A Hunting Man

Was it wrong for Hemingway to enjoy hunting?

As a cat, my immediate response is simply one word, PLEASE! Hunting is only natural, a function of being an animal, part of the biological blueprint.

But I recognize that humans have complicated this one. The further they move from seeing themselves as critters, the more angst they feel. Let me help here.

Firstly, Hem came by this sport honestly. He grew up in the woods and lakes of Michigan, where practically every male (and plenty of females) made hunting a way of life. He learned with his father; they hunted together; they ate what was killed. Although times have changed, let's give him that: he was a child of his era, 1899-1961.

Later, I admit, he did take the sport further to include hunting on safari, which many people consider an entirely different matter. This I can see. Sport is the point -- and we cringe when we think about the number of species that have become endangered through sport hunting. I understand why this is a delicate topic because I myself am an animal . . . and some people even consider killing mere housecats a sport!

But stop right there. Hemingway did not kill randomly on these safaris, nor did he do so without risking his own life. There is that. I'm glad this is no longer a popular sport, and I would venture to say that Hem would not continue the habit if he were alive today. But let's also remember that he was not alive when many of today's nature-related problems were known or discussed. I do not think we should judge him by our politically correct standards, do you?

So if you go to the Hemingway House in Key West and see the mounted heads and photos, try not to be too judgmental. Just look the other way and remember that our views of hunting are, like so many others, cultural.

"About morals, I know only htat what is moral is what you fell good after and what is immoral you feel bad after." Ernest Hemingway

A Ladies' Man?

Why are Hem and I so successful with the ladies? Are you kidding? What's not to love?!

We are handsome -- perfectly fur-covered, soft to the touch, pliant, and most importantly affectionate. So many men waste their time donning a cool look and attitude. Sure, that attracts some women, for awhile, but only until the women realize that's all there is, no more. Women need more than a tall, skinny, good-looking form. They want LIFE! They want real action, real humor, genuine feeling, something they understand -- not more of the silence and distance of the "cool" guy or the good-girl upbringing.

Take F. Scott, for example. Beautiful guy, but aloof, hard to know, a mystery that didn't last. Cool guys like James Dean do look nice at a party or on screen, but in real life they just wear women out.

And what else do Hem and I do? We listen. Sure, I roar and I purr, but I spend more time just looking at my lady and listening to what she has to say. That's a rare gift in these noisy times: to have someone give full attention and listen not just to the words but to the sentiment. There's nothing sexier to a woman than a sympathetic ear, let me tell you.

I've always practiced that, but ever since Tess brought me home from the SPCA, I have been here for her. I don't wait for her to need me either. I jump right up and go to her first. I sit and look into her eyes when she talks. And I can feel her gratitude, for the true man that I am, every single time.

And that's why Hem and I are never without a welcoming home, a warm bed, a woman's arms.

As Hem once said, "I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen."

Why Hem?

How did I come to love an author, especially the controversial Hemingway? Well, my lady is a teacher of American lit and she's always talking about him, reading about him, reading his work, defending him, giving his name for restaurant reservations. I just listened at first, and I gradually realized our kindred spirits -- and here I am, joining in the cause.

Why do some people despise Hem, anyway? I've been observing, and I've reached a few conclusions:

1) Most males either love or hate Hem -- love him if they also like action, hate him if they're fearful or resentful of those with true gusto.

2) Most males AND females can't see beyond the macho facade and all that body fur. They think he's all brawn and bravado, lacking a heart. How untrue! I've already explained that he's a lover, not a fighter (see my first blog), and some of his best male characters (like Nick) are sweet and vulnerable. What does that tell you?

3) Artists are often misunderstood. People love to mock his writing style, but at least we can understand what he's writing! Please -- that's so much better than, say, Faulkner's prose. Hem operated on restraint, using the iceberg principle to draw his readers' into the puzzle with him, making them work to fill in the picture. A whole century of writers have benefitted from his example. Using only a few words is not a bad thing and surely didn't begin with Hem. Just look at Lao Tzu, Jesus, and Socrates.

I rest my case.

True Identity

It's all about identity -- human life, that is. What's your name? What's your title? Where'd you go to school? Who's your papa? Where do you live? What's your sign? Identity is all of that but really it's so much more. There's a deeper part, who we know we are regardless of those details, the inner man, the true I.D.

In my case, that's Ernest Hemingway, the man, the literary star, the hunter, the lover, mas macho. He's an icon to some, a joke to others, but to me he's ME: I am the last living Hemingway, and proud to be.

So what if I happen to be in the body of a cat! In case you've forgotten, Hemingway liked cats, he adored cats -- just consider those six-toed wonders he brought to his Key West abode and let rule the place, even today. That's proof! He even brought home an Italian latrine (don't laugh!), cleaned it up, and made it a cat-only fountain. They have their very own, constant source of fresh, clear agua! No sharing with nasty dogs or drinking after humans. Respect!

Just because I look like a gray and white mega-cat on the outside doesn't mean that much. Many do see me for the sizable, lovable cat that I appear, but they don't often recognize that they are stroking true genius and manliness. I know it's hard to see beneath my gorgeous surface to man inside, so I just rub on their ankles, roar my monstrous purr, and circle back to my lady with loyalty. She rescued me from the D.C. pound and gave me a new home. She's my Hadley, my one and only true love.

Actually, she named me for another classic fat cat, Aristotle Onassis, nicknamed Telis. So close to accurate in spirit. Old Aristotle knew wheat it meant to travel the world, eat the best foods, enjoy a good hunt, lie back in the sun, enjoy the ride, and along the way find a beautiful woman like Jackie O. So I don't mind this misnomer.

But my identity IS larger, and I'm going to show you what I mean. Hem and I have never been much for playing small or unimportant. We know who WE are, and women love us! Just keep reading and I'll tell you more . . . .