By Michelle Mach
There are two means of refuge from the misery of life — music and cats.
~Albert Schweitzer
In high school, I decided to learn to play the piano. It was a decision based primarily on dreams of playing music on stage, rather than an affinity for a particular type of music. Plus, I already knew how to read music, so I figured the piano would be a snap. After a few lessons with a local teacher, my dream of instant musical fame hit a snag — I loved to play, but I hated to practice. To non-musicians, playing and practicing might seem interchangeable, but the lack of an audience made it difficult for me to play for more than a few minutes. Bored and lonely, I would drift away from the piano after a few bars of music. My lifelong love affair with the piano might have ended after a few short weeks if not for the instruction of an unlikely teacher — the family cat.
There are two means of refuge from the misery of life — music and cats.
~Albert Schweitzer
In high school, I decided to learn to play the piano. It was a decision based primarily on dreams of playing music on stage, rather than an affinity for a particular type of music. Plus, I already knew how to read music, so I figured the piano would be a snap. After a few lessons with a local teacher, my dream of instant musical fame hit a snag — I loved to play, but I hated to practice. To non-musicians, playing and practicing might seem interchangeable, but the lack of an audience made it difficult for me to play for more than a few minutes. Bored and lonely, I would drift away from the piano after a few bars of music. My lifelong love affair with the piano might have ended after a few short weeks if not for the instruction of an unlikely teacher — the family cat.
Jonathan was a highly intelligent, inquisitive Siamese/tabby mix. The biggest cat of the litter, he was the alpha cat in the household of humans and he knew it. He meowed loudly and insistently when he wanted to be fed. He vigorously scratched the back of the sofa even after he was declawed, delighting in the game of chase that invariably ensued when he was caught. He loved to perch atop bookcases, windowsills, and the refrigerator — anywhere high enough that he could swat at people's heads when they walked by. While he would sometimes deign to sit on selected laps, he was not the cuddly, nurturing cat found in storybooks and pet food advertisements.
That's why I found it odd one day when he decided to jump up on the piano bench and sit quietly next to me as I played Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. The choice of music, as always, had been my teacher's; I shrugged in response whenever she tried to engage me in the selection process. From my view, one type of music wasn't much different than another. I played what I was told to play.
Jonathan's eyes followed my hands as I played, his dark tail quietly swishing back and forth like a metronome. The Pachelbel finished, I reached for a short piece with lots of staccato notes. It only took a couple of notes to see that this song had a different effect on my audience of one. Jonathan swiped at my hand with his paw and looked at me. Ow! I stopped and glared at him. I played a few more notes. Swat. Stop. Swat. Stop. Was he tired of my playing? Or did he just want to be fed? I put the music away, relieved to have an excuse to stop practicing.
The next time at the piano, Jonathan again jumped up beside me and again, he reacted the same way — waiting patiently during some songs and swatting his paw at me during others. Over the next few months, practice became fascinating. I couldn't wait to try out new songs and see how he felt about them. Classical was a good bet, as were church hymns, while themes from TV, movies, or musicals were hit and miss. Sometimes his tastes made me laugh. "Memories" from Cats was a winner, while "Linus and Lucy," the Peanuts theme, was not. As silly as it sounds, I tried to please him as much as possible. The increased practice time improved my playing immensely, at least on songs that were "cat approved." My teacher puzzled aloud over how some pieces progressed while others didn't, since the difficulty of the piece didn't seem to figure into the equation. When she chalked it up to me developing my own taste in music, I didn't correct her. It was too embarrassing to explain.
Jonathan and I might have continued like that for a while, with me bending my music to suit him, just as I curved my body around his when he took the prime middle spot in the middle of my bed at night. But then my teacher gave me a book of ragtime. For the first time, I found a type of music I truly loved. I enjoyed the odd rhythms and the pleasing clash of notes in Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag" and the other ragtime tunes. Jonathan hated it. He swatted repeatedly at my hands. Eventually, I had to shut him in the bedroom during those songs. I felt bad that I couldn't play just for him — what kind of musician deliberately plays songs that she knows her audience hates? But at the same time, I wasn't willing to let go of my newfound love. I had finally found something I was willing to fight for.
Luckily, Jonathan didn't seem to hold it against me — he'd still occasionally sit on my lap or rub his head against my leg when I finished practicing. I took courage from the idea that it was okay to express different opinions and still be respected. Rejection of your work was not rejection of you. It was one person's opinion. It wasn't until I was an adult working in creative careers such as writing and jewelry design that I truly appreciated this lesson. No matter what was said in a rejection letter from a publisher, editor, reader, or contest judge, it was much less painful than a swat of a paw from a curmudgeonly cat!
That's why I found it odd one day when he decided to jump up on the piano bench and sit quietly next to me as I played Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. The choice of music, as always, had been my teacher's; I shrugged in response whenever she tried to engage me in the selection process. From my view, one type of music wasn't much different than another. I played what I was told to play.
Jonathan's eyes followed my hands as I played, his dark tail quietly swishing back and forth like a metronome. The Pachelbel finished, I reached for a short piece with lots of staccato notes. It only took a couple of notes to see that this song had a different effect on my audience of one. Jonathan swiped at my hand with his paw and looked at me. Ow! I stopped and glared at him. I played a few more notes. Swat. Stop. Swat. Stop. Was he tired of my playing? Or did he just want to be fed? I put the music away, relieved to have an excuse to stop practicing.
The next time at the piano, Jonathan again jumped up beside me and again, he reacted the same way — waiting patiently during some songs and swatting his paw at me during others. Over the next few months, practice became fascinating. I couldn't wait to try out new songs and see how he felt about them. Classical was a good bet, as were church hymns, while themes from TV, movies, or musicals were hit and miss. Sometimes his tastes made me laugh. "Memories" from Cats was a winner, while "Linus and Lucy," the Peanuts theme, was not. As silly as it sounds, I tried to please him as much as possible. The increased practice time improved my playing immensely, at least on songs that were "cat approved." My teacher puzzled aloud over how some pieces progressed while others didn't, since the difficulty of the piece didn't seem to figure into the equation. When she chalked it up to me developing my own taste in music, I didn't correct her. It was too embarrassing to explain.
Jonathan and I might have continued like that for a while, with me bending my music to suit him, just as I curved my body around his when he took the prime middle spot in the middle of my bed at night. But then my teacher gave me a book of ragtime. For the first time, I found a type of music I truly loved. I enjoyed the odd rhythms and the pleasing clash of notes in Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag" and the other ragtime tunes. Jonathan hated it. He swatted repeatedly at my hands. Eventually, I had to shut him in the bedroom during those songs. I felt bad that I couldn't play just for him — what kind of musician deliberately plays songs that she knows her audience hates? But at the same time, I wasn't willing to let go of my newfound love. I had finally found something I was willing to fight for.
Luckily, Jonathan didn't seem to hold it against me — he'd still occasionally sit on my lap or rub his head against my leg when I finished practicing. I took courage from the idea that it was okay to express different opinions and still be respected. Rejection of your work was not rejection of you. It was one person's opinion. It wasn't until I was an adult working in creative careers such as writing and jewelry design that I truly appreciated this lesson. No matter what was said in a rejection letter from a publisher, editor, reader, or contest judge, it was much less painful than a swat of a paw from a curmudgeonly cat!
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