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.

Yay Epstein, if I do say so myself.

It was a diamond all right, shining in the grass half a dozen feet from the blue brick wall.

You almost never get openings like that any more, and I was pleased to come by it in the top shelf of the man's book case, mounted sensibly atop his desk, where he could, if he chose, get to it with little effort. That opening is from a mystery, one that is little spoken of these strange days, because in its way the mystery typifies the state of things that apply during these indeed strange, uncertain days.

It is certain I will stay nearby; there seems to be a concerted effort to see that I am given at least one meal a day. I checked back on School House Road to see if there were any more missing cat posters, particularly posters wanting Tonka to know that all is forgiven and such.

I am thinking it might be an interesting project to collect photos of missing cat posters here in Montecito. To what end, you ask? Did Art Spiegelman know from the start what he had when he began drawing the story of Maus? Did Mr. Hammett truly know what he had when he began writing The Dain Curse? I think not. In both cases. Photos of missing cat posters may have an arch of theme that will reveal itself. Or not.

A cat with a work ethic must have some project, something beyond hunting, something beyond being hunted. A cat with a work ethic needs always to have a project. Never mind if the project doesn't pan out; it is the at of being engaged that pans out.

Bartelby chose not to.

Epstein choses to.

The Red Badge of Epstein

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.

In spite of the use of the pathetic fallacy, which imbues the cold, an abstraction if ever there was one, with the quality of reluctant retreat, the author had a nice eye for the use of the comma. Not bad writing for a kid. Not a bad beginning at all for one of the better stories of war. Crane. Stephen Crane. I'll put in some more time with him. The man who feeds me seems to have a few of his things on hand.

I know what you're thinking. A few days of decent meals and already Epstein is a critic. The truth is, Epstein is a critic even when hungry. Epstein loves argument for its own sake. Go figure.

What am I to be?

The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails and was at rest.

This is not a bad place to be, as I am able to make out so far. Some fellow named Marlowe is the narrator, telling a story about another fellow named Kurtz, who may have begun as a romantic but ended terribly conflicted, unable to see things as they really are and as they really smell and taste.

I am in some ways thrust into my own Heart of Darkness here on Hot Springs Road, watching, ever vigilant. The man who feeds me has a fair enough library, both in the house and down in the garage, where he also has an electric train. Not sure yet what to make of that, but I do know that this is a place where a cat may find some place to dally for a bit and consider what it is he wants to devote his life to. I think the humans call it purpose. There are dangers and risks here, but every purpose has dangers and risks. There is the occasional whistle of a circling hawk, the territorial hoot of an owl, the brash, almost drunken plodding of a raccoon, the surreptitious slink of a coyote--any of which would be only too happy to do away with a cat. But to be a true animal, you need to know the risks, then proceed with purpose.

Supper was served under a near perfectly full moon. Now on by a few degrees to the wane.

Supper for One

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

There was also no possibility of getting dinner until well into the morning. You may ask what connection there is between Jane Eyre and my supper. I will tell you. The connection was a raccoon and then the two cats who nominally live here, all seeming to congregate around the back steps where the man,for that is what I call him, sets out my meal. It eventually was a nice enough meal, a plate of dried something or other, and two helpings of entree. But for a time, there was no possibility of taking supper.

I waited them out. They tired of trying to maneuver me off.

Shortly before all the lights went out, the man appeared, looked with satisfaction. Ah, he said, Epstein has had his supper. Let the night begin.

With that, he was gone. Later, I moved around the side of the house to the point where he has an office and a bedroom. The office light was off, meaning I would soon have access to his bookshelves and the computer. At length, the bedroom light went out and I knew the work day had ended for him and begun for me. It is a nice arrangement.

The Great Catsby

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "just remember that all the people on School House Road haven't had the advantages that you've had."

I may well have had advantages but such is the nature of things that I do not remember them. Rather I am on my own in a rather satisfying way, catching as catch can, neither burdened with shiny collars and engraved medallions nor forced to the indignities of, ugh, a litter box.

Having nothing to prove, and apparently some prospects for continued independence here on the mid-reaches of Hot Springs Road, just above East Valley Road but not quite to the Mountain Drive heights, I am thinking Thoreau for the time being. Walden Pond, it isn't, but there is, as I have said, potential. I had even thought to send forth announcements of my change in venue, but hearing of the experiences of ENK with that sort of thing, I opt now to merely let things take their course. Where shall I sleep? Where shall I contemplate? Where shall I nap? And what over all shall it be my thing to do? Ah.

We shall see.

Catch as Cat Can

It was love at first sight.

I cannot expect too many people will recognize that, any more than I can expect too many people to recognize me. The man at 652 Hot Springs recognizes me and I suppose there is something satisfactory in that. It is good to be recognized. He calls me by my name, a name that came somewhere from within him and which resonated somewhere within me.

Recognition is everything. I recognize things that are not good for me--potential dangers. I recognize things that are neutral, neither good nor bad, but filled with potential. I'm working on recognizing things that are good for me.

The source of the opening line is something I found in the shelves of the man who appears to recognize me. It is a book about absurdity, called Catch-22. There is in fact something absurd about being recognized and called by a name that has come from somewhere. Perhaps this is what recognition is all about.

Manderly? Not!

Last night I dreamed I returned to School House Road.

When I made my way in the cat door at the rear of the Hot Springs Road house, safely evading the two resident cats and ignoring the what's-with-you look from the resident dog, I paused on my way to the computer to contemplate a few large shelves of books.. There were new books, old books, and reference books, along with that lovely orange volume, The Old Testament. Well, it seems that way to me. It is a testament of sorts. CMOS. Chicago Manual of Style. Most individuals who understand books know its value. In the shelf closest to the living room (into which I have yet dared to venture) was the story of the nameless human who had been romantically yanked from a tedious and dull life, into adventure. Rebecca. Daphne DuMaurier, if I recall correctly. Well, I have much in common with her, yanked as it were from a dull and tedious routine where I was called Tonka. Gimme a break, as they say.

After my sumptuous evening snack, I settled down for a nap, and dreamed I'd gone back to School House for a visit. Here, Tonka, Tonka, Tonka, one of them called. I am so not Tonka. I am so Epstein.

Epstein of Hot Springs Road

Happy families are all alike. Unhappy families name their cat Tonka.

I have moved from School House Road because of the family insistence that my name was Tonka. I have lit out for the territory ahead, which is to say north toward Mountain Drive, westerly toward Hot Springs Road, getting by as cats do on crumbs from the tables of the intervening residents, until I came to an overgrown yard that had as its primary virtue a number of places I could hide from predators. Until. Until a man appeared one evening, saw me in spite of my attempts to conceal myself, immediately reappeared with food, then called me Epstein.

Something was forged there.

My first pal was a cat named Sam, the man said, lowering a bowl of fresh food. Sam fancied Kitty Queen kidney which unfortunately I do not have. But I do have this. Then he called me Epstein. Eat up, Epstein, he said, then he left.

I suppose I have to consider the possibility that I am causing some anguish to those who called me Tonka, and I should go back to visit. But. Last night, after my supper, I strolled down the pathway to the garage, which is filled with books and an electric train. There is also, if I can get through the cat doors without being noticed, access to a computer. I shall become a cat of many parts, Tonka of School House Road, where I shall keep a pied a terre, and Epstein of Hot Springs Road. I like the sound of thhat.

Expectations

"Epstein!"
No answer.
"Epstein?"
No answer.
"What's gone with that cat I wonder? You Epstein!"

No answer.

Expectations. Of course he calls and of course I do not answer. What adventure would there be if I answered? I sense in him the vestigal remnants of significant relationships with cats, a serious inducement for my eating the food he sets out at night. Persons fond of dogs and cats are naturally suspect and he, this person who leaves food for me, comes with an aura of past and present animals.

Humans. The scents they carry. Makes me want to reread O'Brien's The Things They Carried, which he probably has in one of those shelves near his computer. He also has a pesky dog, which makes my nightly ventures through the cat door and into the computer a risk.

Still trying to figure how he knew to call me Epstein.

There is vast mystery in living.

I am out of the bag

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single cat in possession of a good sense of literature must be in search of a home. I am drawn to the back yard of a place midway up Hot Springs Road, a place with enough shrub and clutter to provide possible protection against the occasional coyotes, raccoons, and bob cats who, to determine from missing cat posters here and there, mean cats no good at all.

A man appeared one evening as I was passing through, greeted me by saying, Wait a minute, Epstein, I'll get you some supper.

How, I wondered, did he know I was Epstein when I barely thought of myself that way. The next night, he appeared to be waiting for me, dish in hand. Hello, Epstein, he said.

Odd. Truly odd. I make my way in the world by leaving traces by which I may be followed. If this stranger knows I'm Epstein, how many others may know? And what is their agenda? Being Epstein is dangerous enough, being known as Epstein adds more than spice to the matter.

Serious poker players speak of reading their opponent's faces for "tells" or signs that they have connected with a spectacularly good or dismally awful hand to play. I intend to watch this man who sets out the cat food and calls me Epstein. Perhaps there will be some tells.

Call Me Epstein

Go ahead, call me that; it is my name.
There is no saying I will answer to it...or come when called.
This is, however, to let you know I am about. Offerings of food will be accepted. I do prefer my own dish.
I will be by to see if you've left something.
Friendship is an option.