I don't know who said, "you don't own a cat, the cat owns you?" It could have been Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway, both avid cat lovers, or just one of those sayings that gets passed down over the years. That certainly is the case with the little gray and light brown tabby that has decided to make our yard, and us in turn, her own.
My wife hasn't exactly warmed up to the cat, which I call Ash, but she seems to like it hanging around the yard. We lost our beloved dog in March and the cat helps fill the void. Ash has been coming around for three years now. Chuey would sniff her out and chase her from under the bushes each morning. A friendly game of hide and seek. Ash had her ear clipped, suggesting she was a stray that had been spayed, but her coat was remarkably soft, which also suggested someone was taking care of her. In recent weeks, Ash had been getting more plaintive in her calls. I sensed she wanted more than just to be petted, when she tried to take a bit out of my fingertip, smelling the chicken sandwich I just ate. I gave her some chicken and she gobbled it right up. Seems whoever was taking care of her gave up now that she was spending so much time at our place. So, I started feeding her, much to my wife's chagrin.
She knows I'm a cat person, ever since we first took a trip across the United States back in 1993. It was night. I saw something lying on the road in the headlights on a deserted road in West Texas. I stopped to find a kitten no more than two or three months old. It was still warm but in shock. It either had been hit by a car or thrown out the window of a car, as there were no discerning marks. We stopped at a hotel near Fort Davis for the night. I asked the clerk if she knew anyone who could take the cat. She said she would call the police as nothing would be open this time of night. We waited with the cat in the lobby, taking turns gently stroking it, but it remained comatose. A policeman pitched up a half hour later. We explained the situation. He was genuinely concerned and said he would take the cat to the veterinarian in the morning.
My wife and I weren't married at the the time. She was amazed that so much attention could be given to a cat. I told her I grew up with cats. I learned their mannerisms, often mimicked them myself. One of my favorite movies was Cat People with Natassia Kinski and Malcolm McDowell. I often thought of myself as half cat. As our relationship grew, she said that night stood out as the moment she knew I was her man.
Not that she is much of a cat person herself. She told me a story of how she had tried to adopt a cat as a child. One of the neighbors in her courtyard had offered it to her. She took it home but her parents told her to return it. Her father told her that cats spread disease, and she developed an aversion to cats. She didn't show it that night but she said what else was she supposed to do.
Ash is a perfectly healthy cat. A few scratches from fights with the other local cats, but they've healed up again. I was worried about a deep gouge in her cheek earlier this summer. She kept scratching it, reopening the wound, but now the hair has grown back over it. She curls up on my lap while I have coffee on the terrace, eventually falling into a deep purr.
We've discussed what to do with her if she continues to come around this winter. My wife doesn't want the cat in the house so I said I will build her a warm cat house for the cold nights. This cat has had too much of the outdoors to ever be a house cat, although she has snuck into the house on a few occasions when we left the door open, sitting on the carpet of the entry hall, waiting for one of us to come outside with her.
I think her biggest fear is that one cat will lead to another, once the neighborhood cats find out how nice I am to this cat. We already get a regal looking orange-striped cat. But, it has a collar and a name tag. It's the only cat Ash allows into the yard. The others she chases away. She has clearly staked out this territory as her own, so I really don't think we have much to worry about in other strays. Anyway, one is enough for me. I don't want to meet the same fate as Bohumil Hrabal, who blamed his growing insanity and all the cats he adopted.
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