Walter, for those who haven't met him, is a cat. Blacker than a tuxedo bow tie, impressively talkative and potentially sassier than a pack of longtime friends rocking ladies' night after the third round of cocktails, he's quite a character.
While my recent, albeit temporary break from work meant more time at home, I noticed that Walter was often restless. His preferred toys no longer held his interest, and even when I tried to create new ones (like Spidey, the giant arachnid made from twist ties, or Cappy, fresh off a jug of Sunny D) his interest would quickly dissipate. Note: Walter has rarely liked stuff from the store: he prefers that his caretaker use "found objects", and craft them into interesting playthings. And I obediently comply.
Except catnip. Walter is a Burroughs-level junkie, for catnip.
I needed to come up with something new: an engaging form of entertainment that would keep my boy's attention, that didn't involve bringing another cat into the mix (I've already raised 3 great boys; my tour of duty is over, thank you). But what?
"Oh wait", the 80's whispered, "what could make you sit and stare quietly, for hours?"
"Oh yeah", I replied, "good old television". The lightbulb was on, and it was bright.
It seems that several YouTubers have been ahead of pet-tainment curve and are eager to share their sinfully simple movies with the public. Simple production: fill bowl with seeds, place outside, start running GoPro or something similar, then come back in a few hours. Fill bowl, repeat. Lucas wishes he had it that easy.
Up until that first night, Walter had virtually no interest in TV. It was simply a thing that diverted his caretaker's attention away from far more important activities like butt scratches and belly rubs. But when I put that first video on, the curtains parted gloriously. It took maybe three to four minutes for Walter's brain to process that the normal sounds from the big box thing weren't just human voices. It was the sound of prey.
Walter went rigid: ears forward, muscles tensed: totally focused. He could have been an Olympic runner, waiting for a gunshot to signal the takeoff. These weren't the rascals that hopped and fluttered around outside, where hoppy-fluttery things belong. No, no, they were in HIS ROOM. Every time a bird arrived to grab a bite of breakfast, Walter's head would change angle to get the best view. It was almost as entertaining for me, as it was for him.
So, now he'll sit for hours, trying to figure out how to eliminate this threat from the kingdom. (Additional note for cat lovers: when showing these videos, realize that the value of your TV is of no concern to your cat. You somehow made the squirrels appear, now it's Mittens' turn to do her job.)
Okay, so Walter has a new addiction: cute and more cute. What's this about his caretaker's education?
About a week ago I had the TV on while taking a shower (I think it was Star Trek: Next Generation, but the specifics aren't important.) What does matter is that when I returned to the bedroom, Walter was watching TV: no fuzzy creatures, no songbird sounds. Data was trying to understand humans, Worf was grumpy, and Geordie was slowly forming an interpretation about his visor readings. (You know, the usual.) But there was Walter, curled on the bed, completely aware of sound and movement.
Now I don't know if this has any deeper meaning for Walter, but it sunk a hook pretty deep in my thinking fish. Isn't it fascinating how our attention is tied to our values? That so much of our worldview is simplified by the boundaries we apply knowingly, but also by our instinctive drives.
This reality unveils a simple fact: we cannot adequately pay attention to everything around us, at every moment. There's an individual hierarchy that walks in front of us, like Walter taking a stroll about the house, searching for the next clue. And the metaphysical smells define a brightness to each object, and thus a value system. The electrician sees danger in the corner surge protector while the tech geek sees an altar to hardware. The librarian sees a stack of shamefully unorganized literature, while I have... a system. Kinda.
I'm told that values are relative, but it goes much further than that. To the extent that choice is involved, it's nonetheless undermined by our genetic predisposition, by cultural integration, by chance experiences. Do we dare quantify the influences? Perhaps I often cradle myself in the gentle sway of the overthinking hammock: comforting for a while, but you get nowhere. Nonetheless...
At the foundation of it all, Walter taught me that the world is simultaneously one of immediacy: of stable, reliable knowledge, even when that information defines an Australian-level danger. But it's also one of staggering potential. There's always something around the corner: perhaps in an adjoining space, where the images are fresh, whether vulgar or intoxicating. So I'll keep my senses open, and the catnip close.
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