The cats have been signaling their readiness to begin blogging, but I've held fast against the idea because they're still stuck in simple HTML. I tried explaining XML and CSS and was ignored with a tail-bat. They're so old school. But, they're been working hard in making the news here in this oddly shaped, pine-bordered place that contains the effects of my our lives. Last night Ursula decided that she wasn't getting enough media attention, so when there's no news, you make it.

Out in front of the building, there's a small island of grass surrounded by the gravel driveway... quite a serene little patch. No flowers save dandelion and clover, nothing special defines it other than the island's recent inhabitants; a warren of rabbits. There's a little hole, you'd barely notice it, lined with dried grass and very soft hair leading to their den. Ursula reckoned in a way that might possibly be anthropomorphic and projected, that the very idea of a rabbit-hole in front of the house would simply be too inviting of metaphor. So, last night as my best friend Joshua and I conversationally careened through topics such as crime and punishment, systems archetypes, the 'woffingness' of hair and how we've aged, we heard a squeaking and upon opening the door I was shocked to find Ursula gloating over a stunned baby rabbit. After returning the little one to the edge of some dense brush, I brought Ursula in and she quickly zipped out th back door... I thought that this one would-be tribute would be a fluke and that would be the end of that.

I know, I know, it's her instinct, but a bird could land on her head and the girl could care less. She's about as interested in catching things as she is in the Sports section (we share that peculiarity, in general). So it was a total surprise to find her, of all cats, having the inclination to pull from the warren at least two baby rabbits, commending their spirits in so many brutal ways to the March Hare in the Sky.

Were these publicity stunts? Is this ultimate feline media savvy? Or were these indeed sacrificial tributes... she didn't make a meal of it, she just killed for the sake of it, whatever her motivation. As a human who is quite fond of rabbits, her tributes didn't win my praise. But, after all, the animal hasn't been bred out of her, nor from we bipeds either. We can roll over endless reasons to kill, and as she winks her green eyes and purrs, fresh from the hunt, hers evade capture. We just don't know why. She's not telling.

Trite observations temporarily aside, her display comes at a time when the cycles of life are bearing quite heavily upon my thoughts. The motivation to make more life, from the ethers, and it's ultimate resolution, dissolving back into the ethers. We begin with an inhale and end in an exhale; from the ethers and back to the ethers we go... a sudden mote of dust dancing on a sun beam. Along the way, we breeze through a few rituals, float by necessary undertakings, and these temporary casings that hold our spirits age more or less according to plan. The plan is subordinate to fate, just like for the two little rabbits Ursula found. All this great flowing and no one, despite millenia of wrangling and rustling, has the slightest idea why. I shudder to think that a reason is ever found... I rather enjoy, or savor, the mystery and unknowing of it all. I don't want to get a clue. I want to live the puzzle rather than solve it.

Back to the cats. They're both inside tonight; despite their animal natures, there's a moratorium on further adventures in depopulating the wildlife. There will be successive generations of rabbits, if not on the driveway 'island' than nearby. Just as there lightening bugs that thrill me nightly from this window will be gone next summer, but will be replaced by the fruits of their light-play tonight.

The cycle may appear at times vicious, but in it's spinning, it's really about being vivacious. This is our carnal, fleshy world; in all it's beauty a gnashing of teeth turns and returns our matter. Ursula's exploits help turn the cycle, even if the evidence turns my stomach. As humans, our gnashing is masked so as to appear polite and civilized. Indeed. With her, it's just nature, unrestrained as it is surprising, rising through her docile coquettishness with the ancient memory of the wilderness.

Or maybe she really is just trying to get my attention. She just might want to see her name in lights... or webmaster a blog all her own. OK babe, here's more publicity for the presumed Queen of the house: