Guest Blogger Daisy


Nine Lives artist Lisa Anne Auerbach shares her reflections on Los Angeles, art-making and commuting by bicycle in this weekly blog.


Guest Blogger Daisy
Monday, May 18

Today’s guest blogger, Daisy, was born in the garden last June. She enjoys stealing things, sitting on the dining room table, and peeing in a clean litter box. Her favorite toys include hair bands and tampons. Although she hasn’t been writing for long, she has a lot to say. Her usual mode of communication is through chirps, meows, and, if you hold her, she’ll make a protesting groan that comes from deep within.


From the paws of Daisy-kins, the little blue-eyed devilgirl-child.

Did you feel that earthquake last night? I was sleeping on the dining room table, which I’m not supposed to do, but I know I can get away with it. Usually, one of those people come over and say ooh, that I’m SO bad for being on the table and then they pick me up and stroke my fur and coo all over me. Mixed messages, totally. Sometimes I even get a treat in addition to all the fussing. So why wouldn’t I sit on the table? It’s ground zero for affection.

Anyhow, I was curled up on a placemat when I felt the shaking. First I thought it was my sister Clydey, playing a trick on me, but then I realized she was over in the living room being a kiss-ass kitten by sleeping on the rocking chair. Does she think she’s in a Norman Rockwell painting or what? The perfect little kitty-girl, the angel to my devil. She’s a purring sweet little shy cat. A scaredy cat, too. She hides behind the stove whenever a heterosexual male stranger walks into the house. Pussy. She’s cool with gay dudes. I’m not sure what’s up with that. We had a butch lesbian come in here once and she didn’t know what to do. She headed for the stove when the lady came in the house, but then she got confused. We’re still young, you know. Not even a year old. We haven’t figured out the subtleties of things yet. We’ve got huge whole long lives ahead of us, and since we were rescued from the street, our life-span has grown exponentially. The people keep telling us this, like a broken record, that ferals have an average of 2.5 years on this mortal coil, while housecats can live for decades. But do we want this life, an existence without chasing birds and climbing trees? Is it worth the trade? My sister and I have had this conversation a lot. She’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have lasted six months on the streets, so she’s content with a houselife. I’ve got more balls than she does, but even I’m apprehensive about the wandering packs of dogs.

We can see our mother outside. She comes here to eat breakfast and dinner, and often just hangs around in the garden sleeping or chasing butterflies. I try to say hello sometimes, but we don’t speak the same language anymore. It’s tough to be a first generation housecat sometimes. I ache for the garden, but I’m happy to have a warm bed, plenty of food, and these freaky fussy people picking me up and torturing me with caresses all day and night.

So anyhow, back to the earthquake. When I looked up to see if Clydey was playing a trick on me by shaking the table, I saw her cowering under the rocking chair in the living room. So what happened? One of the people was outside dealing with the garbage cans. When she came in, the other person started yelling about the house shaking. There was an argument, the usual, one saying there was an earthquake, the other saying that sounded like an exaggeration, that is was probably just a truck rumbling by or something. Then the one who’d been moving garbage cans put me on her lap and got on the internet and got the data. The epi-center wasn’t too far from here and it was a 4.7. I don’t know what all of that means exactly but it got me and Clydey all shook up! It’s scary living here in the earthquake zone. Sometimes I think maybe I should move to New York, but what would I do there?



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