Black hair lifted by the icy wind, he came out of the supermarket with a bag which—judging from all the huffing and puffing-–must’ve weighed a ton and lumbered to his beat-up car. “Jesus! Christ!” He plunked the bag down on the hood, slumped against a cracked headlight and fumbled out a butt which he managed to light despite the wind. “Ahhh!” he exhaled. “That’s better! Surcease from stress and tension! Free from fucking crowds!”
And at that moment the sun should’ve burst through the scudding clouds, for Fate allowed him to spot me. “Hey, cat!” he called over to where I peered out at him from behind a shopping cart. “What’re you doing out here all by yourself? It’s cold as hell, cat!” Well, though I liked the shaggy look of him and the breathiness of his voice right away, when he took a step in my direction, the thought of the farmer episode sent me hightailing toward the fence. “Hey! What’s the hurry?” he yelled, running after me. “Where’re you going? Friend, not foe, here!” But I didn’t believe him. Why’s he chasing me? I’d asked myself. What’s he want? Heart hammering, I wriggled through the gap to safety and bounded into a bunch or tall weeds. “C’mon, cat! Be sensible! You don’t want to be out here freezing your tail off. Let me take you away from all this,” he said. He even went so far as “Here, kitty kitty kitty!” which, knowing him like I do now was absolutely out of character. But absolutely in character on the other hand was his doggedness in trying to get me to come out in the open, so that the harder and longer he tried the more afraid I became somehow he’d find a way to come over the fence and snatch me and I’d be sent back to a water tank and treadmill. “Show yourself, cat!” Sucking at his cigarette, exhaling smoke and icy air, he marched back and forth, every now and then hunkering down to try to see me, coaxing me through chattering teeth to reveal myself, his words torn apart by the wind and parking lot racket. Finally after an endless time, to my great relief, he quit. With a shrug he walked away. “I tried, cat,” he called over his shoulder. “I tried.”
So much for our first encounter. “So you went there after all!” Paula had sighed, exasperated. “Never mind how I know. I know, that’s all. Well, at least you saw for yourself I’m right, bonehead. Stay away from that lot or they’ll shovel you out of it.” But Bob surprised me with a different opinion. Don’t rush to judgment on that guy, Fairbanks. He could be kosher. They aren’t all farmers. Not that it isn’t better to be safe than to sorrow. Check him out if he comes again. Play it safe, but keep an open mind.
And naturally Bob was the one I listened to. Check him out for what I wasn’t sure, since I’d had no intention of leaving Paula; but maybe, I’d told myself, characteristically pipe dreaming, if he was kosher he’d rescue us both. So the following day about the same time, Paula napping, I was on my way to the fence when there he was, pulling his car up to the fence. He got out with a large bag of cat food, razored it open, and began sprinkling its contents in our plates and all over, talking away, talking away. “You losing it, Booley? Usurping a cat lady’s job is what you do? We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” Then: “Hey, cat! The little guy in the gray striped suit I met yesterday? Wherefore art thou, cat?”
And again, something in his breathy voice set off a sympathetic chord in the inner cat. While everyone else who’d been around scrambled for cover, I kept going toward the fence. “Fairbanks!” Paula called from our carton. “Where you going? Come here!” I didn’t answer her. I didn’t go back. What to say about that gut feeling which got me where I am today except that Fate instilled it and Bob sanctioned it? Something within, whatever it was, had this urge to be touched by him and I went with it. What the hell, I’d told myself, No risk, no gain; and tail high, I sidled up to the fence. “Aha! Here he comes!” he said, all smiles one second, but the next, sucking in his breath. “Jesus! What the hell happened to you?” He poked a cold finger smelling like Elizabeth’s of tobacco through the wire and scratched my cheek. Bliss. I thanked him with a silent meow, closed my eyes, and commenced to purr. “C’mon out of there, cat” he coaxed hoarsely, tickling me under the chin while I purred and purred. “Let’s make friends.” Go for it, Fairbanks! said Bob, which was all I needed. I wriggled through the fence opening. “That’s the brave cat,” he said. “That’s the boyo.” And the “boyo,” Elizabeth’s word, clinched it.
Petted and scratched in all the appropriate places, I flopped on my back and drifted on Cloud Nine. He had me rolling like Queen, purring with pleasure, all resistance gone, putty in his hands, when without warning I found myself grabbed by the scruff—“GOTCHA!”—and carried, no longer transported but kicking, squirming, hissing, clawing, and spitting to the car. I’d been gulled. I’d been kidnapped.
Terrified, I screamed and fought all the way back to what I now happily call home. I was sure I was in a replay of the Farmer/Penske/Hudak nightmare. I worried about Paula. I carried on like a crazy cat, running all over the car, raking his head, his hands, every bit of him I could get my claws into. But Booley being Booley instead of stopping the car and kicking me the hell out, fended me off the best he could and still drive, asking why the hell I was carrying on like that, saying I should relax—what he was doing was for my own good. “Accept, cat, accept,” he advised above my hollow wails. “You’ve lucked out, and from the looks of what happened to you, it’s about time.”
Epilogue
He named me Sisypuss for obvious reasons. “Welcome, Sisypuss,” he’d said unwrapping the old blanket in which he’d straightjacketed me so’s to smuggle me inside his flat. “Sorry for the dirty trick and the discomfort.” I hissed. I growled. I made a quick dash under the sofa and wailed and wailed. “Sssh, cat! Turn it down a few decibels, you’re an illegal, no pets allowed in this dump,” he whispered, finger to lips, then left to buy cat food, litter pan, and toys. “All set now, Sisypuss, you’re home free. Two bachelors, you and me, sharing a life of the mind and spirit from here on in.”
Hey, Fairbanks, cheer up. It looks good to me!
Well, in short order it did to me too. Of course for a while I missed Paula and my freedom: It wasn’t easy being a house cat at first. But FIV soon took care of that. For not too long after he took me home I came down with stomatitis. My mouth was so sore I couldn’t eat, I kept drooling, I felt like something the dog dragged in, too sick to go anywhere. I spent the day hunched up on the rug, paws tucked under my chest. Booley wiped away my drool and bought gourmet treats. I turned my head away.
The next day he got a carrier and took me to a vet who shook his head and made the dire diagnosis. “Of course this is pending tests, but to be frank, it doesn’t look good.” And when he called to say tests had confirmed the death sentence, Booley turned white, raked his thinning hair, and told the vet to do the test again. Then, his eyes red and wet, he knelt down to where I crouched on the floor and hugged me. “Maybe it’s a mistake,” he said. And when again the results came back positive he took me to another vet who had tests done and redone at a different lab. Only then did he believe it.
Since then two years, five girlfriends, three vets, and dozens of the clinical trials he enrolls in for our sustenance have come and gone. A friend of his with AIDS bootlegs Interferon for us. The rest—my gum medicine, cortisone, vitamins, and herbs—he buys from vets and health food stores. One of his girlfriends gave him an old computer which he hates but uses to do extensive research about my disease. “Fucking thing!” he snarls when it fails to come up with the miracle alternative-therapy cure he’s sure exists somewhere in the world.
He loves me as much as I love him and respects my wishes in all things but medications and vet visits. He’s commemorated me with his “Ode to Sisypuss” which, like most of his work, remains unpublished by the literary journals and reviews he submits to. “The shit they accept! They don’t know the difference,” he sighs. He tells me I can’t die and leave him alone. “Who else do I have?” After all he’s done for me, he says, it’d be the zenith of ingratitude.
“Hang in. tomorrow’s the Big Day. Happ
y Xmas Eve, Sisypuss,” he whispered last night, kissing me goodnight on the top of my head still furless around the puncture, enveloping me in a fog of joint, tobacco, and wine fumes. “The time for miracles is tonight and tomorrow.”
I’ll try, I feebly purred. Can it hurt? Maybe Dr. Cohen will walk through the door tomorrow with a syringe full of magic. Or tonight Bob’ll pad out of my dream into the real world, curl up beside me and say in his everyday voice, not the spirit voice in my head: “C’mon, Fairbanks, enough already with the swan song. I’m here now. Let’s live!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I would like to pay tribute to three extraordinary women who opened my eyes to the many problems animals like Sisypuss face in our society. For rewarding and unforgettable years I worked with these wonderful people dedicated to furthering the ethical treatment of animals. Alice Herrington, founder of Friends of Animals; Helen Jones, founder of Society for Animal Rights; and Lesley Sinclair, founder of Animal Care, were mentors and friends. I also owe indebtedness to the excellent books, Free the Animals by Ingrid Newkirk and Stolen for Profit by Jude Reitman, for providing valuable information for Sisypuss.
Further, I acknowledge all vagabond cats wandering unwanted through the world and all cats I‘ve lived with and loved as the catalysts for writing this book. Finally, my very special appreciation goes to John: husband, life’s companion, reader, bulwark of encouragement and patience, and all good things.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patricia Halloff’s stories have appeared in respected literary journals such as the New England Review, The Cream City Review, New Letters, Witness, and in various anthologies. She is the author of two previous novels: Roadblocks to Nirvana and Memorial Candle. Her work as legislative consultant for major animal rights organizations has given her insider knowledge of the problems facing homeless animals, and her own cats have taught her all she needs to know about cat psychology. She lives in Freehold, New Jersey with her husband and cats.
Sisypuss: Memoirs of a Vagabond Cat Page 15