—  14  —

            As luck would have it, my lady and the man had chanced upon a third floor apartment, as noted before, in an old building just around the corner from city hall square.  From the front window of this flat, there was an even better view of the Alhambra, especially the Tower of the Nightwatch, or Candle (Torre de la Vela), that is, until a newly constructed building blocked it.  But from the terrace, one story above, the view was, and continued to be, spectacular—on the left, the Cathedral; straight ahead, the Alhambra, which was lit up at night; and to the right, a panorama of the Sierra Nevada mountains, in all their snow-capped pride.  Completing this near picture postcard were layers of the quaint tile roofs that are so characteristic of Old World towns.

            My lady and I established a pattern of ascending the stairs to the terrace together at least once a day.  Here she would hang the laundry out to dry, or simply sit and brood over the ages-old cultural landscape, intoning her mystic phrase, while I explored adjacent rooftops, returning to my lady's side now and again to be stroked.  In this way, we spent many memorable private moments together, my lady and I—before the advent of new neighbors across from us—in times of peace and happiness, as well as in times of great sorrow.

            Our terrace was also visited by numerous birds.  There were the ever-present pigeons, sparrows, and perhaps other small species that nested nearby.  My lady was fond of feeding bits of bread to these various creatures, and I always sampled, indeed ate, the best mouthfuls, even though I no longer would have so much as licked a morsel of bread, had it been offered to me inside my home.  I suppose that having once been a street cat for such a long time, there was a remaining reflex carried over from those days.  Thus, I found myself gobbling up any edible substance that appeared outside, so that no one else would get it, I have to admit, and because I was still plagued by visceral memories of the perpetual hunger pangs I had suffered in my past years of deprivation.  Old habits, it seems, die hard.

Strange it is and rather humiliating to recall these lapses into debasement on my part.  Thankfully, my lady neither judged nor censored whatever involuntary impulses impelled me.  In fact, her tone of voice, as I munched away, bespoke affection, although mixed with amusement.

            The birds, of course, never appeared for their meal, left over from my nibbling, until we had descended from the terrace, except, that is, where my lady had flung the bread to the lower rooftops which were inaccessible to me.

—  15  —

            In addition, scarcely had we begun to settle into our new domicile, when variations on our domestic rituals started to emerge—a favorite of mine being our mealtime routine.  My regular seat was on an arm of the sofa—there was a large one and a smaller couch—next to my lady, between her and the man, where I was at eye-level with the table and could inspect the various dishes.  I would observe, as they ate, how they placed tidbits of the most appetizing foods on a Styrofoam tray, in preparation for my treat afterward.  When my lady rose from the table, this was my cue to go to the kitchen and receive my snack.  Sometimes there were false starts, and I would have to reposition myself.

            In cold weather, as previously stated, I would poise, in precarious rest, on the supporting bars of the table, which was covered with the winter cloth-blanket, over the heater, with my tail dangling down.  As soon as my lady took her place, I would glide smoothly onto her lap.

            It was around this time as well that my daily brushings commenced.  I now had special brushes of my own, and the sensation of the soft bristles gently scratching through my fur came to be extremely pleasing to me.  Whether this activity was engaged in by my lady or the man (each had a distinct style), I looked forward to my grooming sessions, which often evolved into play periods.  The brushings also benefited me, as was their purpose, since a great deal of hair would be shed onto the brush, instead of by means of my tongue.

            These and other family ceremonies punctuated our tranquil days and nights—truly so serene that I can recall very few highlights worthy of special attention in my narrative, which is drawing to a close.

—  16  —

            Let me conclude my story with the occurrences and domestic details which assumed singular importance to me, and which I feel deserve to be enumerated.

            The normal intervals of sleep were twice daily, the mid-afternoon nap following lunch usually being short.  The man went to bed, while my lady stretched out on the sofa, dozing to the drone of the television.  Occasionally, I drowsed off into fitful slumber in an isolated room, only to find myself trapped in a nightmare trance of having been forever abandoned.  The heart-rending cries, as my lady described them, that issued from me in those instances always roused her.  She would call me again and again, till her voice located me and I awoke from this shaky dream state and came to join her.  Then once more I would be on the solid ground of her caring.

            Each night, at bedtime, my lady again summoned me.  In winter months, I would squiggle under the covers to snuggle next to her body, while, in warmer seasons, I would recline on the pillow just above her head.

            Another pleasure I indulged in repeatedly was a simulated nursing and kneading with my paws, claws extended (the latter of which presented a problem for my lady), on certain of her clothes.  This was a massaging type of movement, similar to playing a pedal organ.  Though there are those who would attach a Freudian interpretation to these regressed impulses of mine, for me the sole significance of these motions lay in the sheer ecstasy this experience provided.

            My favorite materials were soft sweaters, blankets, and a thick terry cloth robe, whose loopy weave was almost completely destroyed by my sucking and plucking it.  I would become absorbed in this activity, as long as permitted, during which my ears lay flat against my head, my tail extended rigidly, and my eyes assumed a soft, dewy cast and a blissful look of rapture, so I have been told.

—  17  —

            The most upsetting incident, following our move, that comes to mind was when I was chased away from my own building, after which the street door was closed, barring my re-entry.  I almost got 'lost'!  The experience served as a stark reminder of my humble origins and desperate days before being adopted, and is indelibly etched in my recollections.

            I was compelled to realize once again that others did not perceive me with the eyes of my lady and the man.  You see, I was not able to wear a collar, due to the long scar on my neck which would open or become inflamed if chafed.  Thus, there was no identification tag or insignia defining me as a member of a household.

            To people who spotted me outside of my domestic context, I was nothing but a nuisance, an intruder, or what is thought of as the basest sort of alley cat.  The episode I will now relate dramatically brought home to me the extremity of the perceptual gulf between those in my family and those who were not.

            One evening, when I was feeling a bit bored and claustrophobic, I wandered all the way to the ground floor of our apartment, in order to explore the surroundings a bit.  After a short while, just as I was about to return, a man I had never seen before, with a ne'er-do-well look and manner, walked up to our building and went inside.  Giving me a perfunctory glance of contempt, he made irritating noises of 'pssst' repeatedly, after which he shooed me away, shutting the entrance door behind him.

            This was indeed a terrible moment, for which I was totally unprepared.  Night was descending, and I found myself in a plaza, the likes of which I had hitherto never encountered in my life.  Here people crossed back and forth, and police stood guard outside a formal-looking edifice, which I later heard referred to as the town hall in Plaza del Carmen.  I had somehow ventured into hostile territory and I knew it.

            I dared not roam too far from the scene, so I was reduced to dashing here and there, in search of a hiding place or any familiar spot.  Desperation ruled my movements, and I began to slink in my former marginated fashion, trying to dodge the strangers who paid me only cursory attention.  Once again I was flooded with the awful memories of my unhappy street days, with the degradation and stigma attached to being a homeless stray.  I had been down that road and most decidedly did not want to travel it again.

            At long, long last, I heard the ever so dear cry, loud and plaintive, of 'Mama-cat, Mama-cat, where's my Mama-cat?!'  Needless to say, I came running to my lady's call!  I was saved from the catastrophe of being shunned, safe and sound in my precious lady's love, restored to my now rightful role of family member into which she instantly reinstated me.  Never again, was I to descend to the depths of the ground level—either figuratively or literally—where I might encounter whatever cold, callous specimens of humanity happened to be passing by.  From then on, I stayed put in my own apartment, only ascending to the terrace, which at that time we did not have to share with anyone else.

—  18  —

            As a sort of coda to my chronicle, I would like to recount an occurrence which illustrated a more benevolent side of human beings.

            I have already mentioned that the lot across from ours had been vacant when we moved in.  All manner of shrubbery and rubbish filled this space, which had been fenced behind a high metal enclosure.  From our front balcony, we could look down into what had been adapted as a makeshift shelter by a number of the neighborhood cats, since people could not access it.

            My lady, the man, and I (in my own manner) enjoyed watching these various felines.  Encouraging messages would be called out to the cats below and chicken bones tossed over the wall to them, when no one was in the street.

            The day came when there were indications that construction would begin in the future.  As was customary, first arrived the archaeologists, who had priority over the area for three months or so.  Daily they chipped and picked away at the ground, unearthing rock formations that might have been parts of interior structures of former cultures.

            The man was, at that time, reluctant to continue flinging food to the local cats, who continued to appear nightly.  For, as he explained to the lady, the bones, neatly cleaned by the cats by morning, might confound or confuse the archaeological excavations, in which the man was particularly interested.  In other words, these mundane remnants could be mistaken for Moorish or Roman remains.  So my lady and he more or less relinquished their custom of throwing things to the cats, though now and again they could not resist tossing bits and pieces of something edible to these creatures who often gazed up hopefully, expectantly, waiting for food to rain down on them from above.

            But these showers of blessings had to stop abruptly when the archaeologists, having discovered nothing they considered extraordinary, packed up and left.

            Then the laborers arrived, with their huge building machines and horrible noise makers, to begin the pounding, banging, jackhammering, and buzz sawing we had to endure for about a year thereafter.

            But in the meantime, a mother cat had found a rocky tunnel in this lot, into which she had moved her feline family of four or five kittens.  (My memory is a bit blurry as to the precise number.)  When the jackhammering began, the workmen discovered this litter of kittens, hiding in the midst of the horrible racket, virtually frightened out of their wits.

            The mother cat's ingenuity, as to how to solve this life-threatening dilemma, seemed to have failed her.  At night she returned to her babies, only to be driven away by the machines early in the morning.

            I must admit to having been quite impressed at the sequence of events that followed.  My lady, the man, and I were witness to the rescue of this feline family, which occupied half a day of the construction workers' schedule.

            I wanted to tell the desperate kittens that while it seemed the height of cruelty for them to be driven from their natal home with piped blasts of air and boards—these were the methods used, all less drastic ones having failed—and, further, to be carried out by the tail when they tried to return, I could observe from my balcony that these were acts of compassionate providence, designed to save the little ones from the destiny of being crushed to death as their tunnel shelter collapsed.  But they were too young and panic-stricken to understand, and I was too high up to try to explain.  Besides, they weren't my kittens anyway.  When it was over, my lady applauded the men and shouted, 'Bravo!'.

—  19  —

            On that optimistic note, it seems appropriate to wind up my tale (no pun intended).  I sincerely hope that I have not over-taxed anyone's patience and endurance in having undertaken and pressed on with the task of recording the reminiscences of such a one as I, the confessions of whom are, no doubt, considered triviality of the highest order by the majority of sentient beings.

            Having run that risk, however, there is nothing left to say, except that I wish it to be borne in mind that being no more than a lowly feline creature, I have done the best I could with my limited talents, abilities, and resources to ramble through the vicissitudes of my humble existence, without becoming utterly boring.  Naturally, none of this labor would have been possible without the guiding pen of my lady and some help from the man.

—  20  —

            So I bid this world a fond farewell, with a few parting thoughts and a last remembrance or two of things past.

            Thanks to the great love, magnanimity, and encompassing compassion of my lady—she insists such high praise is excessive—and the beneficence of her and the man, I was able to live out the last of my life in peace, security, and grace.

            In the final month before my passing, I found a small uncooked flounder (also known as sole) under a counter on the kitchen floor, apparently dropped during the preparation of the evening meal.  Instead of eating it on the spot, as I would have done in former times, I carefully placed the whole fish beneath the dining room table, where my lady, the man, and I always partook of our repasts—mine often being hand-fed dainties in these latter days.  My unconscious intention, I suppose, was to express, through this offering, my profound gratitude for the good life I had been blessed with.

—  21  —

            If there is any impression I would wish my autobiography to engender, with those readers who have remained throughout, it may be that there are deep dimensions of love (and spheres of its opposites) which resonate eternally—bonds of connectedness that even death cannot destroy.

            As my days dwindled down, my life force diminished.  Seeking solace, in the ultimate weeks of my existence, for the one and only time, I stepped onto my lady's table, where she cherished her books of Nichiren Daishonin's writings, and lay down directly in front of what she calls the Gohonzon, which is enshrined because of its special significance for her.  My lady likes to focus on this mandala of the Mystic Law—Nam-myoho-renge-kyo—when she chants that phrase.

            She was astonished, astounded, amazed.  My lady felt that I was striving toward enlightenment through that cause.  She has said that those with faith, who practice, or voice, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo can enter the vast ocean of Buddhahood within—that perhaps I, too, will attain this state in the future.  I believe my lady.  I hope I do.

—  22  —

            At last I became too weak to climb to my lady's lap.  So I rested atop her literary file, specially cushioned for me with a soft carpet, close to where she sounded the phrase that seemed to release me from my anguish.  I drifted off to the reverberating tones.  I could feel that my lady was chanting for me.

            And the waves of life and death roll on, as they have for thousands of years and shall for thousands more ...

A Biographical Note

            Born in California on June 17, 1942, Harley White has lived in Spain with her second husband Kirk Wangensteen since 1990. The tragedies referred to in the book are the deaths of her only two, adult children from her first marriage – her daughter in August 1994, followed by her son in March 1996.

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Hi, I’m Kirk, the man. I wish to add some words to my wife’s taciturnity (actually, she says it all, and much more, in her book). I met Harley in 1989, in Big Sur, California, among the redwoods, and proceeded to marry her —no sooner said than done— right there, in a redwood “cathedral”. She is a born word-lover; she has been called “the reincarnation of James Joyce”… by a reputed Joycean scholar! In fact, she is now well into her own Finnegans Wake, a monumental opus dealing in fairy tales, musical theater, poetry, and awakenings. Since her early twenties, she has been writing — among other “genres”, stream of consciousness, surrealistic theater of the absurd, and mixed media works of interior “monologues”, “dialogues”… Ah, and, as you may have guessed, she has a special thing for cats.

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As for me, well I was born in Minneapolis, MN, in 1950, and came to Spain at the age of eight. I have lived in other places, such as India, but most of my adult life was spent between Spain and California. I studied at the Universities of Granada, Barcelona, and U.C. California at Berkeley: Romance languages and literatures being my field. I love reading and writing, and my wife, of course.

A few things herein you can blame on me and only me: a) the Spanish rendition. b) A few pointers which Harley incorporated in relation to Spanish culture. And c) Somehow I managed to put together —in their present form—the book and CD. Hope you like them.

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            Our e-mail is:

harleykirk@hotmail.com