Among the more provocative questions debated above the water cooler this week, "self-reincarnation, huh?" generated more than its fair share of interest by adherents and passersby alike. While the answer to the question may seem, at first, to require an ex parte knowledge of the botanical sciences, a more direct solution can be obtained by first asking how many lives might be crammed into the average cat, then dividing the result by a half dozen of the udder. This gives mu, which we immediately recognize as the plaintive feline utterance used to summon the butler, Yeats, so that he might refill the vacant cream dishes left on the floor by the careless hand.
Even if those dishes had been blue, the very idea of replicating lives on the fly begs yet another question, then one more: Why cats? Why cats? While the rest of us muddle along, dodging sparks thrown from the axle of the cosmic wheel as it spins, half greased, toward the window where billions are served, the cat has only to wish itself a new itinerary, and providence responds.
Mere coincidence? Perhaps. I do not claim to understand Greek.