I have recently entered a new chapter in the story of my life – as measured in feline companions: cat slave once-removed. My 22-year-old daughter just became the unprepared savior of an eight-week-old kitten. She is understandably apprehensive about taking on the responsibility but also delighted at the prospect of establishing a home of her own, as cats do.
I smile at her anxiety and at the thought that she will look back on this as a chapter in her life identified by the cat in it. My first cat Archie (after Archie Andrews, a comic-strip redhead) , a marmalade male with a vicious streak, is the emblem of my childhood. I adored him. And I was clearly his “person” – he would greet me when I came home and keep close. But then, out of the blue, he would corner me, shimmy his backside, and pounce! I must have tolerated such unpredictable behavior because I assumed it was the way of the world, since most of my other relationships seemed pretty unpredictable too.
I was catless in college and in the distant city I moved to, where, like my daughter now, I set about figuring out how to manage the “real” world. I certainly didn’t need the responsibility for another creature, but cats don’t wait to be invited into your life. When friend asked me to kitten-sit for a week, Roo (of Kanga and Roo in Winnie the Pooh) settled in for the duration. My tiny apartment became my home, and he grew up to be a spectacular Maine Coon cat.
Roo marked the era of my on-my-ownness. When there was an earthquake in the area, he and I hid under the bed together. The problem was that on the rare occasion when a male visitor came to the house, Roo would lurk behind the sofa and (there is a pattern here) pounce on him from behind. It got to the point that dates would ask to meet me downstairs to avoid the terrorist in residence. Roo took the notion of on-my-ownness a bit further than I intended.
A few years later, I got married – to a man whose mother who would never tolerate a pet in her spotless home. It took a while, but he agreed to a cat – provided it was beautiful. (He didn’t understand then that all cats are beautiful.) We got a seal-point Siamese. Narouz (the crazy brother in Justine by Lawerence Durrell) turned out to be the most soulful cat I have encountered. He would fix his boundless blue eyes on mine and transmit waves of love and understanding. At the time, the rest of my life was going through some ups and downs, but by sheer force of his benevolence, Narouz’s chapter was the golden age in my cat-measured chronology.
When he died prematurely of “feline leukemia,” it took quite a while to think of getting another cat. Eventually we got two – Olmo (another crazy brother, this one from the Bertolucci movie “1900”) and Heathcliffe (yet another wild man, now that I think of it. Wuthering Heights was my favorite book and movie for most of my romantic twenties). Having two cats reduced the intensity of my relationship with either one, but when Olmo died, Heathcliffe became the transition cat between my life and that of my children.
He was the first cat they knew, but it was only after he died, that their own life-marking cats came on the scene. Sassy and Phyber (from a notorious computer hacker, “Phyberoptik”) were a brother and sister; they paired off with the brother and sister who chose them. Sick or sad or mischievous, my children had personal soul-mates. Their first cat relationships were loving and trusting and fun – nothing, I am relieved to say, like mine with Archie at the same point in my life.
My children have moved on. (When my son lived in Lithuania for a year, a snowball of a kitten made his unfamiliar surroundings into a home.) Sassy and Phyber are gone too. With the arrival of “Gatito” (my daughter is living in Buenos Aires), I wonder about the chapter that he will define for her. And I look forward to the unexpected cat-granny role he has given me.
I’ve already been called upon for my flea-fighting expertise.
If you have read this far, I can assume that you are a cat person and will enjoy the anonymous and hilarious internet insights in the contrasting diaries excerpted below:
From a Dog’s Diary:
8:00 am – Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am – A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am – A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm – Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm – Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm – Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm – Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm – Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!1
1:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
From a Cat’s Diary:
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since itclearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a ‘good little hunter’ I am.
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of ‘allergies.’ I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released – and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.