Baby-Talk and Bike-Names
Chris greets the cat by bending briefly and petting her from head to end of tail a few
times, in a strong masculine fashion. “GOOD CAT!” he says, in a somewhat ironic voice.
(He might add something like, “Did you pee on my tractor? Huh? Did you?”, or “Did you
bite a baby snake in half and leave it on the front porch? Did you?”)
He’s known her for all her ten years. Perhaps he’s a bit fed up.
I on the other hand in an access of earth-mother mood – and no trying job to rush off to –
and in my joy at living in a house in the country with a man and a cat and some plants to
love –
Sit down with her on the deck, or in the long drive, or on the paving stones at the houseside,
And dig in.
She’ll start out saying M’YOW!” in a demanding, pet-me-now voice. I pet her, and soon
she’s purring and rolling. After a bit she stands virtually on her head with appreciation
and falls over. Then commences the play-biting. In between she rubs a possession-scentglanded cheek on any nearby sharp-edged object – a post, a rock, a deck-rail.
We go on and on. The sun shines on us. We are out of Time. We play.
She lies on her back and bends all four paws in towards her furry tummy. She regards
me. Then the tummy-rumbling purrs rise in volume and her eyes close again.
“Our kitty!” I say. “We love our kitty! Yes we do! We just love our funny old kitty-cat!
Scooter-the-Cat! What a good cat you are! Such a pretty cat! Yes, such a sweet funny
Nefertiti-face kitty you are! We love our lovey kitty-cat! What a sweetie-pie Scooter-cat!
Ooohhhh!”
Sometimes I put my nose down and she puts hers up and we almost touch, looking in
each other’s eyes, doing a species-search: what have we to say to each other? And do we
hear? I am never quite sure what that white-whiskered symmetry is saying or asking…
nor, I think, is she sure at all of me. The petting she understands – but she shows a sort of
half-polite dismay when I look for more from her.
There are cats who really touch noses with you – not almost-touch; there are cats who put
their arms about your neck and ride around happily; there are cats who rub all over your
face with theirs, snorting soft breathy purrs; there are cats who put their nose in your ear
and give you a sweet, itchy little concert - and agree on what it means to relate to a
person. Scooter is not one of these. It worries her to be asked for intelligent
communication. So my lack of irony in these petting-fests has much to do with my own
joyful need to dote on a kitty-cat; it is not necessarily greatly realistic. It is, maybe, a bit
desperate and in denial. But Scooter does understand getting petted. That much is never
in doubt (unless she’s in a snit.) Anyway, purring we share. Purring, and the rolling of
happy spines – hers so frequent; mine lamentably occasional.
I tell Chris that when he is at work, I talk baby-talk to the cat.
“I’m so glad I’m not here,” he says in a heartfelt manner.
*
Finally we each have a bicycle. They are fine sturdy mountain/town bikes with deeplytextured tires all crenellated like castle fortifications.
Do they need names?
Our house has a name – Dancing Leaves. How I love to write it on my address in
correspondence! Put it as the place-of-writing at the end of a poem or a piece of prose.
Oh names, names. The poetry and importance of a name – the ruthless arbitrariness of a
name. The terrible fact that for any name chosen, ten quadrillion others must be
discarded. So that the choosing can be an agony of indecisiveness. But it can also be an
instant gift of just knowing.
For example, I named a friend’s cottage in the German forest: Beewild. There had been
an outbuilding full of hives; the house was in the wild; but the pun appealed greatly to the
German love of what is called, reverently, “Zuh Nature”. (German society is so
regulated, so anything-but-wild; and the hunger for wildness never leaves the German
soul. There is a militant hippie in every German; a visiting Goth who never leaves. And
so they treat their forests kindly.)
Back here in our kind three-acre forest – Scooter is a perfect name for our cat. I wonder
how Chris’ ex-wife knew this, naming her when the obstinate little beastie was just a
kitten – “who peed drops in my hand and purred like Rice Krispies,” said Chris. One of
the dark-striped feline’s favorite things to do is to hook a claw in a carpet and haul herself
scootingly around and around by it. If she is outside, she looks for the carpet-purchase for
the claw; finds it not; and just shrugs and scoots anyway. As she has no sense of humor,
she probably wonders why I laugh.
The bicycles. I download Celtic goddess names. Since our woods are oak.
Hmmm. Most of them are unpronounceable – Goibhniu. Flidais (pity; it means a sexy
goddess who drives a chariot pulled by deer through the forest.) Daire MacDedad. Dia
Greine. Cyhiaeth.
Or have awful meanings – Ogmios – “a bald old man leading a contented group of
followers by chains through their ears.” ??? Kelpie – a malevolent water spirit. Llew
Llaw Gyffes – “struggles against malign geases (?) cast on him by his mother Arianhrod.”
Balor – “a one-eyed giant of surpassing ugliness.” Cailleach Beara – “a giantess
associated with mountains. She holds in her aprons huge boulders with which to add to
mountainous realms.” All very well, but here Chris goes through much sweat and toil to
wrest rocks from where they shouldn’t be (in tractor-paths) and put them elsewhere.
(Around here folks say the rocks “work their way up out of the ground.”)
But, here. Brigit means “exalted one. A triplicity of goddesses associated with fire and
smithcraft; with poetry; with motherhood and childbirth. “ Well, Chris is a Smith; the fire
part we don’t need; poetry will do nicely; motherhood – um – well – I guess I’m
Scooter’s mama, as far as that goes. Anyway, Brigit is my best friend Nisarg’s other
name.
Brigit the Bike. Hmm.
Sounds a bit like a frog-croak.
What are some other words I love? Pagan. Pagan the Bike. No – Pagan the Cat sounds
better.
Panthalassa – the ancient uni-ocean covering 2/3 of the earth. But it would shorten itself
to ‘Lassie’. And bikes don’t specially like dogs; nor do they swim. No dog-bikes for me.
Aphrodite the Bike? A bike which will teach me ‘the value and curse of desires?’
Appropriate. But Aphrodite the Bike is too long. However – we’ll park the question
there.
Now – how about Chris’ bike?
“Chris – does your bike need a name?”
“No.”
“Hmmm… but, you know, I could give it one anyway, and come down here to the
basement and pet it and call it that while you were at work… and there’d be nothing you
could do about it.”
A chuckle. “Yep, I can see you doing that.”
I look again at the Celts, with about as much success as before.
*
Strangely, Best Girlfriend is not overly thrilled at having a bicycle named after her. I’d
gone on already anyway, to Aphrodite; but Aphrodite’s not Celtic, and here we are in the
Oak Grove… Hmmm… maybe I should weave cats in here somehow – like, Freya the
Bike. Didn’t the goddess Freya go everywhere with thirteen cats?
But ugh, Freya sounds like a German hotel chambermaid with grim lips and a fierce,
square way of emptying ashtrays. And as to the cats, can you imagine any cat letting
someone ride on it? “The smile was on the face of the tiger,” and all that.
Keep searching….
*
The man comes home from work. We kiss and look at each other – searchingly, just for a
moment – I longer than he – I marvel again at how he is so familiar – like a brother – and
yet so completely unknown. Exotic, somehow, in his being, his face – so that I never
know him. I do not know him at all.
Last night I dreamt I was reclining with Chris and he started to purr. His whole tummy
vibrated with it.
“Oh, can you purr?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Oh, can you do it whenever you like?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, and purred more loudly to demonstrate.
*
Do we know each other any better than Scooter and I do? Sometimes I think she’s more
amenable to my caresses than he is… though he’s not unamenable at all, for a man… but
I stop short of crooning to him. Usually.
As I crooned to Scooter this morning when she appeared on the flagstones. She said
“Yeow?” in her it’s petting-time! tone.
“You’re a lovey-cat!” I say. I pet with both hands, down her sides. “A sweetie-pie loveycat! What a nice kitty you are! Yes, oh yes, indeed! Indeed! You are a cat,” I add; for
some unknown reason I feel like assuring her of this, time and again – “You certainly are
a cat! There’s no doubt about that! None whatsoever! No indeed! You certainly are a
furry, purry, feline-being with paws and claws! And a bitey-cat! Oh yes, a bitey-cat!”
She’s curled her face into her chest. She’s on her side, one paw working the air, in that
way I find particularly adorable. Her ears curve forward. Purrs radiate like a heater.
“Oh, our sweetie-cat!” I cry softly. “Nice kitty!” Not very original, but what can I do?
Love is never (and always) original.
She has no objection at all.
I’m back to name-cruising in Celt-land. Vitris the Bike? Nope – he’s a war-god; don’t
want to encourage that. Puck? Sounds too much like a slang word, as unfortunate as it is
popular. Weyland the Smith? Nope – he was hamstrung – not good for a bicycle. Some
God of the Wheel would be nice but I don’t find a name for one. Esus the Bike – a
woodland god; promising except bloody sacrifices were made to him. Scrap as we-hopeunnecessary.
The Green Man sounds good – leafy fertility and all that – but Chris’ bike is silver.
My bike: Morgan le Fay – overdone. Doesn’t sound good with ‘bike’ anyway. Rosmerta
– ‘the purse of plenty’ – nice but no poetic chime. Scathach – Lady of the Shadows –
‘associated with Smiths; a goddess of both love and war.’ But again doesn’t go with
‘bike’, and who needs the war? Silvanus.. Taliesen… just don’t sound musical.
I’m scanning the printout – male and female deities together – Mider. But he’s known for
stinginess and misplaced pride! Exactly not Chris! These names are so @#$%^&*
unpronounceable! Llasar Llaes Gyfnewid. What’s that? Husband of Cymedei. Luchta.
“One of a triplicity of smithy-gods, his aspect is that of a wright, a mechanic and artificer.
The others are Credne and Goibhniu.” Well – yes – but - Luchta? Sounds girly, Chris
would protest!
Luchtigern. Mouse-lord. Irish. Chief of the mice of Kilkenny. Slain by
Banghaisghiddheach.
No way.
Finn MacCool – sounds cool. Fionn MacCumhaill. But it’s clumsy with Bike, and
anyway, he does nothing but chase maidens. Grian – must rhyme with Brian – but she’s
female! Awkward-sounding. Banshee the Bike. Erk. Beli the Bike. Now here’s a highranking god; but – Belly the Bike? Bodes no good. OK, OK- I skip all but the musical
now.
Druantia – lovely, a forest goddess. Sound not going well though… Ah well.
I refuse to resort to some warlike Tueton god(dess)! “Visit an Egyptian pantheon!”
exhorts the website. Or Greek.Or - Haudenosaunee..!! It’s Lakota. Hmmm – Chris is part
Indian – Blackfeet. Soiux, therefore.
Blackfeet.
Blackfeet the Bike!
Yes!
Now I’m taking my frivolity out for a walk… perhaps my name will appear from behind
a tree, or, tonight, in a niche in a dream… “Flying-Dream-In-Platform-Shoes-the-Bike.”
Or, let’s try a cat-theme: Tiger the Bike.
Too golf-ridden.
Tiger-Lily the Bike.
Love tiger-lilies, but – my bike’s blue!
Elizabeth Taylor the Bike (for her eyes.) But – she’s had too many physical ailments; nor
does my bike need, or want, so many husbands.
Hmmm. Blue. The Blues. Blues the Bike. No – too sad, though listening makes me
happy. Al Green the Bike? Aretha the Bike? Martha and the Vandellas the Bike?
I’ll bet their lives had plenty of sorrow.
Motown the Bike? Funky the Bike? Here’s a stretch – Beethoven the Bike? Hmmm…
what I like music for is dancing, anyway.
So… Jitterbug the Bike? Sounds dangerous. Rumbha.. Mashed Potatoes (hee hee, that’s
an image, Mashed Potatoes the Bike!) Twist the Bike? No way, sounds like a casualty.
Waltz the Bike… Electric Slide the Bike? Sounds like it collided with a telephone pole.
Line-Dance the Bike? Too conformist. Breakdance the Bike? Ominous. Funky
Chicken the Bike? Best not go there. Swing the Bike. Nope – sounds like some big
bruiser’s prank. Two-Step the Bike? Two-Step, despite many lessons, still hasn’t jelled
in me. And besides, it might have lethal battles with Blackfeet. Charleston the bike?
Cumbersome. Black Bottom the Bike? Intriguing, but somehow not suitable. Hully
Gully the Bike? Hokey-Pokey the Bike? Locomotion the Bike? Foxtrot the Bike?
Foxtrot the Bike.
Foxtrot! We just learned it last Friday, and it was easy! And fun!
Foxtrot the Bike.
Blackfeet and Foxtrot.
Now we’re talkin’!
Blackfeet and Foxtrot the Bikes
Go dancin’.
Let’s hope.
Autumn expedition, anyone?
Chris, will you ask me to dance?
*
“Scooter the Cat, do you like to dance?”
Mrow! She stands on her head and purrs. Bites my hand gently.
“Oh, you like yoga better. My warrior-goddess.” Bast, the Egyptian cat-goddess. Bast the
Bike. Naw. I like Foxtrot. I did read somewhere that foxes are more closely to related to
cats than to dogs, in the long-ago beginnings.
“My funny sweetie-pie angel-cat. Naughtikins, you funny girl. Cat are SPOSED to be
funny! I WIKE funny cats! You are a cat, oh yes indeedy there’s no doubt about it, you
are a feline being! You sweetie-pie!”
Better not let Chris hear me – he’ll think I need to be gainfully employed, at the very
least… or, he might want to urp like Scooter does after she chomps grass with her sideteeth.
“Kitty-cat?”
Purr, purr, purr.
Dancing Leaves, sept. ‘o5
(The only excuse I have for this piece
is that it was Indian Summer.)
Sept. ‘05
Dancing Leaves