Timmy's Tail

I've been trying to return to a steady meditation practice.  I have a nice place to sit, with candles and cat reminders.  The illustration is of Hopkins, a big orange guy from my Massachusetts years; to the right is Spike, my 21-year-old who moved to NYC with me and made sure to live long enough to see me settle down a bit; to the left is Riley, whose death in 2009 catalyzed Glenwood's life. The violin was my father's.

Timmy often lands here when running from Glenwood; she uses it as a launching pad to the window sill or something to bank off of as she tears through the apartment.  Today, Timmy settled onto the right side while I sat.  His tail was curled up and around above the candles.  It wasn't close enough to the flames for me to chase him off, but then there was this smell and I saw his tail was, I guess, melting.  I leapt up to put him out and fur-ash drifted to the floor and stuck to my hand.  He wasn't on fire but his fur had, yes, melted.  And him?  Oblivious.  He knew nothing of what happened.  He still doesn't.  But look!!!

Now I have two cats with missing or damaged fur.  What are the odds?

Timmy Has a Dent in His Tail

Glenwood Is Still in Poodle Mode