited Shelfie and his buddies, the Two Pillars. They were a little flustered.
The people, they said, are putting Pin-Eyed Penguin right behind Shelfie this year.
I expressed puzzlement.
You remember, they said. They put that penguin out FRONT years before this, always when it grows cold. It is stout and ugly; it has a tail to the house, and that makes its beady little pin eyes glow.
It's evil, said a little voice, and I realized Dorrie, a small, big-eyed mouse was huddled next to the bricks on the steps. Dorrie is a Citizen, and I am pledged not to molest any Citizens, so she is safe with me. Instinct is a strong force, though, and while Dorrie likes me, I don't think her inner voices ever quite let her feel entirely safe.
She certainly didn't feel safe around the pin-eyed penguin.
Penguin staring, she said, made Mail Man slip. Mail Man hurt his knee and said the anger words. Penguin hisses at deer people.
It's true, said one of the pillars. The penguin is mean. Violent even, although it doesn't flap. I think, she mused, it might emit poison gas. Last year three little birds, tiny shivering birds, keeled over and died when they got too close.
At that moment the house door opened, and the man and woman came out. And the man was carrying the stout, malevolent penguin being. He looked at me; I floofed up my back fur, turned my back, and sauntered haughtily away.
Damned cat, he said, and then something more I couldn't quite hear, something about his yard not being my litter box.
Excyuuuuuuuuuze me, I thought, and I ran down to where leaves pile against the way back fence. I hid where I could see.
And the man wiggled the penguin into place on the bricks—Dorrie, thank goodness, had disappeared,—and the woman went out in front of them and she cocked her head, considering.
The man dragged the green tail over to the connector spot and plunged it in, and then he joined the woman. They looked at the penguin, its pin-prick eyes glowing orangely, menacing.
And they LAUGHED. They liked that fat, dangerous fowl.
One of my deer friends materialized by the fence. Oh no, she said. Not the pin-eyed penguin!
We exchanged a look, and I grew more and more uneasy.
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I went back when the people went back inside. I walked in front of the penguin, swishing my tail.
You don't scare ME, it hissed.
The pillars were rigid with anxiety, and Shelfie was beside himself.
That CAN'T stay, he muttered.
Yeah? The penguin leered. Whatchoo gonna do about it, Woody?
Dorrie squeezed out of a hole behind the bricks and scurried away.
I do something, okay, said Shelfie. I do something.
And then he sighed, and spoke directly to the Pillars and me.
Leave me to this, he said. There was something about his very determined tone that worried me.
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Siobhan had left me some dry food that day, but she stirred it up with chicken and gravy, and, rather than hang out with Penguin Demento, I went back and ate that very good brunch, and then I curled up, worrying, next to the front step. I slept, but fitfully, and while I drowsed, the wind picked up and black clouds scudded across the sky, and finally something said to me, a real voice, almost out loud, Go to the BackYards.
I ran across the street, fighting the wind, which was gale strength now.
Behind the gray house, trees were thrashing; their leaves were flying across the yard. The flag holder on the garage bounced back and forth, thunking, thunking.
The Pillars trembled. Shelfie, they pleaded.
No, said Shelfie. Mine to do. This purpose maybe of all years.
Shelfie! I mrowled.
Good friend, Shelfie said to me.
And then he began to rock. Slowly at first, then, catching the wind, more and more heartily.
HEY, said the penguin. Whatchoo doing? You rocking ME. You watch it!
Which fired Shelfie even more.
The wind howled and Shelfie swayed, mightily, irrevocably.
Shelfie, pleaded the Pillars again, and a huge gust of wind burst through, and Shelfie dove.
He landed right on top of the pin-eyed penguin, which shattered on the pavement.
And Shelfie—poor Shelfie. A board came off his back, and a shelf splintered and cracked.
Shelfie? I asked.
There was a low groan.
The house door opened, and the man charged out, the woman right behind him.
Oh, NO! They said, in unison. The penguin!
You cold-hearted monsters, I hissed. Look at Shelfie!
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[I could not bear to share an image of the carnage.]
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Here is the aftermath of that act of bravery.
The woman found a heavy box, and the two people picked up the pieces of the Pin-Eyed Penguin and put them in that box. They disconnected the green tail. (There was a coiled round light attached that had made that orange glow; strangely, the light wasn't harmed at all in the Plunge.)
The woman dragged the box of penguin parts down to the street, and the man crouched down to the look at the shelf.
Oh, man, he said. I don't think I can fix you, Bud.
Huh, I growled, deep and low. In Nana Mitt, remember?
The man hefted up what was left of Shelfie and dragged him down to the street. The woman came back and picked up the board from Shelfie's backing and the splintered shelf, and she dragged those down, too.
And just like that, Shelfie was gone.
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The Pillars quivered.
I'll go sit with him, I said, and when the people had gone back into the house, I padded down the driveway to stay with my friend.
Shelfie, I said. You brave thing.
Hurt now, said Shelfie matter-of-factly. Then he added, softly, Someone had to do.
We settled in together. I curled up with one paw on his anchor leg, and we slept like that for a long while.
I was wakened by the little pickup truck that pulled up by the curb.
Look at this, babe, said a man-voice.
Two people got out of the truck. She was tiny, and her belly bulged. She rested one hand on top of the lump and she looked at the man. He had big roughened hands and a kind face.
This is so sturdy, he said, leaning Shelfie upward. I could fix this easy. We could put it in the baby's room.
Oh, she breathed. I'll paint it yellow. And I can make a curtain for the front with that material I bought. This can hold the diapers and stuff!
Shelfie coughed a little. New life? he said to me. Baby coming!
Hey, guy, the man said to Shelfie. You've got a lotta life left in you. You're coming home with us.
I patted Shelfie's side with one paw. Godspeed, Friend, I said.
Friend, murmured Shelfie, and I felt him quiver as the two people wrestled him into the bed of the truck. The tiny round woman scratched my head.
I think he likes the shelf, she said, smiling at the man.
And they got in the car and drove away.
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Just later, another vehicle stopped. This was a rattling kind of machine, and it was old; it had flowers painted on its doors and hoods, and two women got out to peer in the penguin box.
Look at this, said the one with the paint-splattered overalls, and she lifted out a penguin shard.
Hey, said the other.
We could break this up some more and use it for the mosaic on the bottom of the fountain. She reached in and pulled out the only intact part of Pin-Eyes, its head. And she laughed.
Well, that's a little scary, huh? We might have to do something about THAT.
And she swung the box up while the other person popped open the trunk. They nestled the box in there among a jumble of tools and tarps and brushes and bottles.
They slammed the trunk, got back in the car, and rattled on their way.
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And so I was able to tell the Pillars, and Dorrie, and the other Citizens the good news: Shelfie was getting a new life. And his new people seemed to know there was a brave, kind spirit imbued into Shelfie's wooden make up.
Even the Pin-Eyed Penguin would have a new start, shattered and re-shaped and put to an entirely different use. Some of us, maybe, have to crack apart before we can be put together the way we always should have been.
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A few days later, the man and the woman from the gray house came home with a little pine tree in a stout pot. They wrestled that little tree up onto the stoop; they centered it between the Pillars.
The tree was scared and quiet for three long days, but then it began to settle in. The Pillars talked to her softly, and she began to share, to tell us of her origins. We'll just call her Piney.
And on restless nights, I'll curl around her tub, and the Pillars and I will tell her tales of the new land she's come to. We'll tell her, especially, about Shelfie, who stood where she once stood, and whose ultimate act of bravery ended in an unexpected reward.
And as my eyes close in sleep, I'll see a fleeting vision: Shelfie, newly gleaming, curtained and proud, behind a tiny woman soothing a restless babe.
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The people have no idea, of course. They charge along, thinking their lives are the only ones that matter, that they are the only beings who think and yearn and love and feel. And all around them, every day, little acts unfold, some cruel, for sure, but others shining in their compassion and strength..
And I like to think the acts of kindness and the bravery always overwhelm those other things. I've found that to be true in my neighborhood. I hope you find the same in yours.
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