Continued Kitten Saga

Well, we are still in major kitten search mode here. Fortunately. The reason I say fortunately is that we went through a couple of days of crisis, where it was almost decided that spending money on a kitten at this moment is totally insane. Which it is. Totally. There is the hardwood floor to be installed. The new “artsy” radiators have to be mounted. We are only just back from throwing money at frivolous objects like flip-flops in London. The list is long and deep and the pockets are not.

That is not the point. The point is, I want a kitten. All pretense that this kitten is for the kids has fallen by the wayside. All pretense that a pet is a good teaching tool, a great mechanism for affective development, is finished, kaput, irrelevant. The only thing important now is that I want a kitten. I need a kitten for my personal well-being. And furthermore, not just any kitten. I need (a) George. Exclusively dog lovers, will never understand. Tant pis.

So, as you might see, I was falling into a major slump. Full-on depression. Turn me into a do-not-talk-to-me, the-world-sucks-lemons, monster. “You want to finish the electrical work in the living room? Don't look at me, I’ve got important blogging to do.” “Finish surfacing the walls in the hallway and paint? Keep dreaming.” “Frankly, I don’t care if the library* stays just like it is - it has books in it - what’s the problem?”

The problem is clear. Some sort of re-incarnated 17th century warlock without his familiar, I have suddenly become a loose, kitten-less, canon. Everything is in danger of being destroyed until this hunger is sated.

Problems of this sort are frequent on the French socio-political scene. And although I didn’t reach the point of taking my cause to the streets with assorted flags and banners, my French companion decided in typically shrewd French political fashion, that it would be prudent to indulge the beast. “What the hell, we might as well go ahead a find a kitten.” Yes, that is, if you ever want to eat another decent meal in this house.

The search for (a) George continues.

By now, the close observer has figured out that the original potential George as posted previously, is a moot case. Sold, vendu, as in doesn’t have a brother, go away, don’t bother me, yes I am a French person raising rare cats for sale, don’t even think I need to be nice to you. Case closed.

So why not just any kitten? Because. Just because. As I said, “I need (a) George.” And just any kitten is not (a) George. A kitten can be cute, even adorable, and still not be (a) George. The kitten can be male or female, but the kitten must look like (a) George.

I will try to illustrate, with 19th century photos from Nadar (Gaspard-Félix Tournachon) and contemporary photos from Madame Maurel (a nice, courteous, French woman who raises cats at Les Scottish Du Garlaban **)

This is (a) George.
Without pretense, George.
(George Sand, by Nadar around 1864)













This is not (a) George.
She is beautiful,
but not a George.
(Sarah Berhardt, by Nadar
around 1864)











This is (a) George.
Note the lack of pretense.
The calm, matter of fact,
melancholy demeanor.






This is not (a) George.
Adorable, panting,
puppy-like, "pick me",
I can do somersaults,
but not (a) George.

I hope that is clear now. So don’t send me any more pictures of cute, adorable, kittens. I will only entertain the purchase, adoption, or otherwise procuring , or publishing the pictures of (a) George.

Bless you,
Yours Truly,
Ben

PS: * Do not take away any fancy misconceptions by the use of the term “library”. The library also happens to be the kid’s room, the office, the guest room, closets...
* *If you are in the market for a British Shorthair or Scottish Fold kitten, do not even think of trying to beat me out of the race to get one of hers. This is a battle that observes no conventions and takes no prisoners. I will use my 17th century warlock powers to have you destroyed.