Word: Ailurophile

 

ailurophile

[ ahy-loor-uh-fahyl, ey-loor- ]

 

noun

a person who likes cats; cat fancier.

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               Dave looked around Jenny’s apartment. It was larger than his, and had much nicer decorations. She had done wonders with the place in terms of interior decoration. Art and plants were plentiful, and all were of high quality. But there was something else that caught his attention. Several small shelves and platforms were set high up along the walls.

               “So, you have cats?” He guessed.

               Jenny poked her head out from around the corner. “Huh? Oh, the platforms. Yeah, I do. I’ve got three, actually. They’re probably hiding from you right now.”

               “That’s great!” Dave exclaimed. “Well, not that they’re hiding, but that you have them.”

               She entered the living area and sat on a couch. Dave continued to look around, but never went very far. He peaked around a corner and saw a marvel of engineering that took the form of an large, sprawling cat tree. Although in this case, it was more like a cat forest.

               “Now that’s a hell of a thing.” He said.

               “What can I say? Nothing’s too good for my babies. How about you? Do you have any pets?”

               “No.” Dave said heavily. “My landlord doesn’t allow them. Says he doesn’t want to deal with allergies or noise complaints or anything.”

               “Ouch.”

               “Yeah. But if I could, it would definitely be cats.”

               “Really?”

               “Oh yeah, I grew up with them. My parents used to foster kittens when I was a kid. They don’t anymore, since they’re too old for it. But thanks to that, I’ve always had a fondness for felines.”

               “Aw, that’s so great. I wish I could’ve known your family back then. I would totally have come over just to play with kittens.”

               Dave nodded in understanding. That was one of his favorite forms of entertainment growing up. The two continued talking for a little while when the conversation was interrupted. One of Jenny’s pets chose that moment to make itself known.

               “Ah, here’s Jules.” Jenny said.

               “She’s a beauty. I’ve always loved calicos.” Dave said, watching the cat as it slowly made its way into the room.

               The cat watched Dave cautiously, but chose to slowly approach. Dave leaned forward and held out a finger for her to sniff. Then, in typical feline fashion, Jules lost all interest in Dave. Instead, she jumped on the couch Jenny was sitting on and crawled onto her lap. The cat spun around a few times before finding a place to sit. Then she simply luxuriated in the attention Jenny was giving her.

               “Don’t worry, she’ll warm up to you.” Jenny said.

               “Hey, I get it. I really do. It takes a lot of effort for a cat to warm up to someone. But, well, you know.”

               “Yeah, I do. It’s so worth it when it finally happens.”

               “Oh yeah, totally. There’s nothing else quite like it, is there?”

               The two continued their conversation, mostly about cats and their respective enjoyment of the animal. But other topics were spoken of as well, although not as much. But, as much as they were enjoying each other’s company, Dave eventually had to leave. He did so with the promise to bring cat treats the next time he visited.

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I must admit, I'm more of a cat person myself. Now, don't me wrong, I do enjoy dogs. They're fun to be around and all that. But I just don't want to own one. It wouldn't be fair to the dog. They're high energy animals, and I'm a very low energy person. Any dog I ended up with would be bored out of its little doggy mind, and that's just not fair to the animal. 

Title: Wizen

 

wizen

[ wiz-uhn; wee-zuhn ]

British Dialect

verb (used with or without object)

1. to wither; shrivel; dry up.

adjective

2. wizened.

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               The old man looked like a skeleton. Maybe a ghoul. Just a bunch of bones wrapped in a layer of dry skin. His eyes were milky white, and it was clear he had no teeth left. The click of his cane on the stone floor was the only sound. Even with the help of the tool, his steps were slow and halting. He walked with a noticeable limp and a hunch. All together, the man looked ready to drop dead at any second.

               He looked around the room. There was only one other person in it. A person who was not sure if they could be seen by the old man. The younger man sat still and silent as his elder slowly looked around.

               “You there?” The old man eventually asked. His voice was thin and weak.

               “Yes, elder. I am here.” The young man asked. He spoke loud and clear, giving the old man time to recognize the words.

               “Ah, yes, I see you now. I think.”

               The old man was looking slightly to the left of where the young man was actually sitting. But it was close enough.

               “So, you ready for this?” The elder asked.

               “I…no, elder. No I am not. I know it is an honorable duty. Worthy of only the best. But I am scared.”

               The old man nodded. Or at least, he tried to. His head barely moved. “That’s understandable. What you’re about to go through is not something everyone can handle. The fact that you showed up at all is a sign of your bravery and loyalty. You will be honored properly when this is all done.”

               “Yes, elder. I know that. But still. This…are you sure this is right? I know this is our tradition, and how we have always done things. But I still wonder. Maybe there is a better way? A different way that can be just as good.”

               The elder’s eyes closed, and he took a long breath. “I used to wonder that exact thing. I still do. Quite often, actually. But the thing about new ideas is that very few like them. At least at first. People will argue and fight about them. New ways can tear our people apart.”

               “So then there is no way to progress? No way to change? Are we destined to stay the same forever?”

               “No, no. Of course not. The thing about new ideas is that you cannot bring them out all at once. You have to lead up to them. Make a few tiny, easy changes every so often. Build it up slowly over time and people won’t even know change has happened. But for that to work, you need some form of stability. Something that stays the same throughout, so that nobody complains about it.”

               “I see. And that’s where this comes from? Giving people that one form of eternal stability?”

               “Of course, lad. Do you think our people are the same as they were when we were founded? No, of course not. The other elders and I are the glue that holds us together while we bring forth new ideas and practices over lifetimes. But we cannot do it alone. We need young men like you. Men willing to go through the process. Do you understand?”

               “I think so. Thank you elder.”

               “So? Shall we begin?”

               The young man took a long, deep breath. He felt the air in his lungs and blood in his veins. He nodded. The elder did not react.

               “Yes, elder. I am.”

               “Good, good.”

               The elder held out a gnarled, shaking hand. The young man took it. Both closed their eyes and began to change. The elder stood straighter. The deep wrinkles in his skin smoothed. His thin hair grew and darkened. His flesh filled out, gaining the size and form of youth.

               The younger man, however, looked like he was drying out. His flesh sagged and shriveled. His bones creaked and shrunk. His teeth and hair fell out. It was as if he aged a hundred years in an instant.

               When the process was finished, the elder opened his eyes. They were now clear and sharp. He opened his mouth, showing a full set of teeth. The younger man, now a dried out husk, fell, and did not move.

               The revitalized elder spoke in a deep, strong voice. “Don’t worry, you will be honored in death. And your sacrifice will not be in vain.”

               He turned and left the room, tucking his cane under his arm. He would keep it close for the next time he needed it.  

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Not much to say right now, so I'll just end it here. 

Word: Hoary

hoary

[ hawr-ee, hohr-ee ]

 

adjective, hoar·i·er, hoar·i·est.

1. gray or white with age: an old dog with a hoary muzzle.

2. ancient or venerable: hoary myths.

3. tedious from familiarity; stale: Please don't tell that hoary joke at dinner again tonight.

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               Jeff glanced at the clock hanging over the door. Had it really been an hour he got on line? It felt like more. It was moving, but at a glacial speed. Still, he was getting closer. He had to be. He peaked out around the people in front of him, seeing the end of the line.

               The woman at the desk was old, in several ways. She sported a loose bun of grey hair. Her skin was wrinkled and weathered. But it was her eyes that really gave away her age. They were tired eyes. Eyes that had been going on for far too long. Eyes that seemed just as dead as alive.

               The person talking to the worn old woman finally finished his business. The well dressed man stepped away, and the line inched forward. The woman’s mouth moved. Speaking words she had no doubt spoken countless times. Words as stale and dry as year old crackers. He could not hear what they were yet, but he knew he would soon. Probably once another five or six people had taken their turns at the front of the line.

               As he got closer, he could see more of the woman. It was not just her hair that had lose its color with age. Her skin was pale. Her lips were cracked and colorless. Even her clothes seemed faded from the passage of time. She was a living testament to time itself. A reminder that it is unceasing and uncaring. That all stories, interesting and dull, grow weary and tired when told enough times.

               He got closer. The woman’s voice was audible now. The words were nothing special. Giving a set of instructions for whatever the person across from her wanted done. It seemed like this mostly involved filling out a small stack of forms and bringing them to a different counter. The voice delivering these tedious words was thin and hoarse. The voice of someone who had spoke often and loudly, until she could not do so anymore. The voice of someone who no longer cared what she spoke of, for all the words that mattered have already been said.

               He wondered what those eyes had seen. What stories she had to tell. What kind of life did that woman lead to lead her to this desk, in his office, in this part of the country? Has she always been a dull person who was content to sit there and answer questions? Or did she used to be an adventurous woman who would go out and challenge the world until age forced her to sit back? Her appearance gave no clues to either of those, or to any other possibility.

               Eventually, Jeff stood in front of the woman. She gave a tired, slow blink as she looked at him. Her eyes were indeed hollow. Without emotion or the spark of life. But they still worked. The woman started speaking, giving her memorized lines to him. He paused before answering. Should he ask about her past? What she had lived through? What she had seen or done? Should he get her story?

               A cough behind him was a quiet reminder of where he was. He gave the old woman his request. She replied with her long list of forms to fill out. Then he stepped out of line. As the next person stood where he just was, he made up his mind. He would get her story another time. 

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Not much to say today. So I'll just say this: Don't mistreat public servants. They have a draining job and really don't want to deal with uncooperative and unpleasant people any more than you do.