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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
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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