There are only three of us here at the Monastery: myself, Monsignor Ken, and two Nuns, Sister Gray, and Sister Calico. Sister Gray and Sister Calico spend nearly all of each day in silent meditation, though I, as Monsignor, must occasionally interrupt my own meditations to attend to those few pilgrims or mendicants that find their way to our sanctuary.
Silence, prayer, and meditation are the rule at the Monastery.
Sadly, the rule is too often transgressed by willful spats between Sister Grey and Sister Calico. I council them to renounce their willful ways. "love one another as yourself". Do onto others as you would have them do onto you". "Be sisters to the poor, not poor sisters".
My little talks bring peace - for a time - much too short a time. I'm afraid my peaceful entreaties go in one furry ear and out the other.
Cats!
No wonder people call two females sniping at each other, catty.
I can only pray for their feral souls and hope for their redemption.
The trouble may not be "Cat", but "personality". Gray is brash, Calico is retiring. Gray is calculating, Calico is demure. Gray is kinetic, Calico isn't. Each wishes the other to be more like themselves. I wish both would be more tolerant of each other.
I continue to call them sisters in the hope they will start acting like it.
Meanwhile the days at the monastery unfold in relative tranquility. The cat's interactions are now part of my studies. They came to the Monastery as outcasts from the world. I thought of them as penitents seeking salvation. They didn't think they did a single thing to be penitent about - though they were happy enough for the shelter.
Temporary truce at the communial meal.
The three of us strive surreptitiously to make our world as we wish it would be. I would like things to be calm and orderly. Gray would like to be boss of everything. Calico would like both Gray and myself to chill-out.
I find myself adopting their feline ways; a matter
of positioning, touch, and tone. When interrupting hissing confrontation, I stand above them and look down with silent disapproval. They stop bickering and look up with understanding.
They do not agree with my position, but they respect my tone. I reach down and pet both. We all know it's only for the moment.
Might moments become minutes, hours, days, weeks? I can hope.
Calico stays near my side during the day, often on the windowsill beyond my laptop. Gray retires to the back of the couch in the living room.
Both fall into hermetical meditation.
Gray sleeps next to me on the bed every night. Calico sleeps under the dining room table in the paper-bag bed she made for herself.
The paper-bag started out as a kitty toy. I put it on the floor for either or both of them. Calico went first. She knocked the bag over and climbed inside. Gray jumped on top which sent Calico flying out. Back and forth it went until the novelty was exhausted. Gray walked away.
Calico had an idea.
She flatted the bag, tweaking and fussing about for nearly twenty minutes. I watched from the corner of my eye. Calico somehow managed to turn a rectangular bag into a circular bed with a two-inch rim all around, except for the front. She seemed justly proud of her work.
Calico does not allow Gray to use the bed.
Calico in the bed she made, all by herself.
This place wasn't always the Monastery at the End
of the Universe.
In days gone by this same place was the Saloon at the End of the Universe. That was when musicians would gather every Saturday to play, sing, drink strong spirits, and occasionally get rowdy. Times change.
I'm starting to think kitties don't.