I haven’t paid my Tortoise Shell Chunri for her tuitions about how to tackle the carcass of everything with the small segments of everything!

I haven’t paid my Tortoise Shell Chunri for her tuitions about how to tackle the carcass of everything with the small segments of everything

Chunri is my small tortoise shell cat I got, or rather, she got me, years ago when I went looking for a richly embroidered tortoise shell with all those glistening colors – black, orange, red, white, yellow and even grey.

But on the day I visited the shelter I saw one thickly and exotically painted one, but just before reaching her, Chunri came in the say, put her paw on my hand and though she was a meek, hardly Tortoise cat, she hooked me and made me take her home!

Ever since then, she has taught me this weird but very wise trick about dealing with dread,  despair or darkness or plain boredom and bruises by digging into the carcass of everything and pulling out left overs. She does this with her habit of sitting inside the smallest box, the tiniest book shelf, the totally unsettling, uncomfortable unseasonable cupboard she can get into, and then displaying absolute peace inside it. 

Chunri, so named, because of her orange, black and white colors, is no angel. She has this habit of wanting her food served to her away from the other four cats, clearly feeling she is above them, and mostly on ledges and tall spaces where it is difficult to arrange her lunch or dinner. But she does not care.

However when it comes to choosing her naps and her meditation places, she always reminds me that in the crevices of woe, it is best to turn as small as possible, and rely on the immediately available dinners that doom seems to serve us. So on a day when some minor hassle, some human pettiness had gagged my throat, I remembered the three cream cheese packets that had been bugging me for the past month, when dealing with a sick patient had made me shop recklessly. 

Now they sat in the fridge making me guilty. So Chunri squeezed inside a small empty box from Amazon.com reminded me to make garlic bread. I made so much of it, it was enough to feed everyone. There is something so cheering about garlic bread made at home, especially when we are living in an area where such treats are not easily available, that such a small Chunri ordained kitchen job made me feel better. 

On another day as Chunri went around the house  deeply inside a plastic bag with absolutely no concern for the environment, and showed me how happy a small Tortoise Shell cat could be for two whole hours, flirting with just a plastic bag, I had to make myself copy her by just reading the book I had acquired with considerable trouble from the British Library. It was Paranormality Why we believe the impossible  by Professor Richard Wiseman. 

The horrendous noise outside our home for ten awful days, as the Ganesha festival screeched its way to high heaven with pounding music, dancing, shouting and screaming, frightening children, animals and the elderly, was ready to kill us all. But Chunri hid inside her plastic bag and I hid inside Paranormality and came out of  it so much wiser about psychics, fortune tellers and their tribe, that it all felt so much better! Police had not come when we had complained about the noise, the thugs drowning out everything with their pitiless noise, were killing. But Chunri saved me…

There are many more such examples of her tuition of surviving anything with left overs around us, and I still haven’t paid up my Tortoise Shell with the cash she deserves. Like the cheap skate I am, I fob her off with catnip and she forgives me, like all cats do….

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