Not that I couldn’t go on about the following topic for yonks, but I have to put together my thoughts for the Friday Night Wine Night segment on Patreon this afternoon, and time is of the essence, as “THEY” are fond of saying. However, I did make an occult pact with myself that I would write each passing day or my existence shall be cursed with the fleas of a thousand camels to the end of my days … so here I am.
Cats … the Egyptians worshipped them, the Internet would not be what it is without them, and pure evil could not inhabit this earthly realm in any other form so diabolical.
Maybe that is why I adore them so. They take no shit from humans. They can be domesticated but not controlled. These furry bastards snuggle with one stoke of the fur then proceed to extract blood faster than a paediatric nurse taking a sample from a child before they know what is happening. And the purr remains such an elusive mystery … Does it mean happiness? If so, then why has it been rumoured that felines rumble away when close to natural death? (Possibly they are ecstatic that they are released from the banter of humans.) One thought is that the vibrations from purring have a healing effect upon their systems. Whatever the case, mankind has either held them in rapturous awe or chilling fear throughout history.
My connection goes back hundreds of years it seems (at least my knees feel like it has been that long). I grew up with dogs, and I do love those tail-wagging slobber machines as well, but when you travel and wish to explore away for more than a few hours a day, you must either resign yourself to taking along that barking set of teeth or find a friend to shack them up with.
Cats, on the other hand, do not care if you are there or not, as long as food is left out and they can defecate in a decently fresh box of sandy goodness. These creatures are fine with their independence; a match made in heaven for transients and wanderers. They are not made for a walk on a leash, no matter what you try to convince yourself. At their core, they wish they had the strength to drag you off a cliff or in front of oncoming traffic! And getting these long-tailed mousers to do tricks, like a “let me please you, master” canine? The look of utter indifference you get from those glowing eyes expresses all you need to know. “We are GODS!”, they seem to emote. “I make YOU do tricks for me, you hairless monkeys!”
Through all this, I connect with kitty-kind somehow. Is it the same like-minded solitary behaviour? Is it the nonchalant view of much of humanity? I am not sure in the slightest.
But if I even see a deceased ball of fur on the side of the road, I close my eyes a split second and restrain a tear. There have even been moments where if it was a recent occurrence in my immediate locality, I have stopped and transported the sad shell of former life to a spot further away off the pavement or, as was the case of those I encountered more frequently round my garden, granted them the respect they deserve and placed them back to the earth to rest without disturbance … and in those moments, I have bawled my eyes out.
There have been many beautiful, charismatic meow meows in my life … Petunia, Pieprz, Pyłek (one family that all lived 20 years or more), Bastet … and more recently Ramen, Soba, Noodle, Cannoli, Lasagne, Penne (another family) … and, of course, my beloved Koko. With great shame and sorrow, I had to leave these elegant beasts behind after my recent change of relationship and living status. Hopes were once entertained to have some or all of them back, slicing my flesh open with their needle-like claws and tearing into my flesh with a gnashing of teeth, but though I have my own home, the land I am on is not yet under my control or ownership.
So I wait impatiently … missing that part of me, even with the neighbour’s cat at my disposal. But he is not MY cat (or I am not his human, to be more precise), and I would take responsibility for it far more carefully and respectfully than they do.
When the time comes, I shall do like I had for the past 15 years and save as many kitties as I can manage from the shelter I get the honour of assisting at when the chance presents itself.
And afterwards, those mean-spirited assholes in fur would still not listen to me no matter what I do or feed them, waiting for the moment I pass so they can feast upon my carcass. I pray that, in their own manner, they would at least humour the thought: “You know … kinda liked the guy. And he didn’t taste half bad either.”
