By Phyllis Brotherton

It's been quite a challenge, but I was finally able to land an interview with Zane L. Walker, best known for his social media presence as the recalcitrant feline gazing into the windows of author Nicole Walker's house (who happens to be his owner/mom), begging or rather demanding to be allowed back in. We met on a sunny Friday morning in Flagstaff, Arizona, under the striped umbrellas of the Cedar House Coffee Shop. I waited for some time before he sauntered in, all gray and white smugness, jumped up on the nearest chair, and turned his steely eyes toward me, as if to say, let's get this agonizing interaction over with ASAP. Worried he could just as quickly sashay away in a hot minute, I rushed to shuffle my notes into some kind of order and began.

Phyllis: Zane, thank you so much for coming today to discuss Nicole Walker's latest book, Processed Meats: Essays on Food, Flesh, and Navigating Disaster,. But first, my curiosity is killing me. What's the "L" stand for in your name and how did you manage to get away from home today to meet with me?

Zane: It wasn't easy, I can tell you that. Nicole dogs me everywhere I try to go, outside the backyard, that is. When you see my face staring in the house windows, which I swear she posts almost every damn day, you might be led to believe I always actually want inside, when all I really want is to leap over the fence to freedom. But that's a whole other story and I don't have much time, so let's get on with it.

Phyllis: And, your middle name?

Zane: I was hoping to ignore that question. Did anyone ever ask T.S. Eliot what the "S" stood for? Loverman, OK? Loverman. That's all I'm going to say about that.

Phyllis: Oh, that's fine. I certainly respect the fact there are some subjects you'd rather not discuss, so let's dive right into the "meat" of this interview.

Zane: (groans, rolls his eyes) Yes, by all means, let's.

Phyllis: It occurred to me that you might have a unique perspective on Nicole Walker's book, Processed Meats, given your closeness to the subjects addressed, both in actual physical proximity, as well as in your personal relationship with the author herself.

Zane: I am naturally an expert on just about anything, actually. I'm stepping out of my comfort zone a bit commenting on Nicole's book, but well, I sort of have to, you know, given all the reasons you've already mentioned. That doesn't mean I'm not going to be brutally honest about what I think. Why would I feed you a bunch of bologna?  

Phyllis: Great. I appreciate honesty. So, actually, what do you think?

Zane: Meh. If you're looking for some high drama or a page-turner, this is not your cup of joe, nor my bowl of water, if you will.  

Phyllis: Why's that?

Zane: First off, you'd think the book would be mostly about, what, processed meat?? Like the different varieties, the history, how to make it, include lots of recipes, you know? And, in her research, you'd have thought if she actually tested some recipes, she would provide samples to those closest to her, like, for instance, Moi? Heck, no. To this day, she's never offered me one tiny bite, nor have I witnessed any actual making of processed meats. Then again, as you and the social media universe well know, I'm outside a lot and not even close to her delicious food, or privy to the deep inner workings of her household or her mind, for that matter.

Phyllis: Kirkus Reviews calls Processed Meats, "An effective illumination of the profound difference between right thought and right action."

Zane: (heavy sigh) Whatever that means.    

Phyllis: Kirkus continues: "When Walker settles in, she produces observations as beautifully written as they are thoughtful. One of her specialties is pithy remarks, and some of her more intriguing phrasing causes us to view certain topics from unique angles." Kirkus provides a great example:

Fried chicken is a testament to the beauty of the disarticulated chicken. Every piece its own integrity. The coating wraps a thigh like snow, a breast like a scarf, a leg like a stocking to protect it from the cruel world of hot oil. 

What is your reaction to that?

Zane:  All I can say is, please God, give me one of those stockinged legs. OK, OK, I'll admit, it's damned good writing.

Phyllis: Indeed, it is. As you well know, Processed Meats is also about motherhood. One of my favorite essays in the collection is "Move Out," in which Walker deftly interweaves the apparent disparate subjects of the smog and other pollutants of Salt Lake City, her daughter's hospitalization for a serious respiratory condition, breastfeeding, a decision to relocate, and making sour cream. Yes, sour cream.

It's easy to make sour cream, just like it's easy to stay put. Open up some windows and let the lactic acid in. But here, you've got to do something harder. You've got to take that sour cream, turn it back to milk, ride the car east, the other direction from the one your ancestors trekked, the way against open spaces and wild animals. You've got to turn against your own nature, your own desire to stay, your own love of what you know. You've got to turn that dam to stream, virus to new host, and get out before you get stuck.

Are you crying, Zane?

Zane:  No, I've got something in my eye, that's all.

Phyllis: You mentioned earlier that Processed Meats is not, for the most part, actually about processed meats. In fact, Jenn Gibbs, in her review of the book for Brevity's Nonfiction Blog, aptly states, "[Nicole Walker's] latest collection of creative nonfiction is all about the tension between our appetites and ideals, our need for change and our habits as individuals and as a collective […], revealing how a self can be a microcosm of a society that can't seem to bring the body in line with the logic for a heathier planet."

Zane: Excuse me a moment, while I upchuck a hairball.

Phyllis: (Zane returns) Personally, I can totally relate to Gibbs' comment. I feel guilt and angst for my sometimes lackadaisical or expedient attitudes toward all manner of things, including less than diligent recycling, idling my car in the Starbuck's line, ordering gourmet birdseed on Amazon or driving to three grocery stores in a desperate search for Reddi Whip Sweet Foam, my new secret craving; one of the many reasons I love Walker's book. She explores our human failings and her own, in such an honest, funny and self-effacing way. Wouldn't you agree?

Zane: I suppose. But that essay, "On Anger," where she imagines a mountain lion creeping by outside the window? That gave me such a case of the heebie-jeebie's, I almost never wanted to go outside again. Of course, she made me; picked me up and plopped me on the patio, like a tasty morsel of cougar food and not the beloved family pet I supposedly am. Which is why I'm always staring her down to please let me back in the house. Now you know the real truth about it.

Phyllis:  But that important essay is about wildlife's shrinking habitat and nature's losing battle with ever-consuming, ever-plodding forward, ever-destructive human beings. Doesn't that strike a chord in you to try to do something about it? 

Zane:  Not really. What can I do? I'm just a cat. And, I've got bigger fish to fry and mice to find. All I can say is, buy the book. It's kinda good.

Look, gotta split. How about a double cappuccino, extra dry, to go? I need to get back to my catbird seat outside her window for my next Facebook photo op. I'm working on building my platform.

Phyllis: Already? Well, OK. Thanks so much for your time.

Zane:  No sweat. It's been real.        

___

Zane L. Walker, autodidact and all-around feline-about-town, having gained a wealth of knowledge and experience over time, prides himself on knowing pretty much everything about everything. As part of expanding his horizons, he is available for speaking engagements for a healthy fee. He currently resides in Flagstaff, Arizona, and can be reached at…oh, just Google him.    

Phyllis Brotherton holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Fresno State University. Her work has appeared in Under the Gum Tree, Entropy, Anomaly, Essay Daily, After the Art, Brevity Blog and elsewhere; receiving two Best of the Net nominations. Her collaborative essay, "Water," recently won 3rd place in Streetlight Magazine's Essay/Memoir Contest, with co-author, Armen D. Bacon. Find her on Facebook, Twitter @phyllisbwrites, and Instagram, phyllis_brotherton.