Cat People

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Having Cats

This is gratitude —God

Bob, who played a hardass, at the core was

unabashedly a cat adorer. He would pat

our pet (called Melba) fondly, pick her up,

and hold her in his lap, and then they’d

have a kissy-face fest; afterward, she’d

settle in and let him scratch behind her

ears, her throat and belly. “Oh, her motor’s

running,” he would tell me, quite

unnecessarily— Who couldn’t hear it? All

the hair on Melba’s winter coat would

vibrate, eloquent of her contentment.

If you’ve ever known a yellow Labrador

quite well, you’ve known nobility, not in

the sense of being uppity but in the grace of

his or her affection, and the loyalty.

Indeed, they are a noble breed, with an

uncanny way of yielding to your needs and

to each other, giving place to friend or

brother who is ailing, without fanfare

vacating the sunny spot upon the sofa.

That’s their way, to serve and love and lick

your face, and it is heavenly, if you don't

mind saliva on your chin.

I left my Labradors behind— a sad mistake,

but now it’s done. I have two cats, born in

the neighborhood and feral when I took

them in. They clawed their cage, escaped,

and left my place in tatters on their

rampage. Now they’re tame as paper dolls,

but more affectionate than any cat I’ve

known before. They like to tread upon my

keyboard, typing kitty nonsense, not the

Oxford English Dictionary or a word like

K-A-T. Unfortunately, they’re still scared of

strangers, but they take care of each other

in the way of cats, which is to lick away

imaginary ear mites and remove detritus

where they find it. When you live alone,

they’re pleasant to come home to, fun to

play “Where Did the Mouse Go” with,

delightful when their motors run. One dark

night, when I looked away, they stole my

heart.

In my new apartment, how they love to lie

in sunny windows, light breeze ruffling

their fur. There’s little of their wildness left.

I get to feel a bit of pride that they’re inside

and safe instead of foraging for food and on

the prowl, begetting future generations.

Who would hold them then, have kitty

conversations with them, wake them from

their naps for supper, make their motors

run? Nobody. Not a soul. No one at all.

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