There are unsolved mysteries in the universe. One of those is Otis’s uncanny sense of friendship.
Almost midnight, and time to get the cat in for sleepy time. Stepping out onto the back deck expecting silence, maybe a breeze, or the usual porch-light bugs holding their nightly rave, Otis sits with a couple of raccoons.
Why would a cat just hang with vermin? I don’t get it.
“What are you doing with these guys?”
The raccoons stopped cold. Masks fixed. Tiny hands twitching.
Otis looked up at me, tail flicking, adamant in its irritation.
“This is collaboration,” Otis says, turning his hind side toward me, his version of a teaching stance.
“They don’t create like humans. Their creativity runs on chaos. Improvised. No plans. Just curiosity at full throttle. They’re the jazz musicians of trash. Crack a bin, topple a planter, invent a new form of mischief before the old one cools. No ego. No drafts. No angst. Just action.”
He flicks his tail, annoyed I’m not catching up.
“Vermin? Only if you refuse to widen your inner lens. Different forms of creativity demand different forms of seeing. There’s a lot here you’re missing.”
The tail flicks again, more agitated.
“Train yourself to look deliberately. Shift your angle. Change your distance. Do that, and your art will finally start explaining itself to you.”
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