Cats

Reading the Bukowski poem got me thinking about all the cats and kittens I have known and loved. When I was a kid I always had an orange tabby cat named Pierre. Pierre the original, and after he met his unfortunate and bitterly mourned demise, Pierre II. My sister, five years older than I, was given a wire haired terrier named Cindy while I was still really young. I know she felt very privileged by that, as if a cat were a kind of booby prize pet. I never saw it that way.

Almost all of my childhood memories take place outdoors, I can barely remember doing anything of consequence inside the house. And when we were in the backyard, my sister would spend some time playing with her dog. Every once in awhile she would let me play with Cindy, and I admit it was fun to throw a ball and have the dog bring it back, or to dress up the dog in funny clothes. But most of the time the dog just sat there, or barked, or slept or chewed on one toy or another.

My cat, on the other hand, was always going off to do something interesting. We had a big garden and he would prowl through the cornstalks proudly, a princely predator surveying his domain. Occasionally he would bring a mouse, mole or (sadly) a rabbit or bird and leave it by the back door as if offering to share the bounty of his prowess. Both Pierres were manly cats, but still they loved to cuddle, and if you showed affection they would show it right back, purring with delight and making little mushing motions with their paws. I thought the Pierres were so very cool, I loved them each of them for their catly selves.

But, truth be told, it is my last cat, the six-toed Elmo, that was most like Bukowski’s. Elmo, a stray, probably dumped into the woods next to what used to be my house, yowled at my door for several days before I broke down and took him in. He was in such bad shape-one ear half gone, one eye destroyed, a huge oozing growth on his side- he needed several months of medical treatment before he was well enough to be neutered. But that brave cat wasn’t afraid of anything- fox, big dog, the road. He lived a long, adventure filled life. I think he knew how fortunate he was to have a loving home, but he could not resist the allure of the big wide world. He would disappear for days-sometimes weeks- but then return as if he had just stepped out to sun himself on the patio and -hey! where's dinner? When I moved, and my father moved into what had been my house, I did not have the heart to bring Elmo into town. He was a rover, and would either whither in confinement or meet an early death on the streets of the town. So he stayed on the land he had made his own. My Dad, a longtime dog man, fell in love with that scrappy tabby. As he grew older, Elmo learned to sleep on a human bed. I'm sure it was not a difficult skill to acquire. When he was old-very, very old- he disappeared one last time. I found out from the animal control officers that he had been found with a shattered jaw and had been euthanized. I am glad that he did not continue to suffer. But I was so sorry that he was gone.

I am rambling on far too long here. And so, I will close my feline revery with little ditty about an imagined kitty.

doggerel for kitten

Satisfied, the bowl licked clean
Warm sunbeam sprawl now, tiny sphinx.
Soft fur blissful, stretching, dozing
off to dream brave lion dreams:
the tiny tail tip of the quick gray fieldmouse
that scurried through the grass
away from you.
The many legged bug
you batted and played with,
but it died before the game was through.
Happy dreams of bravely stalking,
boldly hunting bird and mole
King of the backyard deep grass jungle,
spiderweb and groundhog hole.
Set to pounce at any movement,
whether it be mouse or snake.
Dream great adventures, little kitten,
You will live them when you wake.