I am a cat. I don't really know what else to say. It's all been said before, as you may already know, but for me, it's a first. I am a cat. It seems to be enough.

*

I stare at the page from across the room, sometimes for hours at a time, flicking my tail this way and that, watching a nearby fly batter the big window to the world beyond the icy glass. Something catches my eye. It moves in the trees. I freeze. I concentrate on a branch, my body alert. Listen. Listening to the silence of November. Was it the wind stirring one of the lonely leaves? Was it an animal? The shadow of a bird? I've seen it before. It cannot hide from me. Silent watcher. There. I see it move now, skittering along the branch, the squirrel, now stopping, staring back at me with one black eye, twitching a little and nibbling a walnut. It looks cold in this late Autumn when the trees are nearly bare, turning the large nut in its little black hands. You are mine. It lets the shells fall to the earth, runs along another branch, jumps onto the fence and then out of my sight.

I remember where I was. What I was doing. I am near the window. I hear the fly buzzing against it. I don't move. I watch. The fly stops. My tail moves without me. I lift my right leg slightly. Slowly. The fly is still. I am. The front legs of the fly are moving. Watch. I can see it wringing its little dirty fly hands on the cold glass of the window. I take a step closer. The fly walks a crazy circle that only a fly knows. I stare, cocking my left ear. It stops. Silence. I take another slow step along the window sill. It's aloft again, plumbing the shallow depths of the window. I watch. Tense. My tail at an angle. The fly tries the window a number of times and stops. I take one quick step and pounce, stretching my paw toward the fly. I fall back. It falls with me to the sill and again begins its mad drumming on the window. I snap at it, feeling it among my whiskers, brushing past my nose. Now my ear. I'm close. There, it's caught in my paw. I'm mad for it. I've got it. Now, it's loose again and trying to get higher. It goes higher.

I jump quickly and finally capture the insect in my mouth. It buzzes a little on my tongue, buzzing from the roof of my mouth and back to my tongue, and now this has become a frantic game that I can only feel behind my teeth. I try to swallow it but it won't stay still. It won't die. I don't know why. I sit on the sill and try to swallow, but it's stuck in my throat. I'm opening and closing my mouth like I'm chewing gum. At last, I win. It has descended into my stomach where it may buzz about, if it has anything left after the fight. I lick my mouth and then begin cleaning my right paw. The bastard squirrel was on the fence watching me. I pause for a moment, as if studying my claws. I continued licking and ignored him.

*

Why does my master return to his study, day in and out, rustling the disordered papers on his desk, scratching himself, lighting cigarette after cigarette, and pacing in front of the same portrait of his family above the fireplace? A nice family that knows how to treat a cat. One son and one daughter. Balance. My master's son likes to play with me, the daughter prefers the silly dog.

I call him my master because he is. I let him. He makes my life easier and treats me as a king, which I find stimulating and, at least, rewarding. A king needs his subjects. They do his bidding. Mine requests are simple: a warm place to sleep, ample food, free reign over my domain, and the necessary attention of an audience. It's a good life. I hesitate to say safe, but so be it. When my master found me so long ago (I can hardly remember now), I was hiding underneath parked cars, rummaging in trash cans for sustenance and, often, sleeping in a damp corner somewhere.

One early morning, after tomming around all night with some of the other strays, a couple of mangy, flea-bitten dogs chased me far from the usual neighborhood in which I had been circulating. In my effort to elude the frantic, yelping canines, and it's not difficult to escape from pesky dogs, I completely lost track of my whereabouts. I didn't recognize the trash cans or the streets. In fact, the streets here were much cleaner. Everything was different. I chased after a mouse running along the gutter, but gave up, exhausted. I needed a safe place to rest. Staying out all night and then escaping from dogs will take a lot out of a cat.

I roamed for a while, trying to stay out of sight and trying to get back to my familiar streets. It wasn't happening. I felt like I was going around in circles. I didn't even know what I was looking for anymore. Eventually, I came upon an open window and leaped up to take a look. I felt the warmth of the dark room escaping, which warmed me and made my eyelids feel heavy. I felt that I was being pulled into the room. I wanted to go inside. It was then that I realized how tired I was. There was not a sound in the house. I was desperate. I thought that any place inside would be safer than somewhere outside, especially as I was unfamiliar with this area. My decision was obvious. I leaped softly down into the warm room, found a nice pile of newspapers to curl up on, and quickly fell asleep.

A loud sound disturbed my sleep. I don't know how long I had been there, sleeping on the newspapers, but when I heard that sound, I awoke in an instant, leaped for the window, and knocked against the hard glass. Unless the outside world had turned to ice in the night, something had gone wrong. Hanging on with my front claws, my body elongated, and scratching madly against the wall with the two legs that were dangling down, I soon crashed back onto the wood-floor, a little dazed, but otherwise, unharmed aside from the flattening I had just experienced in my surprise combat with the window. It had been closed.

"Oh! That's how you got in, is it?" I could hear something cooking on the stove behind her. I backed toward the pile of newspapers, crouching, moving slowing, and trying to watch everything. "Don't be scared, kitty. I won't hurt you." The woman's voice was soothing. I was sure she didn't want to hurt me, she said as much, but I didn't know what else was about, roaming the wilds of this unknown house. There were other noises emanating from the more remote parts of the house. A little boy entered the room. I didn't move.
"We have a cat now?" He asked, looking at the woman who must've been his mother.
"He snuck in through the window last night."
"Can we keep him?" I didn't know if I liked the sound of that.
"You have to ask your father." He ran out of the room shouting for the man.
"Oh! The sausage is burning." The woman, suddenly more concerned with her breakfast, turned around to manage her cooking. I had a moment to myself. I didn't know what to do. I thought it best to wait, but before I could collect my wits, the sound of another voice materialized from the depths of the house, a girl's voice, and what must have been the loud feet of two children banging against the floor, coming closer.
"Mommie, mommie. I don't want a cat!"
"Dad said we could keep it."
"Chintzy doesn't like cats." I didn't know who Chintzy was.
"What did your father say?" The mother whirled away from the stove and quieted the both of them in an instant.
The boy: "He said it was OK."
The girl: "He said we'll see."
"Well, wait until your father comes down and then we can talk about it. Now, sit down and eat this breakfast I made for you." The two children climbed into their chairs. The girl began eating immediately. The boy, having taken something off of his plate, was leaning over in his chair and holding it out to me. I leaned forward, sniffing the air. It smelled like a piece of meat, and I wanted to eat it. I hadn't eaten in quite a while. I took a cautious step forward.

Their father entered and I retreated a step. He didn't see me at first. The boy sits up. "Dad, you said we could keep the cat." The boy was the first to speak, presenting his case based largely upon his own desires rather than firm evidence.
"He said we'll see," his sister added with a sneer and sticking out her tongue.
"Hush!" Their mother obviously didn't tolerate this kind of bickering.
"Now, what's this I hear about a cat?" He looked around the room and saw me, motionless, crouching near the newspapers. "Ah, yes, it's true. We do have a cat!" he took a step in my direction. "Kitty, kitty." He was holding out his hand. I didn't move a muscle.
"Be careful, honey," he wife warned. "He may be sick or something."
"Oh, he looks alright to me."
"He looks sick," his daughter interjected.
"Quiet, Penny! Did you give him any food? He looks hungry." Now, that was what I was waiting for. The boy held out the meat for me again. "Linda, can you put some milk in a saucer? Ryan, give me that piece of sausage." Their father held out his hand with the sausage in it and his wife brought him a saucer of milk, which he placed on the floor in front of him. I sniffed my way closer. "Well," he said, turning to look at his children, "I think we can keep him if he's friendly. Do you think you can take care of him, Ryan?" He looked at his son.
"Oh, yes! I can, dad."
"Chintzy won't like him," Penny added.
"Chintzy sleeps outside and he's old. He won't even know there's a cat living here. If you promise to take care of him, Ryan, we can keep him."
"Maybe you should take him to the vet's, first, honey," his wife suggested.
"That's a good idea. I'll take him to the vet's when I get home from work. What do you think, Ryan?"
"I promise, dad."
"Hmph! Just keep it out of my room." Penny wasn't happy with the arrangement.
"OK, then we'll keep him in the kitchen until I get home tonight. I'll run down to the pet shop after I eat and get a litter box so he has somewhere to go to the bathroom. You'll get to clean that tonight, Ryan."
- posted by Bob @ 3:14 AM 0 comments