GRACIE SCHROEDINGER

     We adopted Gracie, a grey female cat now about 8 years old in October of 2019. I had longed for a cat for many years but kept putting it off for one excuse or another.  Pinky saw a picture in the window of the Mooreland Veterinary clinic on our way to buy a bottle of Oregon distilled malt whiskey. Single-malt Scots whiskey was beyond my means and Oregons growing craft distillery manufacture, like craft brewing and craft winemaking before it, reminded those of us who have forgotten Adam Smith's virtuous cycle, an idea nearly as old as our Declaration of Independence and equally as vital, how refreshing it is to express your creativity locally. The quality has been the equal of the large distillers we had commonly relied on, and the profits stayed in the state. 

     Pinky was living with me on my boat, and her chronic conditions and mobility issues weren't as debilitating then. That would soon change. We stepped into the clinic and were told the kitty pictured, had been adopted. "We have another kitty that has some conditions" they said. We were interested. "We have a kitty that may have been mistreated. She has feline AIDS and needs to be kept away from other cats. She seems to be asymptomatic."

     "We live on a boat in Waverly Marina. There are no cats in the marina." We were taken into a room and Gracie was brought in and placed on a towel on the examination table. She timorously allowed us to pet her, in the way Republican Senators call a member from the other side, "my friend". What she did like, was when I scratched between her ears. She pushed back against my fingers and would admit a grumpy chortle when I stopped, "weaow"! We could not leave without her. She recieved her shots, they gave us a flee treatment and a package of kibble for sensitive stomachs. 

     Her first few weeks on the boat were days of trying to find her in the small spaces available to her, but inconvenient for us. Hence her surname, Schroedinger. Erin Schroedinger a quantum physics scientist, posited that an atom could be described as like a cat in a box. You would not truly know whether the cat is alive or dead with the box closed. He may have been a brilliant atomic scientist but I hope he didn't own a cat. A cat in a box with breathing holes would be visible to all but the blind. Their presence could also be confirmed by their complaint about the confining place they found themselves. With no breathing holes, that cat would raise holy hell until the oxygen runs out, at which point you can be sure its dead, and you might be placed on an animal cruelty watch list or become a candidate for employment in some republicans office. At night she would jump on our bunk and sleep between us. In the wee hours of the morning she would run around the boat chasing, I know not what. She would then resume her place between us until around 6 AM, at which time she would perch on my stomach or my hip and serenade us with the feed-me-chorus.

     For a while after Pinky found an assisted-living home, she would search through the boat looking for Pinky. But at night she was happy that she had more room to spread out. Now she has her cat bed near my head so I don't have to move her to get up to pee. During the summer months we left the forward hatch open and often the aft-deck door. At such times Gracie would spring off of my hip through the hatch to do her nocturnal wandering. When she was satisfied that all was well outside, she would jump down on me and settle into her bed at the head of mine. Later when the weather turned cold, I had to button a cover over the closed hatch to prevent her from bumping her head on the glass. During the winter months she makes her way to the bow portholes and cabin windows to assure herself that all is well outside. The working of the boat still bothers her, especially at night when the dock-lines grip the cleats as the tide changes, or when the methane bubbles rise up amid the algae on the underside towards the surface. These sounds still concern her. But by now she is master of the boat and I am her first mate. She hates going into her carrier, hides when people approach the boat, and will now curl up on my lap so I can pet her. If I ignore her too much, which is to say at all, she meows and turns on her back for me to rub her tummy. She has these little vocalizations, chortles, she makes when she is pleased with me. She sometimes purrs, but far less than I would have expected. But I have become fluent in cat. What's more, I speak to her like I would a human. "Good morning Gracie", "good night, Gracie". Am I ignoring you Gracie?

"I'm leaving for a while, Gracie." She gives me that disinterested look that says, "when I want you, I'll let you know". 

     Things will change for her, and me. I must find a new moorage until the damage has been repaired in the marina. We will be gypsies for the time being. While my boat is hauled out, she will have to get used to frequent trips in her carrier. She will have to be exposed to new people and maybe a dog. Pinky and I may even take her to the coast for a night. Once my boat is repaired, I intend to spend some days developing competance in boat handling. A much more difficult task than landsmen may imagine. Gracie will have to get used to the hum of the engine. New adventures are before us.