So I have been known to sing to my cats. A lot. And the same songs (and the same cat-chphrases) over and over.
My boys emphasized this to me recently as I came up the stairs, stepping around cats splayed across various steps, and I sang, “How many cats say ‘meow meow meow’ before you can call them a cat?” and my boys piped in with, “The answer, my friends, is blowin’ in the wind.”
You know, I am not sure they’ve heard the actual song.
Although it is possible, I suppose, as I own the Reader’s Digest collection of that name which includes it.
In all reality, although the collection is not in heavy rotation, I probably have played it during the boys’ lifetimes, so they probably have heard it.
But in their minds, this song will always be about cats meowing and/or their crazy father.
Now that I have thought of it, I want to play the collection, which I inherited from my sainted mother, again. Given how infrequently I listen to albums these days, we’d probably get to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” on side 2 of record 6 about the time of my father’s birthday.