This Cat's Life

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a story I wrote around February 2006, which should explain the embarrassingly under-par quality of writing, and it has the distinction of being the first, and so far only, "animal story" I've written. I'm posting it because not only do I feel that it's one of the few (maybe only one) stories I've writing that I can still feel proud of after all these years, but also as "supplemental material" for an essay I've been planning to write for the last several week on Intellectual Property. So I present to you, unchanged, "This Cat's Life".



He comes home late and leaves early. I don’t know what he does in all the time that I don’t see him. Just that, coming and going, he always wears the same expression: worn, tired, cold. Unhappy. If I knew how to make him stay forever I’d never be lonely again.

With him gone all there is to do is watch birds out the window. Winter, there’s never any birds around and the ground’s hard and dead with unrelenting layers of frost biting at the soil but come the summer months I can get five winged things in the front yard if I’m lucky. And if there’s no one around to scare them off.
The birds are gutless, pathetic things and most of them are mangy-grey and ugly but every once in awhile I’ll get a bright red cardinal or a beautiful blue jay and I savor the urge to pluck their feathers from every inch of their body with my teeth.
But window-watching loses its appeal quickly when you don’t have a companion to stare with you and reach out a paw to reaffirm the glass’s existence.

When I’m not sitting up at the window I like to stretch out in the sun and bathe myself in its rays. Even on the coldest winter day the sun still shines through and warms a small patch of the living room carpet. Sometimes I lay for hours and hours with my eyes squeezed tight and leaking juice as my belly fills up with a humid warmth. One of my ears always remains cocked to the floor and I can hear every little tick and clank of the pipes as something somewhere turns on and off again.
I often fall asleep while listening to the pipes. Seconds stretch out and drift away as reality and my dreams overlap. It is during these times that I think he’s here when he’s not. I can feel his hand on my fur, even warmer than the sun, and I can feel my heart beat right into the palm.
Even lying in the sun grows old after so long.

He has a kind face. Even though world-worn and heavy he still maintains a gentleness and reserve characteristic of the greatest of kings. His touch is so soft and so light I can’t help but feel myself being drawn into it. The way he moves is like an immense planet and the gravitational pull keeps me weaving in and out between his legs.
Even before he opens the door I’m there to greet him because I could never stay away from his vast presence.

What few toys I have are old and dull. I’ve always found it more than a little demeaning being expected to roll around on the floor with a cheap plastic tinkling ball like it was some demented mouse. Or a battery-powered rolling raccoon ball. Or his shoestrings trailing across the floor like snakes.
I do like catnip, though. Just the smell of it makes my mouth water and the muscles in my paws flex with exhilaration. I always keep my stash of ‘nip close by and where I can find it in case I need my fix at some point throughout the day.

I’m not allowed to go outside so the only world I’ve known are these walls and that carpet and those stairs. Sometimes at night when he forgets to draw the shades I can catch my reflection in the windowpane and it is by that that I can recognize others like me wandering about outside on the street, in the yard, and sometimes even in the bushes. I call out to them but they never hear me. Their eyes are fixed on what is in front of them and their minds are preoccupied with days breathing in the fresh air, feeling the warm grass beneath their feet, and lying out in the real sun, the sun that doesn’t come filtering through two layers of glass.
I’ve seen the way they take down my birds, their ease and grace as they bound through the air and pull the frightened creature back toward the ground. How swift they are to sever the bird’s spine. The way they strut off triumphant and proud with their catch in their mouth, grinning at those in awe and growling at those who wish to take what is theirs. I don’t even know the taste of a bird but my entire body yearns for it like some long forgotten need. In one bird’s eyes is the look of a million other birds and it’s a look I’ve known for a million years before my birth.
I tap the glass and know I can never make it out.

He sleeps a lot. I could say like a cat but that would just be an insult. His slumber is shallow and he spends most of the night turning on his bed. Sometimes he makes noises, too, ranging from mewling to outright yowling. I always curl up at the foot of the bed and listen to him in the darkness of the night. I don’t know what his dreams are filled with but I imagine it can’t be anything good. Like dogs and vacuum cleaners and the sound of running water when you’ve gotten your coat exactly how you want it.
I try to comfort him. I go up and bathe his face with my warm tongue but he always pushes me away. I try to curl up close to his body but he moves so much that I’m afraid I might be crushed. In the end, I’ve learned to just lie at the foot of the bed and ride it out. Always, sometime in the early hours of the morning, he settles down and gets some rest.
Then the alarm goes off and he’s gone again.

I guess my favorite thing to do is sleep, but that sounds so clichéd and makes me feel like I’m lazy. I work hard to keep this little tummy of mine. Even though I find toys demeaning I still chase the tinkling ball around in a more or less dignified manner. I always schedule an hour or two of exercise time each day right before my third bath and right after second breakfast. I’ve also tried to eat less at every meal and to get him to switch over to a low-fat cat food. No luck though, I’m not much for deprivation and he’s never around long enough for me to discuss in detail my decision.
I almost feel stupid for asking anyway. Like I’m not good enough.

I always clam up whenever he’s around. When I’m alone I have no trouble making a ruckus and I even have fun most of the time I’m doing it, but as soon as he comes through the door I just shut up and follow quietly as he goes from room to room. He mumbles to himself sometimes as I follow behind and I prick my ears up to catch each word but I can never understand him. He speaks in the disjointed manner of a personal debate and he always settles it before I can string a coherent sentence together. I could ask him what he’s talking to himself about but I’m afraid he’d look at me funny.

I like to sing in my spare time. Not even he knows how much I like to sing. It helps to pass the time when there are no birds outside and the sun has gone behind a cloud. Most of what I sing are original compositions focusing on the inherent troubles in a feline’s life while a few of them are songs I learned while I was a kitten still living with my mother. Cats don’t like to sing in the presence of other cats but a mother will always sing to her kittens. Mom had the sweetest voice and her words were always so tender. I always find myself humming one of her melodies whenever I’m not paying attention.

I never really knew my father and I never bothered asking Mom about him while I was still living with her. He was gone before I was even born, but I don’t hold anything against him for that. I imagine he was strong and proud and could take on a dog twice his size. Like so many other cats, I imagine he met his end under the wheel of a car or over a piece of poisoned beef or at the bottom of a nasty fall. Cats don’t fall often but when they do it’s a sad sight to see.
I think my father loved to climb trees and catch the birds right where they roost. It’s just that he ran into a sparrow who was too smart for him and knocked him from the branch he crouched on. I imagine him spinning and wheeling through the air, his eyes wild with fear, just before his back snapped on the hard ground. His death was probably bloodless and instantaneous, so he maintained his pride to the very end, even if the bird sat there and laughed at him.
That sparrow may have laughed as my father died but a bird’s life is only so long and the maggot was probably dead within a week.

Days go by when I don’t see him at all, when my food dish remains empty while my stomach growls. I’ve learned to fend for myself. There’s usually a few pieces of a leftover meal on the kitchen table and I can pick off the tastier scraps while leaving the rest untouched. I’m fine without him for short periods of time but I worry that this time he’s gone for good. I couldn’t live without him. I’d go crazy and break free. I’d smash a window. I would search and search until I found him and then I would never leave his side. Sometimes I think about the pain if I threw myself through the window.
I think I could take it.

Today I heard the tinkling of broken glass and caught the reflection of green, slit eyes falling to the floor. He stood over the pieces of the shattered mirror, the frame hanging crooked and twisted on the wall. His hand bled drops of dark red blood and the blood dripped onto the floor, staining pieces of the mirror. I licked at the drops of blood but it tasted bitter and cold. I looked at him and asked him what was wrong but he wouldn’t even return my gaze.
I wanted nothing more to clean his hand of all that red and to dress his wounds with my tongue but I never got the chance. He cleaned away the blood himself and bandaged his own hand in a crude architecture of gauze and tape, leaving his fingers slightly swollen and stiff. Even after he fixed himself up I tried to offer my own little bit comfort but he wouldn’t let me anywhere near the hand. I gave up when he pushed me from the couch where he sat as I tried to cuddle up to him.
I want to try and fix everything. I want to make it better. But I can’t.

The nights are always cold, even when he’s here. He walks around in the dark a lot lately, with only a flashlight sometimes. My eyes adjust easily so it really doesn’t bother me but it hurts to watch him feel around blind against the walls. His feet are always running into corners and I don’t know how to tell him to watch out. Anymore, he goes to bed fully dressed and sleeps under three layers of blankets. I try to keep him from seeing me shiver but it’s so hard. Sometimes at night I watch for his breath to come fogging out so I know he’s still alive.

My toys are still here, my food bowl is still here. Gone is the kibble that used to fill up my bowl, gone is the batteries that kept the raccoon ball rolling in every which direction. He feeds me what he doesn’t eat and as the days go by I notice it’s becoming less and less. We skip meals sometimes. I’m down to three squares a day, but not by choice. I try not to complain too much but sometimes the hunger pains get so bad it feels like I’m going to die. I know he’s doing his best but there isn’t any fresh water anymore and there’s a paper flapping on door every time he comes and goes.
His face has grown old, a decade in three months. I worry if he dies before I do. Who would take care of me?

I love the sun, but in all the time that it is out it could never warm the house up.

All the food in the refrigerator has spoiled. I can smell it as I pass by and I’m not sure what would be worse, to remain hungry or to make myself sick by eating that food. I beg him not to open the door, that the smell would be too horrible, and most days he doesn’t.

Mom said never to get too dependent on anyone but myself. Who does she think gave her that nice box and blankets to give birth in?

I don’t sleep much anymore, or, it I do, I don’t remember it. My grumbling tummy keeps me awake. I just kind of zone in and out of a daze. Sometimes, I smell old french fries on him when he comes home and even though I haven’t seen him eat in such a long time I can taste cold hamburger and browning lettuce on his skin. I forgive him for hording all to himself. I just wish the pain wasn’t so bad.

He doesn’t clean himself anymore and the smell keeps me from going near him.

I envy those cats outside who get to chase the birds. They don’t know how good they have it.

I love him. There isn’t anyone else I could love but him. I live on his gentle pats in the morning and his sweet kisses at night. When I open my eyes he’s all I want to see. When I close them again he’s all I want to dream. His voice echoes in the recesses of my brain and his eyes burn in my mind. I want to take care of him and always be there for him. I wish I could tell him.

There’s always someone knocking at the door and he won’t answer it. I go and hide under the table until whoever it is leaves.

I like heavy metal music. I like the way it feels as it vibrates the bones in my spine.

I want blood. I want meat. I want splintering bones and burst blood vessels. I want my dinner to scream as I tear it apart. I want to fill my belly with twitching tissue and feel that it’s still alive even inside me.

I wish I could tell him how I feel. I wish he knew.

I forgive him for everything. I know none of it is his fault. He was a victim of circumstance and so was I. We’re together and that’s enough to be happy.

The pipes have all gone silent in the floor. I hate trying to listen for their sounds so I don’t. It was a stupid thing to do anyway.

He always smiled when things got bad, so warm. He would smile and scratch behind my ears in that place I like. His tired eyes would light up and that’s how I knew it would all be okay. Whatever happened, I knew it would all work out in the end. He would fix things. He would make it better. Like all the other hard times, this, too, shall pass. Just wait and see.
I may not be able to understand what he’s saying but I understand that much.

This morning I woke up and he was gone, but I’m not worried. I know he’ll be back eventually. Until then, I still have my window and my sun and all my little songs. I can watch the birds and catnap and sing while he’s gone. It doesn’t matter. Once he gets back I won’t have to be lonely anymore.

THE END