The Case of the Three Rascals

While the mouse is back in Tokyo seemingly until the end of time, we are pleased and proud to welcome Leah and Mick for a bit of intrigue on the Big Island.

It was a dark and stormy night on quiet Kala Street.  In one quiet house, three lonely kitties were twiddling their paws.  Mom and dad were nowhere to be found and those other two folks had already left after some furious butt-smacks, chest cuddles and snack throwing. What’s a bored cat to do for entertainment?

These three fur balls knew just what to do. Working in stealth mode, they reconnoitered the guest room where rested an intriguing pile of boxes.

“Boxes!  We we LOVE boxes! Yeah! Let’s climb and roll and try to topple them.”

And they did, which meant that the very biggest box, the one that had come a mere day or two after mom and dad has left, was now exposed. It was a big box, a heavyish box.  And currently unopened. 

But not for long.

It’ll never be known whether it was a team effort or a solo pursuit, but eventually a bit of the tape was off.  Then some more.  The box had already been a bit crushed so eventually “some kitty” worked its way in. Could it be Twitch?  She’s small but mighty. George is the obvious culprit but he’s lots of meow and less action. Our bets are on Monkey-boy. Wiry, attentive. Who will know?

That other guy came in last night (his gal friend was at class so he was working solo) and saw that the box was more mashed in and more open. “All right, you rascally kitties, I’ll just close the door to this room,” he said, twisting his mustache in an I’m-the-boss-of-you fashion.

This morning that gal was at the house, too, and after curtains were moved and windows opened, butts-smacked, smelly cheese strip provided in teeny bits to Ms. Twitch and Monkey-boy fell off the couch yet again (much to his chagrin), she opened the guest room, knowing that Ms. Twitch likes to curl up on “her” chair in the afternoons. 

The box was open, mostly! Not wanting to snoop but thinking, “Lord what have they got into now?” She crept closer, lifted the lid, removed the mass of packing paper, and spied the evidence.  Suddenly the missed meals, the perplexity of why the cats weren’t eating was clear……

…… they were helping themselves, albeit just a little, to a large bag of cat food that mom must have ordered just before she left. A wee hole had been nibbled into the bag and the evidence of kibbley bits in the box was proof enough. The guy and gal decided that checking for paw prints or sniffing kitty breath wasn’t needed.  If not guilty by action they were all guilty by association. Fortunately the plastic container of treats had yet to be discovered, as we all know that a mere twisty lid and a cover won’t stop the treat-thief-trio!

Suffice to say that now empty box is in the garage. The bag with a hole in it has been taped and now lives with the other bag of cat food that arrived yesterday (yes, two big bags now!) AND now three containers of treats– these are all making a home for themselves on the dryer. 

The moral of this little story is when bored, a cat will find a way to amuse itself. 

Calm

private-property.jpg

Our subdivision has its own private parks, including one that has a pool. This is nice for a couple of reasons. One, hardly anyone uses it. Two, it’s only a couple of blocks from my house. Three, hardly anyone uses it. Four, despite this being Hawaii, there aren’t many places to swim; all the lower Puna ocean spots recently got eaten by lava. Five, hardly anyone uses it. Six, it’s a really nice pool, solar powered, clean, and has ozone treated water so there is no chlorine so no chlorine stench. The first time I swam there, the air smelled of gardenias. Today, it smelled of freshly mown grass. And six, did I mention that hardly anyone uses it?

This dearth of bodies in itself would be pretty marvelous, but imagine coming from years and years of life in Tokyo. Sure, there are pools, plenty of them, but they are never more than three feet deep and there are plenty of hot, sweaty people to fill them. And the rules. Ah, there are oh-so-many rules. You can gain entry to a public pool for a mere $3 but:

-Two hour limit and everyone must get out after an hour to rest
-No food or drinks, not even water
-No jewelry or hair clips
-No make-up or sunscreen
-No running, diving or pool toys
-No more laughing, no more fun, Quaker meeting has begun

The staff are vigilant about enforcing the rules–in my head, the guys are wearing only tiny Speedos and paste-on Hitler mustaches. In effect, there is no swimming since there’s very little water between the bodies anyway. My impression: people soup.

So today, there were a few people lounging by the Honu Street pool but I had the water to myself for a few delightful minutes, a degree of self-indulgence I hadn’t felt since last month’s hot fudge sundae, but coupled with the joyous freedom of movement that only water affords and there were no volcanic rocks to step on and not a calorie to be gained.

me in pool

Of course, it couldn’t last.

It would be foolish to seek perfection in paradise. Anyone who thinks they will find it here is kidding themselves. The only perfection lies in how we perceive the world and how we handle the ways it tries to influence us. While yoga and drumming and costuming (more about that later) are challenging but incredibly fulfilling, we are discovering that our only neighbors are raving lunatics. I had been warned that this is lower Puna and there are problems with drugs and vagrancy, but I was not expecting threats and obscene childishness from next door. It is a heartbreak.

So I will continue to pursue my inner Om, keep my feet on the ground and above all, stay rooted in calm. Short of torching their house, there is little we can do beyond not letting them ruin our lives.

However, there is a favor I would ask of you, gentle reader. If I age, say, 10 or 15 years and then dye my hair purple, develop a double D bust and park myself by the pool wearing a neon green string bikini with fringe, then light a cigarette (!!!), please slap me. Slap me hard.

no smoking