Murphy’s law says that if anything can go wrong it will go wrong.  We have a cat, Purrcy, and his law says that if anything can be done, it will be done.  If a plant can be tipped over, causing damage and debris across the living room, it will be done.  If a dog can be bothered until it chases him, it shall be done.  If a table can be jumped on, so it shall be.

Our friend Jerusha found Purrcy out by our barn meowing.  He hopped right into her arms.  We now blame Jerusha for all our cat challenges.  Meanwhile, my son Chris says the cat is mine.  I say he belongs to Chris.  But in reality, Purrcy belongs to each person he chooses, one person at a time.  He is his own cat. 

We already had a barn cat, Squeaky.  A few years ago Squeaky arrived the same way, he just showed up.  We of course always neuter our animals, so Purrcy could not be an offspring of Squeaky.  But they could be cousins.  Grey tabby cousins. You have to look twice to figure out who is who.  Squeaky is chubbier, has a wider face, and a shorter tail.  Squeaky has always been cautious and reserved, and only lets a few trusted people pet him. 

Purrcy was half grown when he arrived.  Squeaky was middle aged by then, and at the fat and lazy stage of his life.  Purccy would approach Squeaky with joy, shove his face at Squeaky’s nose, and ask to play.  Squeaky would meow his namesake squeak, and then leave.  Eventually, they moved on to wrestling for a few seconds, then Squeaky would tire of it and simply sit on Purrcy.  Squeaky was fat and it was a successful move to finish the match.  Finally, we saw the two cats sitting outside on a lawn chair close together.  A feline friendship began.

Gradually they got to the point where they could be near each other inside the house, and sometimes would even groom each other, licking on the lovely itchy spots under the chin and behind the ears.  It wouldn’t be long though before Purrcy would have enough of the love-fest and bat Squeaky in the face.  Then we would push the writhing mass of wrestling cats outside.

Purrcy is the most confident cat I have ever been around.  He loves and approaches everyone.  He will play with the horse’s tails.  He has tried to stalk the chickens, even though they stand taller than him.  He is fearless around our dogs. He teases our dog Cookie and Gramma’s dog Penny.  He taunts them by running from them in the living room, then disappearing behind the couch, to suddenly rush out the other side and bat the dogs on the head.  Then he scampers back under the furniture again.  The dogs love it, but get over excited and we send them outside.  This generally solves all of the animal problems at our house: send them outside.  It used to work with the kids, too.  And my husband. 

In the house Purrcy is always looking up trying to figure out how to get to the top of furniture and shelves.  He has not been on top of the fridge yet, but he scopes it out daily.  He has found a hidey-spot in a basket on top of the armoire in our bedroom.  He typically knocks things off my dresser as he finds his way up.  My son says he regularly knocks over water glasses in his room.  The other night I was in bed, but not asleep, when Purrcy walked over my body like it was a bridge, and then stepped up on my bedside table.  I grabbed my full water glass and held it tightly on the bed while Purrcy crashed around and explored everything on the table.  Soon, he hopped back down to me, put his head in the water glass I was holding, and started drinking.   He drank a lot from my glass.  It’s not like we don’t have animal water available in a bowl downstairs.  The next morning he came in again, and hopped up to get another drink from my glass.  This time I reached over and held the glass steady for him as he drank. Luckily I was awake enough to be his support staff, and prevent the glass from being tipped over.  And as I lay there, I wondered how many other times he drank from my glass, and I would later take an unknowing sip?  Bleck, cat germs!  The next night I changed out my water glass to a water bottle with a lift-top on it. 

I believe that Purrcy is a reincarnation of our old black poodle Buster.  Buster was also a confident animal that loved all people immediately.  Purrcy has claimed the spot on the top couch cushion that Buster used to lay on.  This is the best place to lay and survey both outside and inside the house.  Like Buster, Purrcy begs for food and eats everything except vegetables.   I am also quite sure that Buster is disgusted that he came back as a cat.  In the hierarchy of life according to Buster, cats rank out far below poodles.    Purrcy begs to differ.

I broke my arm coming off my horse in September, then in late November I tried to walk when my foot was asleep and fell and broke the same arm again, in a different spot.  My doctor called the second break freakishly bad luck.  I kept waiting for the third bad luck; I didn’t have to wait long for my son to cut himself on his index finger, requiring an emergency room run and sutures. I’m hoping we are done with bad luck for a while.  In the meantime, here is an essay about luck.

Bad luck comes in threes, and it feels lately that I am surrounded by bad luck. I remember the song lyrics: “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.”* I keep counting my bad luck.   I count in threes, then when more bad things happen I count in nines, then twenty-sevens.  My bad luck is increasing exponentially.  It’s not just the little things: a malfunctioning light switch, a twisted ankle, a trip cancelled due to snow.  It’s the big things: a car in the ditch, death of a family member, dealing with another broken arm.  Then I add in the other bad luck and challenges my friends and community are struggling with, more death, another war in the middle east, or potential toxins in our water.   There is so much to worry about.   I’m not sure what to do except drink chamomile tea before bed and hope I can sleep; or on the worst nights, pour myself some whisky before bed.  Maybe I should just stop getting out of bed and bring the whole bottle in with me.  The bad luck multiplies like mosquitos in a marsh in spring, and the mosquitos are carrying West Nile Virus.

I am forcing myself to look past the bad luck.  If I don’t count it, maybe I won’t dwell on it.  I’ve decided to count my good luck instead.  I’m sure good luck will beat bad luck, because rather than coming in threes, it comes in fours.  Of course, I’m making that up.  Afterall, four-leaf clovers are lucky, and they have four leaves.  In an exponential race, fours will always win over threes.   And even-numbers are so much more shareable: imagine four chocolate graham crackers.  No crackers worth their salt break into threes.   Four graham crackers, quartered, make sixteen pieces.  So symmetrical. So calming.  Sixteen pieces of sweet, good-luck crunch.  I’ll start my list of four pieces of good luck: my broken arms were simple breaks, no surgery was necessary.  It’s winter, the best time to be inside and resting, the best time for broken arms.  Since I won’t be making homemade gifts for Christmas due to my broken arm, I can visit galleries and buy art for friends and family instead.  The planned eye surgery I had in the midst of all the unplanned injuries has improved my site in my right eye.  Now I can more clearly see my list of good luck growing as fast as I can count.

I was so sure of myself and my new-found luck-counting strategy that I looked up lucky numbers on the internet.  All answers can be found on the internet, right or wrong. Unfortunately, it turns out four is considered an unlucky number in many Asian cultures.  The Chinese word for four sounds the same as the word for death; a number to be avoided.  But the Buddhists talk about the four noble truths, and the eightfold path.  Together, these ideas recognize that suffering and anguish exists, and that there are ways to live that lessen the suffering.  There are ways to be in-the-moment.  Four truths, and eight guidelines.  Eight.  An even number divisible by four.  See, there is something special about my good-luck number.

Perhaps luck is not in counting at all, but in my attitude.  I have always been an optimist.  I thrive in my optimism.  I hide in my optimism. I stick with things long past the time a normal person would give up, because I believe it will get better.  I believe there is room for compromise, and talking, and working things out.  Mostly.  Unless you push me too hard.  Or you bother my kids.  Then you will find it unlucky to push my limits.

Sometimes attitude is all about rituals and taking time.  In The Gambia, they have complicated greetings.  Before talking about anything else, you must ask how the family is, how the day is, how the work is, how all of the people of the village are doing.  The answer is often a variation of “Peace”, or “Slow slow”.  But my favorite answer is: “Here only.”  The family is here only.  The day is here only.  The work is here only.  All of the people of the village are here only.  I love the simplicity of the phrase.  All these challenges and bad things are going on, the peanut fields need weeding, the lunch isn’t cooked yet, the water needs hauling, the baby is sick, but life is still continuing; it is here only.  That’s where I need to be.  Here.  Here and now.  Here only.  No good luck, no bad luck, just here.    

I often pretend I have it all together and nothing bothers me.  But it’s not true.  I try to live in the moment, but I don’t succeed.  I’m a total worrier.  I worry about things I have no control over.  I worry about other people.  I worry about our government.  I worry about kitchen cupboards and whether there are enough screws in them to hold them on the wall.  When I count my worries, whether by threes, or by fours, I can’t sleep.  With a roof over my head, a warm bed, and a whole weekend to relax I can still worry myself awake.  I could find a new drug that allows me to sleep, but then I’d worry about the side effects.  Maybe I can calmly develop steps and solutions to solve each worrisome problem as I lay sleepless.  When I try to do that, it takes all night.  So I get out of bed, move to the couch, take an herbal remedy that may or may not work, and sometimes I fall asleep.  Sometimes it’s the change of scenery, change of cushion, change of location that allows me to sleep.  I am not just here only, I am there only. 

I still wait for the day when life will calm down, and only good things will happen; the day I will just have good luck.  But I think this only happens in fairy tales, and even then, there are evil step-mothers and scary giants.  Until that perfect day when all my luck is good, I will try to embrace what is here, only.  I will count my chocolate graham crackers and share the pieces with my friends.  The Buddhist poet Masahide wrote one of my favorite sayings: Barn’s burnt down-/ now/ I can see the moon.  The next time I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about my bad luck, or needing some ibuprofen for my arm pain, I’ll go downstairs, open the blinds and look for the moon. 

* “Born under a Bad Sign” by Booker T. Jones and William Bell, sung by Eric Clapton, among others.

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