Rerun - My Cats: The Reason I No Longer Suck At Water Volleyball

This is one of my first blog pieces on "Knowledge is Necessity," from late December last year. Enjoy ...

There is very good science to support the proposition that pets promote mental health. But did you know they can also lift your water volleyball game to new levels?

I acquired Rocky and Bullwinkle about four months ago, when they were kittens five weeks old. Instantly, I was wearing them like an extra article of clothing. If I'm at my computer they're at my computer, if I'm in bed they're in bed, if I'm in the bathroom, well never mind ...

Literally, I'm forever peeling these little fur balls off my lap, my chest, my legs, my shoulders, my head. Then there's the constant challenge of heading them off at the pass. Off the keyboard, off the kitchen counter, off the prime real estate on the mattress.

Now it's time to discuss water volleyball. I started playing the game on most Saturdays about two years ago. At first I couldn't hit anything, but soon I improved to a level where I really sucked. Then I plateaued. For two years, I amazed my fellow enthusiasts with my singular ability to make gravity unpredictable.

You see, all my life, me and gravity never got along.

Then, about a month ago, something funny happened. Actually, something statistically improbable, which is a polite term for impossible. In the pool, I became the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Literally, the ball didn't have a chance against me. I tracked it like radar. I swatted it in mid-flight like King Kong smacking bi-wing airplanes. I dispatched it on inerrant trajectories that left everyone in the pool slack-jawed in amazement.

There is a very elegant mathematical theory to explain what happened, but essentially it boils down to every dog has his day. Now that I had mine, I could go back my normal dysfunctional relationship with gravity.

But the next week, something really funny happened. I didn't suck nearly as bad as I used to. And the week after, I exhibited flashes of my eye-popping Apocalyptic brilliance. What was going on?

Earlier, I had consulted an expert, a friend who hustles pool. He told me that my body has literally learned all the moves, and that it is my tendency to over-think that sabotages my performance. Apparently, this is a universal human failing.

Yeh, right, I thought. How could my body have possibly learned water volleyball moves? It's not like I actually practiced.

I brought the matter up with Paul, who is responsible for introducing me to water volleyball. I was seated in the living room with my laptop, peeling cats off me. Deftly, with my right hand, I snatched Bullwinkle off my left shoulder and flicked her to a soft landing on the carpet. A micro-second later, without looking, I had Rocky in my left hand, ready for launching.

Suddenly, a light bulb went off. A revelation, one of those Newton under the apple tree moments. I looked at Rocky, squirming in my hand with one of those "what is YOUR problem" looks.

I got it! I shouted excitedly. It's the cats!

All day, all night. At work, while relaxing, in my sleep, I'm forever peeling cats off of me. I explained how all my life I had been hopelessly uncoordinated. Now, thanks to the cats, that was no longer the case.

My pool hustler friend was right. My body had learned the moves.

Not only that, practicing on the cats was way better than using a volley ball. You see, cats have legs. They keep returning to you. You don't have to retrieve them. Volley balls, on the other hand, just keep rolling away.

It was the only explanation, I told Paul. All my life, my limbs have been free-lancing on me. Now, because of the cats, my arms were virtual extensions of my body rather than independent organisms. I could actually will them to do what I wanted them to do. In my sleep, literally.

To Paul's credit, he humored me. But I could see he wasn't convinced.

A day or two later, when I got back in the pool, I served nine straight points before firing the ball into the net. Then, next time serving, another nine straight. It had to be the cats. Yes, everyone in the pool agreed, it had to be the cats.

Right now, Bullwinkle is on the ledge of my window. In a second, she is about to put two paws on the top of my computer screen, then she will shift her weight in a way that will require my intervention.

Hmm, I'm thinking. Instead of just grabbing her and flicking her away, what if I swatted her and put a topspin on her? That would really improve my performance.

Aw, Bullwinkle, I didn't mean that. Here, come sit on my lap.

Oh, oh. Accusing cat eyes. "I am NOT your volleyball!" she let me know, before ducking through the cat door.

Could this be the end?

Name My New Cat - Update

Thank you, all, very much for all your great suggestions. As you know from a recent blog piece, a stray cat adopted me. Okay, here's where I stand. This little furball very much has a queenly aspect, at least till she hears the crackle of the cat food bag crinkling in my hand. The catch is the queen names have been done to death: Cleopatra, Nefertiti, and so on.

Little meowgirl also has the way of the enchantress, so I'm also thinking along the lines of Sappho (ancient Greek erotic poetess) and Circe (who beguiled Odysseus and crew).

Yesterday, a friend took a good long hard look at the photo on my iPhone and came up with Sheba. Another done to death queen name, I'm thinking. Then, suddenly, Bathsheba popped into my head. Bathsheba, as you may recall, is the Bible babe (pictured here) who made the mighty King David all weak in the knees (but strong in the loins), which kicked off a sequence of events that involved the usual lust and bliss followed by an unwanted pregnancy, which resulted in David dispatching husband Uriah the Hittite to certain death in battle, thereby incurring the wrath of God, who visited ultimate calamity upon the House of David.

(Something we can all identify with, obviously.)

The next thought that popped into my head was that a good shortened name for Bathsheba would be Batty.

As things stand right now: I'm leaning toward Bathsheba and Batty, but nothing is final yet. I've narrowed my choices to queen names (the more obscure the better) and enchantress names. So - feedback on Bathsheba and Batty, please, and ideas on queen and enchantress names. Please use the comments below ...

Where's Bullwinkle?

This is a story about my cat, Bullwinkle, but the story begins days earlier, in a different time zone:

Last week, on a family visit to CT, my brother and I walked ten miles along the Farmington River. I did fine for the first nine miles, but by the time we got back to the car my leg was cramping up. I woke up the next morning in severe pain, initially unable to maneuver my way out of bed.

I spent the rest of the day alternatively lying on a heating pad, stretching, and trying to walk out the cramp.

I felt somewhat better the next day, but I was scheduled to fly back to CA in the afternoon. Six hours jammed into a plane seat, I knew, was the worst thing I could do for my leg, and my prophecy proved correct. By the time I touched down late Wednesday evening in San Diego, my leg was both vibrating like a tuning fork and aching like a bad tooth.

Here's where Bullwinkle comes into the picture. I arrived home with no cat to greet me. According to my housemate Paul, she had gone AWOL two days earlier. We are 3,500 feet up in the mountains, and not all the animals are friendly.

Then again, I figured, Bullwinkle was bound to materialize once she sniffed my presence. For some reason, Bullwinkle thinks I'm her mother. Paul, on the other hand, is just a human interloper.

Next day, no Bullwinkle. Now I knew something was wrong. Meanwhile, I was happy to donate my leg to science, provided they were willing to take delivery of it immediately.

Friday morning, still no Bullwinkle. Then - from somewhere in the distance - meow-meow-meow. Bullwinkle? The neighbors to one side have a cat who likes to wander in and help himself to the food here. The neighbors to the other side recently acquired two indoor cats.

I decided to go outside to investigate, but first I needed to don a pair of sweat pants. I stood on my foot (the one attached to my good leg) as I aimed the other toward the appropriate opening as best I could. A blinding pain shot in both directions from the sole of my foot to my buttocks.

I breathed through the pain as best as I could, only to find my leg had gone astray and that I was en route to putting my pants on backwards. Eventually, I got myself organized and limped out the door, first up a flight of concrete steps outside, then down.

Meow-meow. Muffled meows. Where were they coming from? Inside the neighbor's house? The roof? the back yard? The garage-basement? No Bullwinkle. Had to be the one of the neighborhood cats.

Indoors, I went, defeated. But the muffled meows continued to haunt me. Then I thought I heard a real one, right outside the door this time. Bullwinkle? "Hey, Little Guy," I called, half-expecting the fur ball to appear through the cat door.

Nothing doing. Outside again I went. Faint but persistent meow-meows. But where were they coming from? Each time I felt I was approaching the source, the meows would disappear, only to start up again from a different and distant spot.

Then, the meows stayed put. They were coming from the ceiling area inside the garage-basement. Once again, I made my way inside. The meows were now coming in loud and clear. From a recess between the wall and ceiling poked a forlorn and furry face.

Meow-meow-meow!

Bullwinkle!

Before I knew it, I was up a ladder, with the poor guy in my arms.

It's now Sunday morning. The little critter has barely left my side. My leg still hurts like hell, but you know what? - for those ten or twenty seconds I was on the ladder I didn't feel a thing.

My Cats - The Reason I No Longer Suck at Water Volleyball

There is very good science to support the proposition that pets promote mental health. But did you know they can also lift your water volleyball game to new levels?

I acquired Rocky and Bullwinkle about four months ago, when they were kittens five weeks old. Instantly, I was wearing them like an extra article of clothing. If I'm at my computer they're at my computer, if I'm in bed they're in bed, if I'm in the bathroom, well never mind ...

Literally, I'm forever peeling these little fur balls off my lap, my chest, my legs, my shoulders, my head. Then there's the constant challenge of heading them off at the pass. Off the keyboard, off the kitchen counter, off the prime real estate on the mattress.

Now it's time to discuss water volleyball. I started playing the game on most Saturdays about two years ago. At first I couldn't hit anything, but soon I improved to a level where I really sucked. Then I plateaued. For two years, I amazed my fellow enthusiasts with my singular ability to make gravity unpredictable.

You see, all my life, me and gravity never got along.

Then, about a month ago, something funny happened. Actually, something statistically improbable, which is a polite term for impossible. In the pool, I became the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Literally, the ball didn't have a chance against me. I tracked it like radar. I swatted it in mid-flight like King Kong smacking bi-wing airplanes. I dispatched it on inerrant trajectories that left everyone in the pool slack-jawed in amazement.

There is a very elegant mathematical theory to explain what happened, but essentially it boils down to every dog has his day. Now that I had mine, I could go back my normal dysfunctional relationship with gravity.

But the next week, something really funny happened. I didn't suck nearly as bad as I used to. And the week after, I exhibited flashes of my eye-popping Apocalyptic brilliance. What was going on?

Earlier, I had consulted an expert, a friend who hustles pool. He told me that my body has literally learned all the moves, and that it is my tendency to over-think that sabotages my performance. Apparently, this is a universal human failing.

Yeh, right, I thought. How could my body have possibly learned water volleyball moves? It's not like I actually practiced.

I brought the matter up with Paul, who is responsible for introducing me to water volleyball. I was seated in the living room with my laptop, peeling cats off me. Deftly, with my right hand, I snatched Bullwinkle off my left shoulder and flicked her to a soft landing on the carpet. A micro-second later, without looking, I had Rocky in my left hand, ready for launching.

Suddenly, a light bulb went off. A revelation, one of those Newton under the apple tree moments. I looked at Rocky, squirming in my hand with one of those "what is YOUR problem" looks.

I got it! I shouted excitedly. It's the cats!

All day, all night. At work, while relaxing, in my sleep, I'm forever peeling cats off of me. I explained how all my life I had been hopelessly uncoordinated. Now, thanks to the cats, that was no longer the case.

My pool hustler friend was right. My body had learned the moves.

Not only that, practicing on the cats was way better than using a volley ball. You see, cats have legs. They keep returning to you. You don't have to retrieve them. Volley balls, on the other hand, just keep rolling away.

It was the only explanation, I told Paul. All my life, my limbs have been free-lancing on me. Now, because of the cats, my arms were virtual extensions of my body rather than independent organisms. I could actually will them to do what I wanted them to do. In my sleep, literally.

To Paul's credit, he humored me. But I could see he wasn't convinced.

A day or two later, when I got back in the pool, I served nine straight points before firing the ball into the net. Then, next time serving, another nine straight. It had to be the cats. Yes, everyone in the pool agreed, it had to be the cats.

Right now, Bullwinkle is on the ledge of my window. In a second, she is about to put two paws on the top of my computer screen, then she will shift her weight in a way that will require my intervention.

Hmm, I'm thinking. Instead of just grabbing her and flicking her away, what if I swatted her and put a topspin on her? That would really improve my performance.

Aw, Bullwinkle, I didn't mean that. Here, come sit on my lap.

Oh, oh. Accusing cat eyes. "I am NOT your volleyball!" she let me know, before ducking through the cat door.

Could this be the end?