In the Bright Orange Light
By Clay Hipp
A dear companion remembered
In case you missed it, yesterday, July 21, was Orlando Gatito Day. It was declared locally and, so far, has not been recognized nationally—in memory of “the Little Orange Man.”
Perhaps that title is not quite catchy enough. No worry; I am working on building some momentum. At least he has his own society….
As it is, he lives in memory. I hope you think of him when you read the inspired words in this Journal.
Our Orlando was not a “lap cat,” but rather one who truly enjoyed proximity. Most of the time, wherever we were was where he wanted to be—on the couch beside me as I was reading (if he wanted scratching, he let me know), on the welcoming back porch when we ate or simply sat, or in the long grass of the yard, quite often beneath a muscadine vine for shade.
For more about him, please read his full story.
He was working on his “autobiography,” and I have been attempting to “translate” it over the last two years. Whereas we called him “the Little Orange Man,” to the best I can tell, we were the “long-leggeds.” He probably thought we were merely a strange variety of cat with whom he had somehow fallen in. There seems to be no feline vocabulary for what we are.
Here is the opening paragraph from the first draft:
That was not my name when I was very little. I do not think I had a name. I remember being in a place with my mother. It seemed dusty and dirty, and I think now it may have been a small building with no people.
There were six of us “kittens.” When we were able, we went through a crack into a space outside with scruffy grass and a few flowers. Beings of some kind lived in a larger building and came and went, but they did not seem to notice us or care that we were sometimes outside.
We would go out to “do our business,” as people sometimes say, and then go back inside to lie with Mother and suck milk from her tummy. The rest of the time, we explored the inside, but there was not much to see, so we rolled around and played with one another.
Sometimes we would see another animal, almost the size of us little ones, but it moved quickly, and we could not catch it to play with.
In any case, his life inspired us—and particularly inspired my “creative” writing.
I recently discovered two attempts at poetry. You are free to call them anything you please. I only hope his continued consciousness has received them in the same spirit in which they were given to me.
I offer these two pieces in his honor.
For Orlando
A wandering pilgrim of the world, not “olde,”
Found a great treasure in a sea of asphalt.
It was tarnished and dusty but, with care, emerged as
Purest gold.
Accident preceded discovery, saved a life, and revealed…
Grace.
Three lives were melded and changed for the good
In a small little “hood.”
Who could have seen such a future shared?
And if they had, would they have believed
In the miracle paired?
Over time, they shared bread and cheese and toasted life
With a grateful glass,
And basked in the bright orange light.
The little one was a man of few words but many virtues.
The treasure compounded and laid up wealth,
And grew in complexity and promoted best health.
ECH
A Paraphrase
After James Taylor
There was a young Cat-boy who lived in the Hood.
Joanie and Bumbi were his loyal companions….
So, goodnight, you moonlit crazies,
And you puppies who’ve returned to your homes….
He works very little and sleeps in the shadows,
And waits for his supper and his pleasures to change.
And as the moon rises, he sits on the front steps,
Thinking about ice cream and rooms full of cheer.
Reclosing his eyes as he slips into dreams,
He sings out a song that is soft, but it’s clear—
As if maybe someone could hear.
ECH
So, we held no large celebration. We are not quite ready yet—perhaps in a few more years. I hope we will have a kitten or two by then.
As it is, he lives in memory.
Thank you for honoring this attempt….
