Fi Webster's photos with the keyword: cat

Taken by Bob Knox at our farmhouse in rural south-central Pennsylvania. The flies that collected on the upper pane of the window were a novel experience for this 7-month-old kitten.

Soundtrack for this cut-paper collage: The Beatles' "I've Just Seen a Face." Created for Kollage Kit theme: "Fall." The crossing poles are old rusty fence rails from my own back yard.

Cut-paper collage postcard created for Kollage Kit theme: "Museum of Curiosities, Art Gallery of Surprises"

Our oriental shorthair looked so nice on the Indian quilt, I couldn't resist a quick shot with the iPad. She died of laryngeal cancer on April 3rd, 2013. I don't feel able to write a eulogy for her like the one I wrote for her brother, Edgar Poe, so I'll just quote the poem which gave her her name Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea. ____________________________________________

When the French are depressed, they don't say, "I have the blues." They say, "J'ai le cafard," which means "I have the cockroach." Strange, but true. Don't ask me to explain the origin of the term, because it's way too complicated. As it happens, I do have the blues. As some of you know, I recently lost a sweet black cat to cancer. But spring is helping... Cut-paper collage postcard. Blue face and hands from a painting by Sarah Joncas. Abandoned sofas and chairs from Bill Keaggy's book, 50 Sad Chairs. Ocean (next to face) by Edward Gorey.

I've been wanting an updated picture of the 10-yr-old oriental shorthair we are lucky to live with. But a cool spring day was not ideal for photographing a long skinny cat: she was relaxed & happy, but she kept tucking her legs in next to her body. As for her wary/quizzical facial expression, well, Annabel Lee is not used to the camera. She's looking at it, thinking, "What is that thing? Is it going to make a loud noise, or an obnoxious bright flash?" It didn't do either, so better luck next time, when it's warmer...

And boy, are those cheap brushes lousy...they just fall apart! Anyway, that's my Annabel Lee, with my love for her in red. =smile= Oh, and it's a postcard that's on its way to Russia!

Edgar Poe sitting on our Oaxacan fish rug. Painted on ipad2 in Procreate. I don't know...I spent countless hours on this one, and it actually looks like what it's a picture of, but I'm not happy with it. Either I'm getting fed up with my unschooled vrai-naif style, or I didn't choose the right subject. Or both. Help me out here, y'all...

Edgar Poe nestled up against my knee. Painted with Procreate on ipad2.

This card is kind of a joke about the difference between the recipient's sensibililty--she likes cute stuff--and mine--I'm sort of anti-cute. Background from Sherwood Forlee's Walls Notebook , an interesting blank book that invites you to write on photos of urban walls. Cat from Evelyn Gathing's "Cats & Kittens" sticker collection (Dover).

This is my last photo of Edgar Poe, who succumbed to a rare and very aggressive form of cancer (cholangiocarcinoma) on July 26, 2011. His final illness was so short, he first told me he was sick--by refusing breakfast--on a Thursday, then the following Tuesday morning he died. This wasn't intended to be a good photo or anything--just a quick pic as a reference for a painting. I tried to get started on making a painting from it, but I'm so busted up, I can't bear to look at it for very long. Edgar was a terrific artist's model. (See my album "The Cats" for my paintings of him and his sister, Annabel Lee.) He was a curious, mischievous, playful, and very loving kitty. He never really grew up: he was always a kitten in his personality. Edgar Poe had a way of being hilarious, no matter what he was doing. He seemed to view life as an endless series of jests--some purely happy, some tinged with irritation or melancholy. Like this picture--I was trying to get a shot of Edgar looking over his shoulder at me, and had taken quite a few that weren't what I wanted. Then he turned away from me on the couch, I said his name, and he looked back over his shoulder. His expression here perfectly captures his sarcastic attitude at the moment: "Oh Mom....what is it now ?" One of my doctors said of this photo, "He looks like George Burns." That's Edgar to a T--comedian George Burns, with that ever-amused, ever-amusing view of life he had. Edgar Poe was also a terrific companion during my insomniac hours, 2 to 5 in the morning. He was not a sleep-loving kitty: he slept a few hours in the afternoon & maybe a couple more at night, but most of the time he was wide-awake, alert, ready for action. When he was younger, he loved athletic games--the more demanding, the better. He played Bird and Mouse and Squirrel and Bug--even Fetch, just like a dog. I used to build a mountainous terrain out of pillows in the middle of the living room, for him to chase the toy around and up and over. He would thrill with the keenest anticipation while I was piling up the pillows, bouncing like a marionette on the tips of his toes, his eyes round and way wide-open. It was all I could do to keep from laughing and shouting and waking my husband, as we played on through the night. Edgar would get so fagged, he'd be puffing and panting, but of course I always ran out of energy before he did. Then as he got older, he liked to be near me when I was doing something that captivated my brain. I know this sounds strange, but it was as if my thoughts were the game he was playing. And that's why he dearly loved it when I was sleepless and reading. He got so close to me, he almost blocked the pages. He would settle down in the crook of my left elbow, and purr and purr, so loud it was amazing. The more enthralled I was by the book, the louder he purred, his ears all perked up and his whiskers twitching. I could even tell he preferred my reading fiction to nonfiction, because I'm more excited by the former. He was so physically close at such times, I could feel my heart, pounding faster as the story heated up, thudding right against his chest. Now the insomniac hours are empty. It's 3 AM, my husband's asleep, and Edgar's sister, a drowsy kitty, is curled up with him under the covers. I don't have a partner for my night-time reading any more. The novel I was working on when he got sick sits idle with a bookmark in it. How can I go back to it without Edgar Poe at my side? All I can do is watch movie after movie, trying to shut down my grief with shoot-em-ups and suspense thrillers. Edgar died a month short of his 10th birthday. We didn't have nearly long enough time with him. Anyway....if you're still reading this, thank you for being there to write to. It helps. It really does. Fi