Ode to Farm Kitties
[Note: This post is inspired by the best book I’ve read this year, Get Me Through the Next 5 Minutes: Odes to Being Alive, by James Parker. He used to write these odes for The Atlantic, on the last page of the magazine, which is where I fell in love with them. And miracle of miracles, he compiled them—and many more—into a full-on book! There’s almost seventy of them, weird and beautiful little things on topics ranging all over the place. His odes tackle “BBQ Chips” and “Crying Babies” but also “Meditation,” “Not Meditating,” and “the Psychedelic Locusts That Run the Universe.” (My personal favorite is his “Ode to My Dog’s Balls.”) Go buy you a copy.]
These cats, I promise you, are trouble. Oh they may not look like it, lying there fat and happy together in the morning sunlight, but the moment you let down your guard... well my friend you’re in for it. You may not think you’re a cat person, in fact you may insist upon it (“Cats are boring!” “Cats are psychopaths!” “I’m allergic!”) but purr by purr Emmett and Eugene will wear you down and fashion themselves a warm and snug little bed inside your heart. And it’s all downhill from there.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me, I was already a cat person when they arrived on the farm—two little orange tabbies that hid under the barn in sheer terror for at least the first ten days. At some point they realized they’d been granted the best life ever, one consisting of generous helpings of food and even more generous helpings of affection, plus plenty space to explore and the occasional bird or mouse to catch and subsequently disembowel if they’re so inclined. Cat heaven on earth, I’d guess. They got comfy here real quick.
They’re brothers, by the way, about five years old. I like to say Emmett is cuter while Eugene is more handsome; the easiest way to tell them apart is Emmett’s white chin - and his extroversion. Eugene keeps pretty close to their home base (the barn); rarely do we see him more than twenty or thirty feet from its entrance. He is happy of course to receive head scratches and some cuddles, especially at the end of the day when most activity has ceased, but what he really lives for—is always on the lookout for—is food. No matter what time of day, no matter if he has literally just been fed, if you walk into the barn he will appear as if magically summoned by the pure potential of extra caloric intake. Dry food is good, wet canned food is better, but the best? Handouts from human lunches. No cat has ever looked at you with more desire than when Eugene wants whatever edible thing is in your hand. And he squeaks! His meow is truly a squeak; nearly inaudible, just this tiny little high-pitched quasi-noise that emerges almost as if his vocal chords are being strangled by his appetite. It’s hilarious and a little sad, which I think is his sweet spot.
Emmett, on the other hand, is the more free-ranging of the two, and his sole motivation in life is getting petted. He will track you from the barn to the nursery to the fields, insisting you pet him, insisting you let him in your lap at once. His meow sounds needy, disgruntled, haughty but also desperate. And he’s adorable. If you give him even a hint of an opening, he’ll squeeze all seventeen-and-a-half pounds of himself into your lap, motor humming before you even begin petting him. The worst part: I cannot help myself—I HAVE to pet him. I succumb every dang time. We might be in the middle of a super busy workday, more on the to-do list than we could ever achieve in one day, not a moment to spare, but like a sucker I stop, put down whatever I happen to be carrying, and I pet the little bastard.
My only justification is that we all do it. We’re all suckers. These cats run the place (even the dog accepts their rule.) We would surely work much more efficiently if they weren’t around; let’s hope Michael and Lauren never run the numbers to find out how much labor costs these cats are incurring.
In the end, though, that’s kind of the point. That’s the kind of farm we’re aspiring to be. We’re going to work hard—really hard—to grow and harvest and pack for you the best produce we possibly can. But also... we’re gonna stop and pet a kitty.
Everyone at Lapa’au gives their best. I’m surrounded by people who roll in ready every day to do good work, hard work - important work. And the blunt reality is we need to do our best in order for people to keep buying our produce so, you know, we can pay our bills. (Economics is never far away on the farm.) There is always so much to be done and our to-do list never ends. It is daunting, honestly. Farming is about diligence as much as anything: always keeping that attention up, the mind focused on what’s around, what’s coming down the pike, thinking every dang day about the short term and the long term, what needs to be done tomorrow and next month and what should’ve been done yesterday and then trying to squeeze that into and around all the things we have to knock out today. We bust our collective ass here—and it shows. If you’ve ever bought or eaten our produce, you know. If you’ve ever had the good fortune of walking around the farm itself, you know. But the secret sauce? Our proprietary blend of farm magic? It’s those cats.
No farm—or any venture really—can be successful in the long-term if the ground it occupies is not continually being filled with joy and beauty and good things, and not theoretically or metaphorically but literally. You reap what you sow. What embodies or incarnates the qualities in life you most value? That’s the type of place Michael and Lauren have cultivated here over the years, a place where peace and happiness are never completely overtaken by the time and effort good agriculture requires. “Sustainability” as an agricultural concept begins and ends with the sustainability of the farmer. Running a business is hard, farming is psychically demanding and physically exhausting; we all need some way to insulate ourselves from the cold winds of life that can batter us about. Eugene and Emmett (speaking of insulation!!) do that for us at Lapa’au. Ostensibly they’re on the property to keep the rats and mice at bay—and they in all probability do a decent job of it, given their heft and the occasional small headless creature we find. But really... they’re here because we love them and our hearts need them.
Eugene and Emmett are fat, furry messengers from the deities sent to remind us that life must have balance, that worry and fear will never satisfy as much as contentedness and peace, that spending a few minutes giving and receiving love and affection are ultimately more beneficial than using all our spare moments to hustle even more. These cats bring to us in their adorable and blissfully-unaware creatureliness a reminder of the cosmic truth that life does not go on forever and our limited finite hours will be better served if a bit of that time is offered to unconditional love. I’m a better farmer because of those cats, I’m pretty sure. When I stop to pet one of them, it gives my tired muscles a little extra break; it makes me pause long enough to realize I should drink some water. When they’re extra needy in the morning because no one has petted or fed them in fourteen hours, I am reminded of our universal and interconnected desire for care. And when I have thirty-five pounds of feline in my lap—that’s 2 cats x 17-ish lbs each—there is no better time to look up and take in the blue sky or setting sun (and yes that’s in part because they’ve rendered me immobile).
So dig deep, put in excellent work, deliver an exceptional product—but never forget the singular joy that comes from a purring cat. Remember to stop, put down your stuff, and give a head scratch. Your own soul will thank you for it.
