A Cat Named Darwin

by William Jordan

  "How dare you," said I with the righteous indignation of my species. "The human being is the pinnacle of evolution. Above the human there is nothing but the universe."

  The cats did not dignify my reply with a direct answer, no doubt smiling inwardly with the sly recognition that the universe—God?—overarched every thing on the planet. They simply stared at me as cats stare. Then they gathered around and rubbed against my legs in the warm, soft friction of feline love, wrapping their tails around my calves and trailing them away with lingering affection as they turned and headed off.

  For ten years we have traveled together, I following with the eyes of Gulliver, beholding at each turn the wonders of nature and the wonders of human nature, and these sights have changed me forever. What I once saw as the mainstream of human affairs, I now see as a navel fixation, arrant parochialism that obscures our true place in the body of a living, multispecific planet.

  Ten years marks a natural cycle, however, and the time has come for me to tell the tale of where I have gone and what I have seen. A Cat Named Darwin is best regarded as a sort of travel writing, the collected letters home of a philosophic nomad.

  1. Picking a Human Up

  THE FIRST TIME Darwin spoke to me I didn't understand a thing he said. I did, however, understand everything he meant. That is because he spoke the old language, the lingua vertebrata of posture and pose and cries without consonants that our animal kin speak from birth, and even though we humans have neglected this language in our tortured exodus to civilization, we still retain an innate ability to comprehend if we simply watch and listen, and feel.

  I had gone out to empty the trash and was walking between the house and the old, rotting fence when I saw a big, orange, bull's-eye tabby lying in a bed of leaves beneath the bougainvillea bush just across the property line. He had been nesting there for about a week and usually ran when he saw me. This time, however, he held his ground and lay there, head resting on forepaws, staring into my eyes with a sullen, defiant glare that passed through my glasses, bored into my hazel-green retinas, and passed through the tiny black hole by which the universe enters the human mind.

  I stood frozen, staring back, staring into those still, clear, metallic orange disks, into those black slits through time, into the ancestry of all who came before us.

  Even though he was dirty and haggard, he was still a handsome cat with the classic bull's-eye marking on each side, a large, dark blotch in a light field, circled by a thick ring, and a white bib extending from his chin down his breast and over his tummy. I had seen him in the neighborhood many times and had taken little notice, but this time I could not take my eyes away, and I stood there, eyes locked with his. Then, driven by some primal urge I will never understand, I opened my mouth and meowed.

  Immediately the cat raised his head, intensifying his stare, and meowed back. Then he stood, stretched, walked deliberately toward me, and squeezed through a hole in the rotted planks. As if obeying some extrasensory cue, I dropped to hands and knees so my face was no more than a foot above his head, and waited. He looked up into my eyes for several seconds, then slowly, carefully, raised his right forepaw and oh so gently touched my nose. Looking into his eyes, now a foot away from my own, I lowered my head still farther and watched with crossed eyes as the cat raised his face and touched his nose to mine.

  I reached out impulsively to stroke his head. He leaned into my hand, savoring my touch as only the cat can. He rubbed against my thigh. I ran my hand down his back, and he arched into the stroke. Again I ran my hand along his back, and again. Then he turned deliberately around and, with the most nonchalant grace, bit my hand.

  He bit my hand! It was not a savage, all-out bite, but it hurt, and I lurched up and back, tripped over a pile of newspapers, and fell clumsily on my back. The cat, apparently mistaking this maneuver for some sort of martial art, emitted a cloud of hiss and sailed over the fence in a single leap, tail lashing the innocent air.

  My first reaction was to consider lethal force. No animal did that to me and got away with it. I had spent my early years on a farm and people on farms do not balk at taking animal life. My second reaction was a feeling of weariness. I was slowing down for middle age and something in me seemed to have changed. For the first time, vengeance seemed stale. It proved nothing but the obvious fact that we humans reign supreme. So instead of getting a club, I found myself extending my hand and cajoling.

  "Come on, it's all right, meow, no one is going to hurt you, meow." I was sure the meow had no meaning, but I didn't know what else to say.

  In a few moments the cat seemed to relax, and finally transcending his apprehensions, he squeezed through the hole in the fence and walked toward me, tensely suspicious.

  At this point I must have entered some sort of trance, for I vaguely recall walking to the corner store and buying a can of cat food, walking back to my flat with the cat following close behind, climbing the stairs, opening the door, watching the cat enter and cautiously scout the room, watching his trepidations vanish with the aroma of food as he sat up like a bear, crying for service. Although I would have denied it at the time, I realize now I knew then that I had just committed myself to another living thing.

  Ah, the blessings of ignorance. Had I known what the proper care of a cat entailed, I would certainly have walked away. But I didn't know and so now began the practical task of starting out. Relationships are always practical at heart and have little to do with romantic beginnings. It is a first-things-first, one-step-at-a-time, cross-the-next-bridge-when-reached process.

  ***

  I took my first step with what might be called a fresh eye, since I had never lived with a cat and knew little of feline habits, but in fact that fresh eye peered out from all the mainstream values and attitudes of the late twentieth century. I was an animal liker, not a lover. As a creature of American civilization I had no idea what love and respect for other creatures meant, how it felt, what it required. As a citizen of the West, I assumed that an animal, no matter how enjoyable its company, was ultimately a commodity and not worthy of the priceless value we humans place on our own lives. In great part this is the legacy of Genesis, first chapter—"And God said ... let [man] have dominion over ... all the earth, and over every creeping thing." It is a view that culminates in that strangest of all environments, the holy ecology of Heaven, which has only one species, the human being.

  My Western values were augmented, but also tempered, by the values of science. I had been educated as a biologist, had spent thirteen years at the graduate and undergraduate levels, and I had learned my lessons well, Ph.D. well. The first step in the scientific process is to observe what is there and only what is there. There was this cat.

  The larger task of science is to see reality without the distortions of religion, culture, political ideology, and personal agenda. As a result, when I chose to look at life with a biological eye, I saw the laws and principles by which evolution has designed and crafted the living. In watching animals behave, I saw the strategies and calculations by which the living survive. In gazing over the natural landscape, I saw the objects and forces with which life must cope in order to succeed.

  That is all I saw from the biological mindset. Sentiments like love and affection have no place in the workings of the scientific mind—unless they are viewed as mechanisms from an intellectual distance—and the bare fact was, this big, orange, dirty, hungry cat stood in my house waiting for me to feed him.

  And what did he bring to the boarding gate? He brought a certain age. He had arrived in the neighborhood a year before, clearly a mature cat, and I thought at the time that he belonged to my neighbors across the street. He had walked deliberately toward me with all the nonchalance in the world, wearing a flea collar. I had reached down to pet him, but he merely tolerated a few strokes, then turned and walked away less than impressed, as magisterial as he had come.

  I saw him periodically after that, as one would expect of a neighbor's cat. Gradually, however,
he began to grow thinner, then gaunt. This seemed strange, since the neighbors took good care of their other cats, which were sleek and well groomed. One day I happened to meet these neighbors and asked them if the big tabby was theirs. They said no. They didn't know whose cat he was. He had probably been abandoned—people frequently leave cats behind when their lives change and they move away—and my neighborhood seemed to attract more than its share of these unfortunate strays.

  And so what had been a big, sleek, handsome, neutered torn had slowly come to be this thin, gaunt creature of the streets, forced to pilfer food from the dishes of kept cats and dogs, to scrounge the alleys for scraps of refuse, and to fight for shelter and territory among the other cats without homes, driven, finally, to beg for food. Now he stood before me in what might be his last chance to find a decent life.

  At forty-four, I too was coming to recognize my own mortality and for the first time feeling the isolation of the single life. I had come to a point where the self was not enough. The single life seemed hollow and listless and lay before me in a flat, overcast plain of existence. I yearned to escape it. I wanted to give up personal freedom and commit myself to another person, a prospect I had rejected all my adult life.

  So there we stood, two confirmed bachelors, one facing the desperation of bare survival; the other, bare loneliness. I opened the can of food, dished half of the smelly contents into a bowl, and watched as the cat attacked it, redefining the expression "wolfing" it down. A feeling of pleasure came over me: vicarious gluttony. He quickly finished and meowed for more. I fed him more. Again he finished and meowed and again I dished out more, soon emptying the can. Then he went to the door and wanted out. I let him out. That evening, as darkness came, he wanted in. I let him in. He wanted more food. He received more food.

  When he finished his second feast, he walked over to where I sat reading the paper and jumped onto the couch next to me. After staring steadily into my eyes for an eternal fifteen seconds or so, he turned about in several slow, tight circles, testing the firmness of the cushions with his forepaws, then flopped heavily against my thigh. There he lay for the rest of the evening, dirty and populated with fleas, and while he purred, I reveled in the feel of his warm, small, dirty body pressed against my flesh.

  Finally, however, it came time for bed, which meant it was time for him to go outside. He was still just a cat, and as pleasant as our time together had been, cats belonged outdoors. In rules and laws, crooned my interior voice, is Civilization. In this iron fist in this velvet glove lie those rules and laws.

  Heraus mit dir, said the beloved memory of my German grandmother.

  I stood to my full height, expanded my chest with a deep breath, and pointed toward the door with a military stiffening of my right arm. The cat stared at me for several moments, then, as if he had heard my interior monologue and understood perfectly, he hung his head and walked dejectedly out, emitting a tiny, thin, pathetic meow. No human ever expressed resignation and despair with more pathos than this cat. I was still, however, an unregenerate member of modern society, and I tried to shrug off the waves of pity as a mere projection of human emotion. The door closed behind the poor creature, the latch clicked, and I had just committed the first blunder of many in our relationship.

  I had underestimated the cat.

  A loud meow then arose from just beyond the door. Another loud meow. I did nothing. A louder meow. More pity welled up, but it hadn't a chance of forcing me to reconsider my policies. Louder still. How much volume does he have? I wondered, but refused to open the door.

  The cat responded with a relentless series of meows that went on and on, blending gradually into one long ululation that penetrated ceilings, walls, and floors and seeped into the rooms. The siege continued for at least half an hour; then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Nothing was ever stiller or deeper than the silence that followed. What was going on? Was he merely taking time to breathe? That question was answered with a strange scraping sound, as if someone was rubbing a piece of sandpaper against the surface. Again the sound came. And again. Then the pace picked up and I realized that the cat was pawing at the door, perhaps clawing. This went on for minutes before it stopped. No sooner had it stopped than the loud, caustic meowing started up. All through the night it continued, periods of billowing wails washing over my walls followed by bouts of small paws pummeling the door until finally, needing to sleep, I resorted to earplugs, which dampened the sound but did not eliminate it.

  ***

  When I awoke the next morning the siege seemed to have ended. Light streamed through the windows and cast the shadows of leaves and branches against the walls, where they slipped silently this way and that across the whiteness. It was as if a spirit had departed. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. No cat. I opened the door farther. Still no cat. I opened it all the way and stepped onto the threshold, and just as I did, the cat slipped through my legs so quickly that I couldn't focus my eyes. I stood there with what must have been a lobotomized look on my face as it slowly occurred to me that I had been set up, the cat pressed like a commando against the wall next to the door, and when my guard relaxed he made his move with such perfect timing that it could not be blocked.

  Into the kitchen strode the big orange cat, exuding confidence, expecting—knowing—it was time for breakfast.

  Not that this changed the rules; cats still belonged outdoors, and one never budged on basic principles. Steel fist, velvet glove. That night the siege resumed, if anything with more determination on both sides. I inserted my earplugs and went to bed. The next morning the same vacant silence. This time I knew what to expect, but as I slowly extended my head to check behind the door, I saw a yellow Post-it, obviously from my neighbor across the landing. The cat's wailing, of course, would have been as audible to her as it was to me.

  Bill—

  I think there's a brain-damaged cat in the neighborhood.

  It yowled all night in front of your door for the second night in a row. Finally I threw a shoe at it.

  Diane

  The cat was nowhere to be seen, and suddenly I felt a twinge of anxiety. Had he been driven away forever? A small chill of loneliness. He had spent so much energy in his campaign with such unwavering focus that he must be ... and it occurred to me how desperate this little creature must be for the companionship of a human being, with its shelter from the real world. Then a strange feeling welled up in me and suddenly I wanted to call him, invite him in. But I had no name to call, so I simply whistled—a thin, quavering note from behind my teeth. About fifteen seconds later the cat appeared at the foot of the stairs.

  ***

  Some context is in order here, because I grew up in a family of dog advocates who disliked cats and calculated their value against the gold standard of canine bonding and canine utility. We didn't dwell on the issue of cat versus dog, but if you added up the details over the years, the list would be downright damning. For example, with respect to that peculiar emotional subservience known as affection, which distinguishes dogs, cats seemed little better than reptiles. As domestic servants they were useless. At best they helped in rodent control, because they were unrepentant killers. They scratched furniture and urinated on rugs and wailed in the night. They neither guarded the house nor protected you from violent crime. They would not retrieve game or herd sheep or lead the blind. You couldn't train them—you couldn't dominate them and force them to your will—and therefore they were stupid. They were completely self-centered and did nothing for anyone but themselves; they were takers, not givers, thus they stood for bad values. Aside from the killing of rodents, their only benefit to man was in scientific experimentation. How anyone could bond with a cat was beyond comprehension; those who liked cats, let alone loved them, were probably limited in their emotional capacities.

  So there I stood, unrepentant dogist and member in full standing of the Canine Nation, looking down without malice, experiencing the first tingling of a feeling I quickly suppressed, for
I had no intention of assuming a long-term relationship with such a creature. In fact, I had no intentions of any sort. I was simply proceeding from moment to moment at the beck and call of impulses I had never before obeyed.

  2. A Dog's Meow

  THE CAT WALKED OVER and rubbed against my leg, meowing to be fed, and it struck me just how thin, gaunt, and dirty he had become since we met a year earlier. His fur had lost its sheen and was matted on his back with crankcase oil. My German ancestry, however, ran deeper than my family values, and worthless though this little creature was, his unhygienic plight triggered a cleaning response. He would have to be bathed.

  Practicality then reared its flat, scaly head. How to bathe a cat? Having had no experience in dealing with angry teeth and claws, I decided to ask the advice of friends who loved cats and owned many. Robyn, who lived around the block with three cats, referred me to a veterinarian who specialized in cats and ran a bathing and grooming service.

  But how to get a cat from here to there? I did not own a transport cage, and purchasing one was out of the question for what was going to be a short-term relationship.

  I called the vet, and the thin shaky voice of an old woman answered the phone, advising me to bring the cat in an old pillowcase. However, I soon discovered that evolution had designed cats to resist transportation in sacks. The cat and I negotiated the matter with some passion, but I cannot remember precisely how I convinced him to agree. All that remains are vague fragments of memory with images of claws hooking in cloth and wails of anger and desperation, of a cat held out at arm's length by the tip of its tail, where it cannot get you, of a cat rolled up in a towel. I recall a strong urinary odor as I drove. Later that afternoon, as I drove the cat home, the fur on his stomach and throat gleaming white, his markings a deep rich orange, a different odor began to waft from the sack, and my subsequent memories are very clear of washing the cat's rear quarters to remove the soil he had produced in sheer terror. Clearly, this creature had a deep-seated fear of veterinarians and automotive transportation.