It is morning at mi casa, heralded as it is most days by the howling of the stray cat who loiters around the grounds. He howls as he wends his way slowly through my backyard, around the side of the house, and under my bedroom window to the cat bed on the front porch where he will sleep. All day long. “Waaaaah. Waaaaaah. Waaaaaah,” he intones, dropping his voice in resignation at the end of each howl. If he were human, he’d be an old New York Jew, like my grandfather (rest his soul), kvetching about his arthritis. “Waaaah. Waaaah. Waaaaah.” Translation: “Oy. My hips. The pain. The aching. Oy! So hurry up already, get me some of those tasty little Tender Vittles. And, ach, can you move my bed into the sun – and maybe clean it out too?! Oy!” You can almost see him lift his shoulders to the heavens, shrug, and roll his eyes.
I call him a “stray cat,” but do so out of habit. Like an obnoxious garden gnome cemented into the landscape, “White Cat,” as my daughter Harrison dubbed him, was already on the scene when we moved into this house 13 years ago. On move-in day, he watched us intently, perched on the sloping roof of our bungalow, right over the front door. I worried he might jump us, encroaching as we were on what clearly he considered his territory.
Relatively mellow now in his advancing years, White Cat was a terror as a younger tom. Where today he is skinny scrawny, all tough old sinew and bone, he was once rippling muscle and claw, a huge white pure-bred Siamese who stalked the neighborhood unchallenged, bullying any creature – feathered, furred, or human – who crossed his path. And he marred the look of the picture-perfect little house where I planned to continue my picture-perfect little life. From the curb, you’d see the sweet white picket fence, the wisteria vine twining across the porch, the simple roofline of this quaint bungalow – and oh! – What was that?! Vulture cat staring back at you from above.
Within a short time of our taking up residence, White Cat was nailing our considerably more docile cat, Princess, on the head so often that I had to keep a running tab at the vet’s for abcess surgery. After a couple of trips to the veterinarian, I decided to seek retribution from the beast’s owners, whom first I had to find.
“Do you know whose Siamese cat that is?” I asked, stopping next door and introducing myself to Kate and Jake.
“We know him,” said Kate. “But he doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. He’s been around for a while. Hmmm. A pretty long while. We met him when he fell through the skylight of our house – gosh, must be 10 or so years ago.”
I tried a few more neighbors. No one claimed ownership of White Cat. And frankly, I wasn’t surprised.
Of course I tried to get rid of him. I tried shooing him away. (I actually saw him curl his lip in derision.) I tried banging pots and pans when he came by. (He didn’t bother to cast a glance my way.) I tried keeping all pet food indoors. (He found his way into the garage and ate Princess’s lunch whenever he wanted.) Summer came. He came. Fall came. He came. Winter descended. He grew a thicker coat. And still he came. Every day. Year after year.
And I finally got it. This cat had no plans to leave. Ever. In time, the husband left. Then the baby grew up and left. But this cat, this cat: He is here to stay.
I befriended my nemesis eventually. At a certain point, there was no point in fighting it; we were sharing a residence, like it or not. Maybe we just developed tolerance. Maybe we both mellowed with age. Maybe we recognized a kindred spirit in one another. But whatever the reason, there was a thaw in our relationship. And bit by little tuna bit, one day White Cat was eating from my hand, then accepting a pat on the head, and finally, coming to sit and cuddle with me.
The truth is, we’re not so different. We both started out in lives that could have gone one way. White Cat should have been having his exotic coat brushed by royalty, as he rested, ensconced on a silken tuffet. Instead, he’s a hardcore wild thang, living his vida loco, on his turf and on his terms and still going strong at something between 20 and 25 human years (about 100-125 cat years.) And I, 13 years ago little Suzie Homemaker, contented goddess of domestica, have likewise gone feral, unable to remember the last time I made a home-cooked meal. We are both a bit bohemian, wandering where our whim takes us (although, granted, within a rather tight radius of this house we both seem to love). And, at the end of the day, White Cat and I, we answer to no one.
Except each other.
It’s evening, and that mangy muffball comes and stands in front of me. And howls. Loudly. Very loudly. “Waaaaah. Waaaaah. Waaaaah.” Translation: “Pick me up and give me some love. Maybe some scratches and one of those tasty little cans of tuna too.”
“Sheesh,” I say to him, as I lift his emaciated carcass and scratch behind his ears. “Look at us! You’re a crazy old fleabag, and here I am talking to you, like a crazy old cat lady.”
“Waaaaah. Waaaaaah.” White Cat hacks. Translation: “Cat lady, schmat lady. What are we? Chopped liver? It could be worse. So stop with the kvetching already. Put me in the soft bed. (But clean it first.) I want to sleep.”
Alright, alright already.
Oy.
Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.
