As a person I share the descended larynx with the Cat. Which means we are both pretty good at making noises. Unlike the Cat I can use my tongue to shape those noises in a great many different ways. And sometimes I fondly believe that the noises I make as a result of using my tongue can be understood by the Cat. Sadly in moments of panic, when imagination runs toward stories of Eagles feeding live Cats to their giant nestlings Eagles, the only noise that will distract the Cat from her dangerous pursuit of an evening Rabbit, is the sound of a spoon tapping her food bowl.
I remember when the grandchild visited. Like the Cat she was very reluctant to
come when called. She'd wander off and no amount of cleanly annunciated verbal
explanation from me would return her to the fold. The Artist of course has a
certain ferocity, a commanding figure when it suits, she had no trouble
gathering up the grandchild. And she has these same abilities when it comes to
the Cat, no question of The Artist ever having to tap a food bowl. I don't know
what it is, but I suspect it might have something to do with my own craven
cowardice around what I once used to think of as My Chair.