Big Stone Gap | Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids

I don’t read the reviews of my book, but Jack does. He says many have liked the book with 4 or 5 stars, and those who haven’t tend to say it’s either because I don’t like Amazon and box stores, or because I don’t like Owen Meany.

Not like Owen Meany!? I LOVE Owen Meany!! I’ve never had a cat like him.

Owen, for those who don’t know the story, was part of two families fostered together at the bookstore. We decided to keep him after the others were adopted—and his biological brother died in my arms, despite our best efforts to help him overcome a virus.

We are still trying to decide if Owen is a criminal mastermind or a complete imbecile. He’ll curl into my arms on his back in adorable kitten pose, purring away with that curious cat smile on his face, a picture of innocence—until he reaches up with lightning speed and bites my nose. It’s his little way of saying, “I love you, Mommy.”

His claws are like razor blades; they can rip denim. Ask our customers. And he’s allergic to milk, which he loves, so you can just imagine how much fun it is when I get out the cream pitcher to add some to my coffee. He’s a pushy little guy.

Owen’s favorite game is to push glasses—particularly antique long-stemmed wine glasses—off counters and tables. He loves the crash, and the pretty patterns of light reflecting off the broken bits. One day I raced across the room to save one, only to see him jump into the midst of the shards, pick up a large, curved piece in his mouth, and shake it like a mouse.

I’m voting imbecile.

Owen wrestles with Bert, our scruffy terrier who outweighs his feline brother by double; Owen grabs Bert’s leg and pulls him to the ground, judo flipping at the last second so he winds up sitting atop Bert, chewing on his ears as Bert, looking embarrassed, tries to find a way to extricate himself while retaining canine dignity.

And at night Owen comes to our bed, checks to see that we’re tucked in, and sits on Jack’s face in a loving way. Since Owen didn’t learn everything about cat hygiene that he needed to from his overworked foster mama, this can get… ugly. But, as Jack says, love comes in many forms.

Not love Owen Meany. REALLY!!! But, yes, I did hate the book.

Jack guest blogs today on the perils of Scotsmen decorating under the direction of their American wives.

I come from a country that doesn’t decorate itself for Christmas to quite the extent that Big Stone Gap (and the rest of America) goes in for. External decorations are virtually non-existent in Scotland, and internals don’t get put up until the week beforehand.

Thus I have always harumphed in a Scrooge-like way when instructed by Wendy to haul “the Christmas stuff” down from the attic. Our compromise is to wait until Dec. 1—our neighbors have their bright flashing festoons in place Thanskgiving Night—before installing Rudolphus in the front yard.

Rudolphus we purchased a few years ago, in a flush of enthusiasm on Wendy’s part not entirely shared by me, but I like it when she’s happy, so home he came–a white deer with head bowed “as if reading a book” said Wendy in the shop, clapping her hands with glee.

{sigh}

Our compromise then was to not have him lit up – more of a wire sculpture alongside our growing collection of other yard art, such as the giant ampersand and the post-modern ironic toilet bowl of petunias. I made Rudolphus a pair of spectacles and a red nose, and posed him each year reading an appropriate (and annually different) book.

This year I finally succumbed, though, and strung a power cord though the garage, out the window and across to ye olde Rudy. Switching on the power I discovered that, while his torso shown brilliantly, his neck and head refused to emit even a glimmer of light—headless, as if he’d pissed off a Tudor King.

A quick examination revealed a severed wire, like no other I’d ever seen. Some kind of impregnated central core instead of the expected copper refused all my attempts to reconnect it.

So there Rudolphus sits in half-hearted celebratory condition, determined (it would seem) to continue the Welch-Beck decorating compromise: his heart in the US and his head in Scotland.

And yes, he is reading Wendy’s book.

Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids

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Category Archives: Big Stone Gap

For Love of Owen Meany

Off with His Head!