— 10 —
In 1634, there appeared a book called Human and Divine Rhymes, by Lope de Vega, a world-renowned lover of cats. Within this volume, the stellar piece was a 'mock' epic poem titled "The Battle of the Cats", which, though it came to be greatly admired, was regarded as a 'burlesque' by the majority of humans, due to the protagonists' being felines. In this epic, as I consider it, the loves, jealousies, and combats of cats were rendered into the high rhetoric and lyric verse they deserve. As befits my Spanish genealogy, I am proud to note the inclusion of Lope de Vega's fabulous felines among the eminent heroes and heroines of the time-honored epics.
Here I would like to insert a few quotations, paraphrases, and sayings from the abundant body of literature throughout the ages, inspired by cats. Descriptions, metaphors, similes, and other poetic (and non-poetic) figures of all types abound.
I might start, and finish as well, with, for me, the most poetic of poets, whose lyricism I would like to particularly praise, Dylan Thomas, who penned his own memories of Welsh felines in enchanted lines about polar cats.
To him, we were "sleek and long as jaguars" and we "would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls." These phrases can be found in the part "waiting for cats" in Dylan Thomas's long Christmas prose-poem in which he also mentions the green of our eyes. There are also graphic words which apply only to certain more savage lion-like strains, such as, "horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling"—all of which makes me assume that Dylan Thomas had a special affinity for our species. (I will save a line to which I am peculiarly partial for the end.)
I am also fond of the famous metaphoric poem about the fog coming in (most aptly) on little cat feet. And then there are many favorite rhymes, one in which a cat is coupled with a fiddle and another in which a calico cat replies, 'Mee-ow.'
As for proverbial expressions, it should be kept in mind that when someone is 'cool' he is referred to as a 'cat.' Everybody has been exposed to the saying, which I don't like, about not letting the cat out of the bag, and the one I've never understood about raining cats and dogs. And of course there is the well-known game called cat's cradle.
Shakespeare's literary outpourings contain numerous references, such as one in which we are praised a bit offhandedly when the sound of our voices is preferred to poor poetry in the lines:
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew,
Than one of these same meter mongers.
Another Shakespearean quote, apropos to the theme of poor Wilbur's tale, is, "Thou owest ... the cat no perfume." His Spanish contemporary, Cervantes, wrote this bit of folk wisdom: "Those who'll play with cats must expect to be scratched."
Mark Twain asserted unequivocally, "If a man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve the man but deteriorate the cat."—no comment from me. And there's another by him, which expresses sentiments my lady embraced: "A home without a cat, and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat, may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove its title?" Mark Twain also liked to use us as a point of comparison, as in his somewhat puzzling passage, in which nine lives are mentioned: "One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives."
More than two and a half thousand years ago, Aesop posed the question, "Who shall bell the cat?" Of course, there was also T.S. Eliot, who fairly recently wrote a whole book about us, which was made into a hit musical, and a modern play is titled Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, a scorching though highly dramatic image.
We can discover a more dignified line by Kipling: "The Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him."
Pertinent to the efficacy of our claws ( of which I will soon say a little more) is a sentence from Benjamin Franklin: "The cat in gloves catches no mice."
There are also lesser known phrases with pleasant images, such as, "It would make a cat laugh." And, more profoundly, "Cats and monkeys, monkeys and cats—all human life is there."
Then, in conclusion, let me add a Lewis Carroll exclamation: "Oh my fur and whiskers!" To finally end, as promised, with Dylan Thomas: "The wise cats never appeared." I could go on and on.
— 11 —
This seems as good a moment as any to append my thoughts about claws. Yes, we cats are endowed with them, as people are with fingernails, and we must sharpen them frequently. We need claws in order to climb trees—a subject I will return to later—defend ourselves, or to hunt for food, in case we find ourselves reduced to scavenging in the wild. I have heard horror stories of house-cats being de-clawed. This deplorable practice should absolutely be abolished.
Never would I have scratched anyone who was my friend or who treated me decently and with the dignity all living creatures deserve. But I always needed my claws. After all, who knew when a crucial emergency might arise? They were part and parcel of my offense-defense mechanism, and no one should take them away from me or my fellow felines.
— 12 —
While I am being tangential, there comes to mind a male specimen—no ordinary Tom—who was quite a character in the cat community. He was totally ashen in hue, and, when taken together, his face, head, and unusual ears made him bear a marked resemblance to a bear (a coincidence of words and bearing), or more accurately, a teddy bear. My lady called him Charcoal Gray, on account of the shade of his fur, and always greeted him, as he patrolled the limits of the territory he prowled.
They seemed to have a special rapport. My lady would speak to him, as if he were much more than just a casual acquaintance, addressing him by the name Charcoal Gray to which he appeared to respond. He would stop to listen, answering with his eyes, which he fixed on her in a doleful gaze, as though in silent recognition of the sad reality that no matter how kind her words, she would not be able to alter his lowly lot in life. Still and all, he always carried himself with a jaunty air, maintaining his poised self-possession (an inveterate trait of us cats) although in the throes of constant adversity. In exemplary fashion, Charcoal Gray simply turned a cold shoulder to the scornful treatment he customarily received from all save my lady and the man. It was these qualities, plus his unique bearish aspect, which have caused me to pay him the tribute, albeit a bit grudgingly, of inclusion in my memoir.
As a footnote to the above, it is conceivable that Charcoal Gray could have been descended from the revered strain of French Carthusian cats, related to the British Blue variety, whose deep gray fur was poetized, by the 'Pléyade', as 'rare and beautiful as satin'. This blue-blooded breed has been described as well-built, with round head and cheeks and fur analogous to the best Spanish wool, all of which is quite an accurate verbal representation of Charcoal Gray's salient features.
In final afterthought, it makes me pensive to realize that, had Charcoal Gray been born into different circumstances of time and place, it cannot be ruled out that he might have been greatly prized—that is, treated as royalty (as were the cats of Colette and General De Gaulle), rather than as the outcast he was in the social hierarchy of our stomping ground.
— 13 —
The environment I lived in was plentiful in local color. My entire life was spent in Granada, a city rich in multi-cultural history. Though the splendid panorama of its past is evident everywhere, nowhere is it more obvious than in the canyon-like cobblestone streets of the quarter called the Albaicín, which was my haven for well more than half of my earthly existence.
The prevalent theory holds that its name derives from Moors from Baeza having inhabited the area. After having fled the Christian capture of their town, they are reputed to have been invited by the sultan of Granada to settle there in 1227. Another supposition, quite popular and perhaps more accurate, claims that the name originated from the Arabic words 'Al bayya zín' interpreted as 'quarter of the falconer' (not at all a comforting idea for a cat).
The final and least known suggestion for the source of the name is that it was so called for the Arabic words which literally meant 'village on a steep hill'.
Whatever its etymology, the Albaicín looks toward the majestic Alhambra Palace, as though in contemplation of its august profile. An air of mystery seems to waft around every corner (not always romantic, but often sinister) and this locale has managed to preserve, with remarkable purity, its original Arabic appearance.
As far as I know, the Albaicín is still a maze of steep winding streets interspersed with precipitous steps—regrettably wonderful for the robbers—as well as a testimony to the Moorish arrangement of urban dwellings, which dates back to before the Christian conquest of the city.
The contrast of sun and shade is extreme in this distinctive district, and many are the whitewashed walls which can blindingly reflect the sun at one moment only to turn dark as night the next. While, on the one hand, humans have declared the Albaicín a historical heritage on account of its cultural significance, we cats, on the other hand, valued our jungle-like labyrinth habitat for the never-ending shelters and escape routes provided us, although I, personally, was not immune to its inspiring influence either.
— 14 —
Before I leave the topic of my former neighborhood, I would like to cite a couple of examples of streets, not far from the one I thought of as mine, which were so called in honor of us cats.
There was one known as "Aljibe del Gato" (meaning Cistern of the Cat). This name dramatizes a legendary tragedy of a cat who fell into a well there and died. It is one of the most beautiful streets in the area and appropriately features two black cats painted on either side of the ivy-canopied door of a house.
"Calle del Gato" (Street of the Cat) is so labeled, rumor has it, because a shrewd old man 'got away with murder' and thereby gained the epithet 'cat' for his cleverness. Although this folkloric anecdote has no known basis in fact, its existence might be construed as an homage to us felines.
— 15 —
On the opposite hill, where rises the Alhambra Palace, is a street, called "Callejón del Perro", which could be considered the antithesis of the ones I have just described. A residence can actually be found there on the facade of which have been sculpted heads of dogs that are barking aggressively. This is indeed a frightening place for cats, and the mere mention of it could always make any insolent Tom swallow his pride and the most mischievous kitten behave like a little angel.
But as an antidote to the dreaded spot just referred to, let it be known that the main attraction in the city of Granada is the Patio of the Lions in the Alhambra. Here stand twelve noble felines, each spouting water from its mouth, surrounding the basin of a lovely fountain, in an enchanting, fairy tale courtyard.
It is worth mentioning as well that the supreme artistic giant, Leonardo da Vinci, affirmed, "The smallest feline is a masterpiece." And anyone who still doubts our well-deserved world-renown has only to think of the ancient Egyptian civilization and its remaining monuments, the highlight of which is unarguably the sphinx. Suffice it to say that the feline's position of mythical stature, as king (or queen) of beasts, and as the figurative symbol of the pinnacle of culture persists unchallenged.
Part IV
— 1 —
From this time forward, my context was one of belonging. I might say that I began to enjoy novel feelings of security, pleasure, and, yes, happiness. I even started to purr, the involuntary sound of which—a softly vibrant erupting rumble—astonished me and evoked exclamations of delight from my lady, as she summoned the man to experience this new wonder.
And one day, during the execution of some complicated electrical operation by the man involving cables, I pounced in a playful manner, following the movement of the wires in jumps and leaps just like a cavorting kitten.
The surprised man and my lady, who came quickly, suspended all signs of labor for quite a while and simply played with me, slowly moving the cords to and fro in snake-like fashion, as I danced about in mock capture. This was an entirely new game for me and one that would continue, developing into many different forms, for the years to come. These antics, plus my more and more frequent purrs, were certainly an expression of the carefree demeanor that was becoming an attribute of my evolving house-cat personality.
— 2 —
Let me briefly sketch out some landmarks in the backdrop against which, during those days, my drama was played.
I forgot to mention that there was a Japanese artist, with a pleasant temperament, who resided a few doors down. He owned a black Doberman, a thin morose animal, whose nasty disposition contrasted sharply with that of his master. In his sly, stealthy stalking of us cats, he was really more of a menace to me than the German shepherd introduced earlier in my narrative.
I always believed that this dog had a somewhat psychopathic nature and would show himself to be a killer of cats, if given the opportunity. And yet, he was never tied up, let alone locked up; indeed, the Doberman was permitted to freely roam the streets. When engaged in pursuit, he would accelerate to savage speeds and could lurch around corners in the blink of an eye—quite a formidable adversary was this animal, even for me.
It so happened that the old motorcycle, which had been my previous place of shelter, was chained to a barred window next to the Japanese artist's house. While I am on the subject of the motorcycle, it appears that this antique vehicle harked back to the days of World War II, or even the Spanish Civil War. Many were the sightseers who stopped to gawk and snap photos of it—especially those who made the harsh, guttural sounds I had heard in the house before the arrival of my lady and the man. This naturally was quite irritating to me, as it intruded on what little privacy I could then claim.
— 3 —
I'm not sure exactly when, but sometime after I had gained the official status of house-cat, a stray dog appeared on the scene and planted himself stubbornly in front of the door of the Japanese artist's house, barking furiously at anyone or anything that came his way.
As the dog was rather small, the Japanese artist, whose amiable attitude I have already noted, designated him Perro and tolerated his presence. So did the Doberman for some reason. This mind-set of charitableness, plus a minimum quantity of table scraps, caused Perro to attempt to take control of our street—that is, by assuming a malevolent mien and pugnacious pose, to bar passage. He also set up a loud threatening noise, which increased to a frenzied uproar, if one neared him.
During this period of Perro's reign, many people avoided our street altogether, while some were obliged to return in the direction they had come. Other braver souls simply stood their ground and passed by, seemingly unafraid, amid the clamorous cacophony.
The man was to be numbered among the latter, recognizing instinctively that Perro's vicious bark was worse than his bite. But my lady found herself quite irrationally intimidated, which enabled Perro to seize the advantage and behave with the bearing of a bully whenever she went into the street. The problem escalated to the point that my lady had only to open the door for Perro to begin barking with all his might and try to scare her back inside.
That was too much for me. I simply could not tolerate seeing my beloved lady treated in this fashion, and by a creature such as Perro who was just an ill-mannered, ugly-tempered stray. So one day, when my lady was being menaced by him, I strode into the street and positioned myself, in my most challenging stance, between Perro and my lady. My face bore its fiercest grimaces and my body posture clearly stated, 'Stay away, or else!'
This did the trick. Coward that he really was, Perro retreated and never again acted aggressively toward my lady, who was so impressed with my defense of her that she showered me with eulogistic accolades.
In truth, my lady was positively thrilled by my 'heroism', which came to assume nearly epic magnitude as my lady unstintingly extolled my exertions in her behalf over and over, in more and more laudatory terms, each time embellishing them a bit. Nevertheless, all modesty aside, I did risk life and limb and put myself in harm's way when I saw my lady's safety in jeopardy. And I would have done it again in a minute, if the situation required.
Some time later, Perro must have repented of his former maliciousness and decided to try to befriend humanity, because he stopped being scrappy and became almost obsequious in a desperate effort to join our household. He haunted our door, begging my lady and the man to adopt him. I must admit that his evident envy of my happy home-life was quite touching, but I never would have consented to living under the same roof with the former enemy of my lady. I'm not sure how Perro's story ended, but he was apparently destined to be always on the outside, looking in. Finally, he disappeared from our vicinity.
— 4 —
My lady and the man possessed the rare capacity of being able to see beyond the usual movie stereotype presented of cats. They recognized our true nature—that of nearly all living creatures, we are the most sincere.
To honor this commendable character trait, shared by all but a few of us cats, they cherished their own singular saying, which, I feel, should be elevated to the level of a proverb. The expression they invented (at least I think it was they) was, "Cats don't lie." And they were fond of repeating this phrase whenever the occasion called for it.
Their favorite video sequences on television were those involving animals, in particular, with cats as protagonists, and one could hear them chuckling (she) and chortling (he) with glee, meanwhile commenting on the superiority of the ability of a cat to amuse and entertain by simply being him or herself. These conversations would be spiced with their expression about our lack of mendacity.
And since I am complimenting the insight of my lady and the man, let me add that their fury knew no bounds when they saw an animal—any animal!—being mistreated or even dealt with in a degrading manner. They would always speak out in defense of us and denounce all intrusions on our natural heritage. The fact is, my lady and the man would invariably turn against even members of their own species who behaved with insensitivity—not to mention cruelty—toward any creature great or small. They often went so far as to judge the merits of a person on the basis of whether or not he or she had a liking for cats. If the human race were peopled with more of their kind, the world would surely be a different place!
— 5 —
There was, however, a difference in the way the man and my lady reacted to seeing us hunt for ourselves and our young. Although my lady admired the elegant style of all felines, she could not watch any animal capture and kill another. If viewing a documentary, she would turn the channel or leave the room when the first slinking strides occurred. She seemed to identify and empathize with our prey, rather than with us. But this trait in her I have described before.
The man was able to come to grips with—to incorporate, appreciate, and accept—this essential aspect of our natural existence. He could relish its skill, when looking at one of the great felines in the wild stalking, pursuing, in general outwitting and outrunning what was to become its meal. He had a lot of respect for our legendary speed, agility, and gracefulness, and recognized that felines were hunters and that was that.
But not my lady, she could never reconcile herself to these basic laws of nature. And yet, despite the fact that I certainly couldn't espouse her point of view, somehow this shortcoming endeared her all the more to me.
In truth, from my present state, in which I have momentarily merged with the universe, I can better grasp my lady's sense of compassion that caused her to suffer the pain of every living creature. After all, perceptions change, our senses can purify, and perhaps things will be different for me the next time around. But what seems immutable—impervious to winds of impermanence—is that, while alive, I grew to adore my lady and cannot imagine ever feeling otherwise. To me, she was, and always will be, sublime.
— 6 —
But I must leave this lofty plane in order to continue recounting my mundane yarn, which may, after all, contain that glimpse of truth which, I believe, everyone is inadvertently seeking. Elevating, awe inspiring, my tale is not (awful rather, for the most part) but if one finds a sigh, a smile, a moment of vision, then maybe my lady's efforts and mine in relating this chronicle (which is not coming out chronologically) will not have been in vain.
Thus far I have mainly praised my domesticated circumstances, but there were also indignities to which I was exposed, almost never by my lady, occasionally by the man, but more often by other people who entered the house.
In one infamous instance, I was presented with an aberration of nature for inspection—that is, a freakish creature was thrust in my face—which moved as though alive, but resembled no animal, human or otherwise, I had ever seen.
Though normally intrepid, I was quite taken aback by this bizarre being, which sentiment found expression in my eyes and bewildered responses of aggressive defense. This monstrosity, as I later discovered, was called a hand puppet. But it was their laughter that dismayed and humiliated me the most. The hilarity of the young woman who manipulated it, even the guffaws of the man I could stomach, but when my lady burst out in irrepressible mirth and merriment, with giggles that persisted in echoing crescendos for a long time later, I, in my refined state of cultivation, felt betrayed beyond belief. To receive pleasure through my discomfiture was an offense practically unpardonable, though in the end, I, of course, forgave them.
— 7 —
I have to admit that my growing healthy youngsters could have been slightly vexing to those with only a person's perceptions, although I certainly had to tolerate my share of human foibles, too. For example, one day, while practicing darting wildly here and there (important exercises, I might add), my kittens managed to knock over and break a huge potted plant. For some reason, this upset my lady considerably, which I still regard as an over-reaction on her part.
Another nearly insufferable incident occurred when someone who was reputed to have phobic reactions to small animals (since when are cats considered small?!) was permitted to enter my home. Actually, at that time my kittens were in their stage of exploration and were roving about the upstairs of the house.
On catching sight of me and especially my youngsters, this woman proceeded to shriek like a banshee, in absolute hysteria, which nearly frightened us all to death. If she was terrified, my little ones and I were all the more thrown into a state of shock, for what on earth had we done to deserve such appalling, repellent responses? My kittens, after all, were utterly charming.
But what particularly galled me was that instead of being ejected from our dwelling, as her screaming fits certainly merited, this young woman's rights were apparently being defended over ours. Nevertheless, all things pass, and at length this incomparably disagreeable happening came to an end.
Still, I have often wondered what lasting effects could have remained in my impressionable toddlers’ hearts, from their traumatic exposure to such an extreme personality disorder. At their tender ages, such events leave traces, perhaps altering the delicate development of little personalities for life (or so the theory goes). This I was never to know. But enough of exasperating episodes.
— 8 —
Having undertaken the task of telling my story, from which I have deigned to digress undoubtedly overmuch, let us proceed to speak of an inordinately troublesome aspect of the Albaicín, which, directly or indirectly, precipitated what I prefer to designate the forced flight. This latter event, by the way, triggered terrors more intense than any I had ever encountered, due to my helplessness and the unexpectedness of the experience.
But to return to the matter at hand, I here refer to the absolute sovereignty of the thieves in our area.
It was common knowledge among most of the residents in our hillside neighborhood that the robbers had made secret maps (for their own use) of all the streets, on which they charted the daily habits and activities of the unwitting inhabitants, so as to find out with precision the optimum moment to enter any dwelling without being discovered. They also put specially coded marks, lines, and crosses on the walls and doors of our abodes, in order to alert one another to distinguishing characteristics and other items of information, to which they alone were privy, of particular importance to their excursions. Additionally, muggings were constant occurrences. Indeed, the man was attacked—accosted with a knife—nearly in front of our house, on the night before Christmas Eve one year.
Very few domiciles, excluding the luxurious ones with sophisticated modes of detection, escaped incursions, often again and again, by the numerous burglars, who specialized in stealthy raids and survived on the stolen goods. In the Albaicín, the robbers reigned supreme, ruling with gloved hand (so to speak). Their dominion was virtually undefied by any authority, though hopefully that lamentable lack of protection, leading to such a deplorable state of affairs, has changed somewhat since I lived there. My lady and the man found themselves feeling fed up with that robbers' haven, there seeming to be no way, in the locality of the Albaicín, for them to hold on to the few meager possessions they valued.
Among the various and sundry occupants of this quarter was one exasperated victim who put a sign on his front door with a message that said, in effect, 'Please' (I think he even said that!) 'don't break my door again. If you want something just knock and ask. It will be given to you.' Thus, you can see the extremes to which some desperate dwellers were driven, in this case simply to keep their doors in repair. For, as often happens, it was the houses of the poor that were broken into most frequently.
— 9 —
My lady and the man had installed burglar bars completely covering the upstairs balcony, after an adroit robber had entered one hot summer afternoon (while my lady was napping downstairs!) and stolen all her jewelry. It was not that my lady had been possessed of diamonds, rubies, or emeralds, but she had collected, during the years before relocating almost half way around the world in Spain, several special boxes of necklaces, rings, earrings, and countless other keepsakes, given as gifts or carefully selected, and (to her) priceless mementos of incalculable sentimental value, including some of worldly worth as well. The burglarized items also consisted of the man's wedding ring, which had needed resizing, some large strands of amethyst beads, and other memorabilia of former times, too numerous to mention. In fact, the only jewels remaining to her were the thin gold wedding band and a pair of bead earrings which she had been wearing that day.
My lady is definitely not a materialist. Nevertheless, these irreplaceable losses had depressed her for a rather long period and unhappily not one item was ever recovered. (The police had proved totally unhelpful.) I myself felt very fortunate that no harm had come to my lady, since, being in the house, she might have been assaulted or stabbed (perish the thought!), and it was she who was the dearest treasure to me.
— 10 —
In the aftermath, the iron grating mentioned above had been cemented across the balcony, and then they both had been able to rest easier. But as my lady and the man were later to discover with dismay, this simply served as a temporary impediment to the shameless thieves in the Albaicín (who, as often as not, would even stoop to stealing food from the refrigerators of old ladies). These housebreakers began loosening the lock on the front door—my unsuspecting lady and the man thought only that it was getting old—and one day succeeded in unscrewing it off, leaving only a hole where the lock had been.
This time I was the one in the house. On the entry of these brazen lawbreakers, who had not the slightest concern for my presence, I bolted, in alarm, out of what now seemed to be the house of the robbers. I tore up the street to a lookout point where I could seclude myself in tall weeds and wild grass.
When my lady and the man returned, as I was informed later, their major worry (bless their souls!) was over my whereabouts. My lady, in desperation, ran around the house frantically calling my name. But it was the man who spied me first. I, in my horror and panic over the invasion of my first real home, was by now frenziedly chomping away on the vegetation in my hideout. Believe it or not, my emotions had so reverted to their former state that, in my fright and insecurity, I let the welcome arms of the man pick me up and carry me back home. My lady was beside herself with relief and joy over my reappearance and would not let me out of her sight for the rest of the day.
To their everlasting credit, my lady and the man were much more perturbed about my absence and possible loss than that of a new watch of hers, a compact disc player, and other items that had been pilfered.
— 11 —
Little did I know that I was soon to say goodbye to the region of the Albaicín, whose familiar ambience had been my world, and had offered, up to very recently, the only sense of safety and security I was heir to. But before I depart from it in my narrative I would like to speak of one of its major deficiencies, which was an extreme dearth of trees. There were, as I have stated, an abundance of walls and dovetailing rooftops to ascend and descend, but these were not the same as trees.
I must admit to having twinges of regret that—in what could otherwise be considered the longest, fullest possible earthly span—I never climbed a single tree. In none of my remembered 'nine lives', cultivated or otherwise, have I experienced the elation of scaling a tall (or short, for that matter) tree. I went from the Albaicín to a third floor apartment, around the corner from Granada's city hall, where the only climbing feasible, within my new, more circumscribed spatial reference points, was up the stairs to the terrace and perhaps higher up an adjacent roof, though nothing like what I had done before.
There is reputed to be an Aesop fable, which has evolved to become a folktale motif, even finding its way into the writings of the Grimm Brothers, about the cat's deftness at tree-climbing. Sometimes found under the headings of 'the cat's only trick' or 'the cat and the fox', it tells a tale of a fox remarking to a cat that whatever danger might impend, he could save himself by means of one hundred tricks. The cat responded that she (many people call all of us 'she') would use only one. At that moment they were attacked by a pack of hounds. While the fox tried each of his stratagems, the cat darted up a tree, and the fox was finally caught. Thus, this feline predisposition won out even over an animal considered invincible in its cunning.
— 12 —
I can no longer delay relating my relocation across town, the reconstruction of which in my memory still has the disquieting potential to make me shudder.
It began with unsettling signs of inevitable departure. Boxes were packed with household items, and pieces of furniture vanished from sight. My apprehension of impending doom mounted. These ominous omens had always preceded my prior abandonments, and I could not help being filled with dread. I had believed things would be different this time, but everything appeared to be happening as before.
I tried to brace myself for the coming horror, but I was not able to muster any emotional defenses to suppress my pangs of anxiety. I had come to love and depend on these people and simply could not bear the thought of another painful rejection.
My meows, which became more frequent, were charged with my heart-felt pleas that I not be left all alone again to fend for myself in a world that now seemed much colder and more hostile.
My lady stroked me, spoke in sweet tones to me—and yet, no matter how engaging were her vocal inflections, I could not convince myself that all would be well. Never before had there ever been a human being that I could genuinely trust.
Day after day, more furniture was hauled away—couches, chairs, the stove and refrigerator, even the bed disappeared—until there was nothing left except my pitiful place to eat, spread with newspaper, and my litter box. As my lady and the man went through the door with the last load, I realized that I had really been left behind. Gloom overwhelmed me, as I sunk into the deepest depression I had ever known. In spiritless dejection, I mournfully faced the truth. My lady had abandoned me and broken my heart.
— 13 —
Completely devastated, I tried to make myself as small as possible and curled up in a corner, of the now empty kitchen, near the newspaper with my food. I was so forlorn I couldn't even fall asleep.
Then, after what seemed an eternity of wretchedness, I heard the usual sounds of the door opening and they returned, calling my name, 'Mama-cat, Mama-cat'. The man had brought a large cardboard box.
But now occurred the most harrowing journey of my life—across Granada—away from my territory, my only actual stability up to the present. As I said previously, at that moment, my terror was greater than ever before or since.
In the darkness of the box, I felt myself being transported who knew where. I screamed out my panic, alternated with shrill cries of distress, and frenetically tried to escape. The only thing that saved me from expiring on the spot from fright—which even caused me to relieve myself in the box—was the ceaseless sound, sturdy and staunch, of my lady's voice, gently yet firmly murmuring that she was there and aware of my misery.
When at last we arrived at our destination and I was let out, wonder of wonders awaited me! There were my familiar furnishings, my food, my litter box, most importantly, my lady and the man!
I began to purr immediately and incessantly, perhaps for the longest time in my life—a purring that emanated from deep inside. I had survived the most agonizing ordeal imaginable. I had not been abandoned again! In truth, I was made to feel important, wanted, cared for, loved. Never could I have envisioned such an exalted state of existence to be possible for me. My destiny had definitely changed for the better.
This shift in my circumstances brought to a close the climactic ups and downs of my earthly passage. As I was to discover, my street-cat days were permanently over. Now commenced what I regarded as a glorious state of retirement, in which I occupied the prime position in our household. An atmosphere of calm reigned in my new location, though looming ahead were the final universal afflictions, still to be suffered—old age, sickness, and death.
