My Origins? A Theory.

Dr. Epstein was a renowned physician who earned his undergraduate, graduate,
and medical degrees in his small home town and then left for Manhattan, where he
quickly rose to the top of his field.

Soon he was invited to deliver a significant paper at a conference
coincidentally held in his home town. He walked on stage and placed his
papers on the lectern, but they slid off onto the floor. As he bent over to
retrieve them, at precisely the wrong instant, he inadvertently farted. The
microphone amplified his mistake resoundingly through the room and reverberated
it down the hall! He was quite embarrassed but somehow regained
his composure just enough to deliver his paper. He ignored the resounding
applause and raced out of the stage door, never to be seen in his home town
again.

Decades later, when his elderly mother was ill, he returned to visit her. He
reserved a hotel room under the name of McCoy and arrived under cover of
darkness.

The desk clerk asked him, "Is this your first visit to our city, Mr. McCoy?"

Dr. Epstein replied, "Well, young man, no, it isn't. I grew up here and
received my education here, but then I moved away."

"May I ask why haven't you visited?" asked the desk clerk.

"Actually, I did visit once, many years ago, but an embarrassing thing
happened and since then I've been too ashamed to return."

The clerk consoled him. "Sir, while I don't have your life experience, one
thing I have learned is that often what seems embarrassing to me isn't even
remembered by others. I'll bet that's true of your incident too."

Dr. Epstein replied, "Son, I doubt that's the case with my incident."

"Was it a long time ago?"

"Yes, many years."

The clerk asked, "Was it before or after The Epstein Fart?

Chapter Two: Portrait of the Artist as a Young Cat

Having a photo or two is infinitely better than being on a Missing Cat poster.

I now have a name and an image, plus a sense of ongoing suppers. What more can the emerging artist within want?

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Cat

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down the road and this moocow that was down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...

Love the sound of it. The Irish you know, their heads filled with the whispers of poetry and everything going mythological, mixed at the same time with the awareness of harsh realities that squeeze in on an individual, particularly an individual cat who is looking for his identity. Seeing this opening line from James Joyce puts me in mind of another of his great characters, Leopold Bloom, with whom I feel a kinship.

We shall see how this evolves as I go about the warp and weft of Hot Springs Road, between Mountain Drive and East Valley Road, searching for...

...ah, I have it, searching for Reality.

Epstein of Green Gables

Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

I rather like the sound of that. Perhaps the narrative should morph into Epstein of Green Gables. I have been tempted to try my hand at My Friend, Epstein, but Epstein of Green Gables resonates nicely, don't you think?

Epstein, a Cat.

EDY was as much a part of Epstein's everyday

happiness as the sunshine itself.

I have done some judicious editing here from a book first published in 1919, would you believe? It was written about a dog, somewhat like the dog who lives in the area next to 652 Hot Springs, where I have in a sense hung my aspirations for a time. Lad, a Dog. Gimme a break! Epstein, a Cat is more like it. I even like the sound of it. I will pursue it. It will contain the truth. Maybe some stretchers, as a man whose books abound here might have said, but mainly the truth.

Accordingly, a new beginning.

Books were as much a part of Epstein's happiness as cat kibble, itself.

Bleak House, not!

My father's family name being Epstein, and my Christian name Cat, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Ep. So I called myself Ep, and came to be called Ep. Until I came to Hot Springs Road, where a man saw me, said, "Epstein! What are you doing here?" and set a sumptuous dinner before me.

Truth be told, I have seen him more than he has seen me. Every night, just after nine o'clock, he seems to be in animated telephone conversation. When he is finished, I know to move along the aisle way adjoining the north wall of his sleeping room, them move into the rear yard, where he calls me to dine. He calls it that--dining. "Time to dine, Epstein," he says.

Thus my day begins. After dining, I wait reflectively in the bushes, judging my chances with the two neurotic cats who live inside and that control freak of a dog, Sally. There are two cat doors to negotiate, the outside cat door, followed by a laundry room, then an inside cat door which leads directly to the kitchen, where I am often able to scrounge from a snack plate left out for said neurotic cats and for Sally, if she chooses.

Then it is free access to books and computer.

Last night I discovered Great Expectations and learned how to render italic type face, which I am told is the way one refers to titles of books. Although I do not like to make plans in advance, I am thinking tomorrow might be a good time to venture into another autobiographical type novel, narrated by that maddening prig, Esther Summerson. Bleak House, you know.

In my travels later this morning, I came upon a Lost Cat poster. Touching. Humans missing a longhair white named Snowflake. It's a jungle out there, and I must not allow myself to lose my edge.

Lord Epstein? Well, no; merely Epstein, the cat

He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull.

With the exception of the height, you might easily think Joseph Conrad were writing about me, not his vaunted Lord Jim. I do have that effect. Or would like to.

This has settled into a pleasing enough place that I think to spend some time here, amid books and places that by my reckoning provide ample protection from predators as I begin preparing to educate myself. I step forth like Stephen Deadalus, to experience life and forge the uncreated conscience of my species.