From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat
Practice Makes Purr-fect
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.
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!
Reprinted by permission of Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC (c) 2009. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
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.
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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!
Reprinted by permission of Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC (c) 2009. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
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