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We ailurophiles (cat lovers) in America have cause to rejoice. Once again, there is a cat in the White House and our country is in good paws.

The Bidens arrived at the White House with two German Shepherds and a promise of a cat to come. Their older dog, Champ, made a good adjustment, but Major, their three-year-old rescue, couldn’t resist nipping at the Secret Service Agents.

Being responsible pet owners, the Bidens had to address this problem before introducing another animal into the family. Major was sent back to Delaware for more training and a quieter environment.

Unfortunately, days after his reintroduction to White House living, Major had another biting incident. After consulting veterinarians, animal trainers and animal behaviorists, the Bidens decided to give Major to family friends who could give their boy a more sedate lifestyle. This left 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue petless, as their beloved thirteen-year-old, Champ, had died in June.

This past December, a new First Dog arrived. He’s a three-month-old German Shepherd puppy named Commander. Hopes are high that he will grow up thinking the White House is a normal environment and the Secret Service people aren’t invaders.

At last, the time was right for a cat, and, according to Jill Biden, one “was waiting in the wings”. Named after the First Lady’s hometown of Willow Grove, Pennsylvania, Willow is a two-year-old, gray, shorthair tabby. The two met in 2020 at a campaign stop at a Pennsylvania farm. The cat jumped up onto the stage and both decided they were a good pair. Willow was obviously ready for a career in politics.

The First Cat took up residence last week, and according to a White House news release, “Willow is settling into the White House with her favorite toys, treats and plenty of room to smell and explore.”

The President and First Lady no doubt are aware that their puppy and cat might get higher marks in the polls than they will. Being animal lovers, I’m guessing they can handle it. The same could not be said for #45.

P.S. Franklin D. Roosevelt also had a German Shepherd named Major, an ex-police dog. He, too, could not adjust to the White House. In 1933, Major bit both U.S. Senator Hattie Caraway and the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Ramsay MacDonald. Major almost ripped off the seat of the Prime Minister’s pants. A pair of replacement pants had to be found before he could exit the executive residence. Major was banished to the Roosevelts’ Hyde Park home.

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I hope our daughter has thawed out. She’s been living in an ice palace for the last two weeks, and it all happened despite her best intentions.

Several years ago, she purchased a thermostat for her furnace with the cozy name of the “Nest”. She was excited about its promise to be environmentally friendly and also reduce her electric bill. Supposedly, sensors in the device would track her movements and warm the rooms she was in. In addition, she could program her desired temperatures for various times of the day, such as when she returned home from work or headed to the bedroom at night.

From the start, the Nest was not behaving well, but she was coping with it. That all ended about two weeks ago when its artificial intelligence took over completely. Think of the movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, when HAL says, “I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

She came home from work after a recent cold snap and the house was a uniform 53 degrees. Every attempt to manually reset the Nest to a higher temperature failed. The only way she could eke out a few degrees was to walk around in circles in front of the diabolical device.

My husband, the guru of all things computer and electronic, was consulted. Fearing that hypothermia was in our daughter’s future, he took on the Nest. He quickly read all the techie instructions on how to gain back control of the temperature settings. He then began reciting the steps to her only to discover she had tried them all repeatedly to no avail.

A joint decision was made. He would make a house call and kill the Nest. She would go to Home Depot and pick out a new thermostat that would allow her to regain control of her life.

Our daughter returned with the new thermostat and informed us it was “$35 and lobotomized.” Then my husband turned the furnace off, murdered the Nest and, in less than an hour, wired up the new one. When the furnace was turned back on, it purred and purred and purred, filling the house with warmth. We all began shedding coats like butterflies emerging from their cocoons in springtime.

If A.I. is the way of the future, we predict that the A.I.H.R. (Artificial Intelligence Homicide Rate) will soar. And, F.Y.I., the Nest is a Google product.

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French street artist Youri Cansell, a.k.a. Mantra, loves butterflies. As a child in Metz, he spent hours exploring his parent’s garden while dreaming of being a naturalist. “I was interested, curious and focused on the small life forms in those places,” he explains.

Mantra has taken his love of entomology and turned it into something big, very big. He paints gigantic murals that resemble three-dimensional butterfly specimen cases on buildings around the world. His “fool the eye” optical illusions are sensational, and with help from entomologists, they are also accurate portrayals of local species.

In addition to France, his super-size Lepidoptera have landed on buildings in Spain, Austria, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, Mexico, Columbia and the United States. My husband and I serendipitously discovered one in Little Rock, Arkansas, and would now like to seek out the others in Bentonville and Fort Smith, Arkansas, as well as Brooklyn, New York.

Mantra explains his goal as follows: “Painting murals internationally has allowed me to get in touch with various communities, appreciate different cultures and languages and despite the current difficulties, connect beyond borders. In turn, I hope to put a smile on people’s faces while they walk by.”

It would be hard not to smile when encountering one of Mantra’s masterpieces. And although he is famous for his butterflies and moths, he is equally adept at painting other species, including humans and arachnids.

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Unique, absurd, funny and decadent are the best words to describe one of my birthday presents this year.

My son presented me with a tiny little rectangle. It was about the size of the bars of soap in hotel rooms. To be exact, the carefully wrapped gift measured 3 x 1 1/2 x 1/2 inches. I’m usually good at guessing gifts, but this one had me flummoxed.

“I bought this to make you laugh,” he said. And he was exactly right, the present was laughable. It was a block of cheese.

Our son had gone to his local Whole Foods Market (a.k.a. Whole Paycheck) in San Diego to get a bottle of wine. By chance, he came across a display consisting entirely of Lilliputian blocks of cheese. When he read the price per pound, he did a double-take. Wanting to share the sheer absurdity of this with me, he figured that, ironically, he should buy it. The reality of the minuscule cheese in my hand would be better than any description of it.

There’s a back story to this story. Every time he and many other of our friends visit, we go to our local dairy and cheese factory. From the hundred varieties of cheese they offer, our favorite is their 16 year aged cheddar. We have always thought it to be expensive, a true treat. Turns out we were wrong. It’s a fantastic bargain…and we get an extra year of aging.

The question that begs to be asked is, “Why would anyone pay $94.99 a pound for a sliver of cheese that couldn’t even make a grilled cheese sandwich?”

I can’t answer that one, but I do know that this country of ours is getting crazier by the moment.

P.S. – My big block of cheddar, when grated, was enough for two large quiches and two casseroles of Mac & cheese.

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“It’s my birthday, and I can do whatever I want” is a mantra that both my husband and I subscribe to…within reason. For example, I probably shouldn’t go to Paris for a day or adopt five adorable kittens from the animal shelter.

About thirty years ago, with our children grown and our budget in reasonable shape, I thought seriously about what I wanted to make my day special. I didn’t have to think long. The best present would be to be warm. I wanted to walk out the door, sans coat, and see palm trees.

Being a New Year’s Eve baby and a lifelong Wisconsin resident, I can count on having snow, ice, frigid temperatures or all three for my birthday weather. My mother loved to recount how she bundled me up on my second birthday and put me on a sled during a snowfall to go to the grocery store for ice cream.

Fortuitously, I have family and friends in both San Diego and Tucson. For many decades I’ve got not only the gift of warmth but also loving people with whom I can share my cake. There has been only one year when there were no palm trees. That was in 1999 when my husband was too fearful of plane travel. Like all computer programmers who worked in the 70, 80 and 90s, he was not sure all those computer programs could handle a new millennium.

By some miracle, the planes did not all fall out of the skies and computer Armageddon did not occur. We had a big, winter bonfire on the beach that momentous night. Not bad, but palm trees would have been better.

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