The Movie Moment

Sometimes, life is like a movie, a movie with a scene that you know can’t happen in real life.

I was downstairs sweeping up cat-litter in the library - that’s not the movie scene - when I heard a rush from up the stairs, a rush followed by thuds and bangs. These are characteristic sounds of cats chasing one another, not a rare occurrence in the Cosy Cabin. Then followed a hollow ringing sound, as of a heavy, or perhaps merely speedy, object striking something thin and fragile, something of glass or ceramic. On top of this was a whirring noise, inexplicable, yet familiar.

I hastened up the stairs, thinking a water-bowl had been broken, and surprised some guilty-looking cats. As they hurried from the scene, I observed a blurry tortoiseshell image leap from a kitchen counter. And still the mysterious whirring continued, though deeply, as if it were an object in deceleration.

On the counter, where it was to be filled with cat-food for an imminent meal, was one of the felines’ shallow bowls. It was spinning in place, like a top, rapidly, but less rapidly with every second. Around and around it whirled, making the enigmatic noise I had heard, until, slowly, it revolved gently and easily to a halt, never having moved from its spot, as though fixed in place on its axis.

It was as if a superhero had just flown through the room, the only evidence of his passing a spinning plate, or a violent yet swift crime had been committed, and all was still, except for a whirling dish, animated among its stationary fellows.

I looked at the cats. They were stock still, awaiting my reaction. I told them I would nominate them for an Oscar for special effects. They wanted to know when dinner would be served.