|Journal page from Feb 12, 2011|
Sorry folks, but I loathe Valentine's Day...*blech*...I suppose being divorced and single for 18 years can do that to a person but I don't remember liking the "holiday" much before that either. And I've actually relished my spinsterhood so I can't chalk it all up to relationship woes. I guess I just find the commercial aspect of this day to be a bit too much to swallow. However, I don't think the flower and card corporations will let me repeal Valentine's Day anytime soon so I've long been on the lookout for some way to redefine this sugary sweet date. And two years ago, I found it.
Our dear sweet Marley Bear turns two today. This giant marmalade fur baby came into our lives surrounded in mystery. His original owner surrendered him to the rescue without a stitch of paperwork even though Marley had been acquired as a kitten from the county shelter. So Marley was inspected and based on the vet's knowledge and experience, he was declared to be approximately six months old. (I've often thought this calculation was suspect given his size but his behavior certainly fits that of a younger cat.).
I felt Marley was due the dignity of a known birthdate so I calculated backwards and arrived at mid-February 2009 as the most likely time frame for Marley's arrival on earth. I felt Valentine's Day would be an easy date to remember and assigning Marley's birthday to February 14 also gave me a solid reason to tolerate the proliferation of lovey dovey sentiment.
|Marley in his box on my studio table|
My son and I will celebrate Marley today with a tuna sandwich party on the living room floor. Tuscany will join in, though only out of loyality to fish and not because of any fond feelings for the orange beast that hassles her on a daily basis. Indeed, Mr. Marley Bear is pretty much trouble 24/7; I've never met such a naughty cat. But then he hops onto my work table, tilts his head, blinks those gorgeous golden eyes, touches noses with me and all is lost. I am smitten. No matter that I then have to clean up the trail of painty pawprints as he blunders onto my palette. It is the footprints on my heart that matter.
How's that for sappy and sentimental?