The cat sprang into the air and bolted directly away, flinging clods of grass into the air. It careened around the far corner of the house, the place where Darwin and I had met, and disappeared from my view, crying as it went. The cries came drifting back, pain fading into the distance.
The sound stayed in my brain, repeating itself again and again. I would never have reacted this way before joining life with Darwin. As a hunter, the thrill of stalking, of swinging the muzzle onto the arc of flight, of finding the precise, magic instant to jerk the trigger, the thunder of the round and the blow to the shoulder, the feathers exploding from the target, the crumpling in midair, the delirious charge to secure the kill—such sensations had always blocked all thought and reflection.
Now I could not escape that haunting cry of pain. I had almost killed this innocent creature, merely for acting out the instructions of his genetic code, and now I found myself pulled into his mind, feeling his pain, feeling his fear.
Furthermore, I had saved Darwin only for the time being. I still faced the dilemma of protecting him, and I had few choices, because the use of force, particularly for extermination, had suddenly been taken away. I soon, however, hit upon an alternative solution. I would simply remove the offending stray. Of course, this still left the neighbors' pets, which had diplomatic immunity and could challenge Darwin at will, but I didn't cast my thoughts beyond the immediate problem. Denial is essential if you want to keep your plans on track.
Removal was a practical and practicable plan. Having spent my youth as an avid trapper as well as hunter, I was proficient in the ways of capturing small animals like foxes, skunks, opossums, and cats. The animal pound offered wire box traps for this very purpose, and the next day I rented one. I knew that taking a stray to the pound was essentially a death sentence, but there was always a chance that someone would adopt an abandoned cat, such a big, handsome one at that, and this corrupted rationale was more than sufficient to feed my denials.
That night I placed the trap in one of the paths I had seen the cat take to pass around the garage. For bait I used half a can of fresh tuna, as much to assuage my guilt as to entice the cat, and the next morning I trotted down the stairs to view the trap's yield. It was empty. I was stunned. A stray cat refusing tuna? On the second night I opened another can, this time using premium, unsalted albacore tuna, and used the entire contents. I found my own mouth watering. The next morning I cantered down the stairs, thrust my head around the corner to view the cat close up for the first time ... and found nothing. The tuna was crawling with ants, which apparently found the bait more appealing than the cat did. That night I used yet another can of choice, white-meat albacore, the most expensive brand I could find.
The third morning I galloped down the stairs, stopped at the bottom, drew a deep breath, and looked around the corner—voilà!—this time the trap had worked. The big tabby stood forlornly in the cramped confines of the wire box and looked at me with an expression I could not read.
As I boy I had trapped some stray cats, and of all the animals I ever caught, including wild foxes, cats were the most formidable. They would crouch down when you approached. The closer you came, the flatter their ears would press against their head, and if you drew within about two feet, they would suddenly launch themselves at your face. The speed was blinding. The strength of claw ripping against wire was difficult to comprehend in a creature this small. Sweat would break out on your face because you knew, in the depths of the primal mind, that if nothing had stood between you and these caged beasts, you would have suffered serious injury.
This cat, however, did not crouch down. His body did not speak aggression or menace. Instead, he pressed his side against the wire and rubbed slowly against it. My suspicions were not allayed; I was not about to be sucker-punched by a quick paw thrust through the wire squares of the trap, and I leaned forward with naked nerves, but at a safe distance, to peer at my prisoner.
I could not help comparing him with Darwin. He conveyed a wholly different aura, in part because his basic color scheme was dark, and his markings were far more complicated and intricate. His chest and stomach were pastel orange, similar in hue and tone to the fur on Darwin's side and back. A white star marked the center of his chest. Two rings circled each foreleg, and a wider ring formed a necklace just above his chest. His muzzle was dark tan with a network of fine lines on his cheeks, the background color merging into white on his chin and throat. All in all, he was a rakish fellow, his only blemish an inflamed, bloodshot right eye, possibly the result of a fight.
I could not, however, delay the inevitable trip to the pound. But ... was I absolutely certain that is what I wanted to do? Something gnawed somewhere down below. Had this big, handsome cat hooked a claw into my affections? Of course not. I would proceed with plans in the morning. I carried him in the trap around to the storage room beneath the flat, carefully placed a bowl of water inside, and left him there overnight.
I thought about him that night. He seemed reconciled to his plight and waited in absolute silence when I closed the door and left him in isolation. His cage rested directly beneath the kitchen. I could not get the image out of my mind and drifted off to sleep staring at his face.
Next morning I went down to check on him and found that he had not eaten his tuna and had spilled his water. He had obeyed the call of nature on both channels; fortunately, I had taken the precaution of placing the cage on bricks so the wastes had fallen through the holes in the wire floor.
The time had come to act. The decision had been made. Final. No appeals. I could not keep this cat. It was out of the question. Darwin demanded all the care and attention I could muster. I ... No. To the pound we had to go. I picked up the trap, carried it and the cat to my car, placed a plastic garbage baggie on the floor of the trunk to protect against urinary discharge, closed the trunk, and headed off.
I drove up Redondo Avenue, directly toward our rendezvous with fate, gritting my teeth at what I had to do, when I noticed that my car was veering toward the right. I compensated by turning the wheel to the left, but the more I turned to the left, the more sharply the car veered to the right. Then it rounded the corner, making a right turn on Anaheim Street. I applied the brakes; the car continued despite my efforts to stop. It proceeded for about half a mile and gradually began to slow, slow, slow, and finally came to a halt—directly in front of the Long Beach Animal Hospital.
I got out, opened the trunk, carried the cat to the front desk, and asked to see Dr. Mader. I had no idea what I was doing.
Fate just happened to have canceled an appointment, so Dr. Mader was available. We entered an examination room, and as soon as Dr. Mader closed the door behind him, I began to explain that shutting ourselves in might not be such a good idea since I had no idea how wild or temperamental this cat was. Dr. Mader took one look, bent over, opened the trap, reached in, began petting the cat, and gently pulled him out, releasing him on the floor. Immediately he began rubbing against the doctor's legs and purring like a power tool. I could feel the fear and anxiety in his dithering passes against the doctor's legs, and I realized with a rapidly reddening face that this was a pussycat, not a street-scarred beast.
Dr. Mader placed him on the examination table and pressed a stethoscope against his left side.
"He's purring too loud. I can't hear his heart."
The doctor persisted, however, and was able to ascertain that the cat's heart sounded normal and healthy. He then placed his hand beneath the cat's chin and looked into his face.
"What's this?" he asked, gently grasping with forefinger and thumb what appeared to be a long eyelash protruding from the outside rim of the right eye. Mader pulled gently, with a slow, gradual pressure, and the eye bulged forward in its socket. Suddenly, in a leapfrogging revelation, I realized that the eyelash was not an eyelash at all: it was the long, slender bristle of a foxtail—a species of grass whose sharp, pointed seeds have the capacity to penetrate the skin and bore into the flesh. The effect can b
e serious, even deadly, because the seed, driven by the contractions of muscle and flesh against its backward-pointing spines, continues inexorably to bore forward, sometimes entering vital organs. This specimen had somehow moved into the space between the cat's eyeball and socket.
"It has to come out right away," said Dr. Mader, and this could only mean a surgical procedure with sedation. Cash registers tingled like wind chimes in the distance, and I wanted to say no, I could not afford the cost. I said yes without any outward sign of conflict. The surgery would be completed by late afternoon. With time to kill, I got in my car, pointed it toward the pound, and arrived without incident to return an empty trap.
When I picked the cat up at the end of the day, $175 proceeded happily from my savings into the hospital's coffers, and this placed me in a new dilemma. Having spent a large sum of money on the cat's health, I had tacitly acquired another companion, although I refused to acknowledge this fact. I was only doing the humane thing. The cat was still a stray. The most I could do would be to put out some food on special occasions.
Meanwhile, he had to be confined for a few days so I could treat his eye with antibacterial ointment. But where could I keep him? Not in the flat. He and Darwin would certainly fight, and I had no desire to separate two brawling cats in my own living quarters. Then there was the possibility of infection. The FeLV virus was supposed to be highly contagious, and no cat deserved exposure to it. Darwin, however, had always had the run of the flat and had presumably shed virions everywhere.
Well, the risk could not be avoided. The cat had to be closely watched for a few days of convalescence, and as I thought about it, my office came to mind. Darwin had spent little time there, and if I shut the new cat in, he might avoid serious exposure. Darwin would retain 80 percent of the flat for his exclusive domain.
On the way home, I stopped off at the pet store, bought an extra litter box and a matching set of food and water dishes, and set up a temporary household under the south window of my office. When I opened the transport box, the cat set about cautiously investigating the corners and closets of his convalescent quarters. While his attention was diverted, I slipped out, leaving him to his explorations.
Shutting him in would prevent direct conflict with Darwin for a week, perhaps. But what would happen when I freed him? For that is what I had to do. Already I was acting as if this new cat would remain my responsibility, and while I hadn't faced the practical reality, I presumed in a vague sort of way that I would feed the newcomer and care for him outdoors. Only Darwin would have indoor privileges. Even I could see, however, that this was a temporary fix, and Darwin made the point clear that night, on coming in from his daily rounds.
I assumed he wouldn't know the new cat was locked behind my office door unless he made some fuss. Darwin walked into the living room, stopped, raised his head, sniffed the air, and proceeded directly to the office. He lowered his head, pushed his nose into the space beneath the door, and suddenly the sound of a siren started low and rose to the ceiling, where it swelled in volume and billowed into the living room like smoke.
I hadn't realized how astutely cats perceive odors. Like most people, I had gone along with the public illusion of the dog as the master of olfaction, blinkered by the media image of tracking, rescue work, sniffing for drugs and bombs. This was reinforced by the canister prominence of the dog's nose and muzzle, and by its blatant habit of smelling anything and anyone anywhere at the slightest hint of novelty. Somewhere along the way, the cat had lost its own fine sense of smell in the black-and-white simplicity of common perception. Darwin proceeded to disabuse me of this oversight.
Looking back, I began to see the astutness of his nose in countless incidents. Once, for instance, I had tried to trick him by opening a can of tuna as quietly and stealthily as possible to see how long it would take him to realize his favorite food had been sitting around, wasting time. I had even turned the stereo up to overwhelm any sounds I might make. No more than two minutes later, there was Darwin at my feet, begging for his share.
In light of these observations I began to wonder how the cat perceived the world and concluded that as a human creature I was not, nor could I ever be, privy to such sensations. Perhaps, when Darwin entered the flat, the shock of his rival's scent was similar in its negative appeal to finding a skinhead in your living room with a boom box, playing heavy metal rock. Whatever the reality, it was clear that both cats knew at all times exactly who was in the flat, and while the stranger's eye healed, my flat became the house of the rising yowl.
***
We had a few days, this dark tabby and I, to get acquainted. The first morning after incarceration I came to the door of my office bearing a breakfast bowl of delicious cat food, and before I could turn the doorknob, he became hysterical with anticipation. When I entered the office, he walked quickly in tight circles, rubbing against my legs. He rose up on his hind legs, placed his paws on the dish, and nearly jumped into it before I could place it on the floor. Then he proceeded to bolt his meal with the loud smacking of lips and the slurping sounds of chewing accompanied by suction. He'd had a night to adjust to his new surroundings and his appetite was up. I didn't think any more about that until later in the afternoon when I realized a large rubber band was missing from my desk. Could the cat have eaten it? It was then that I began to suspect the presence of a gifted appetite, perhaps a prodigy. I called Dr. Mader, who advised me to watch the cat's stools and make sure the rubber band had passed, because it could lodge in the gut, and that would require surgery...
It became clear the next morning when I tended to his eye that the new cat was an affectionate, easygoing creature well rehearsed in stroke appreciation. He made an easy and enjoyable chore of the procedure, resting his head in the palm of my hand to absorb my trepidation and barely blinking as I applied the antibacterial ointment. He accompanied this with one endless purr, like the pedal bass of a church organ—organ music in the truest biological sense.
I kept him in my office for three days and nights, until the eye was beyond infection and the rubber band had passed, and on the fourth morning, after rubbing the antibacterial unguent on his eye, I kneeled down and stroked the sensual lines and elegant patterns of his body and fur, savoring his presence with my hands. So healthy, vigorous, sleek...
I could not help comparing him with Darwin and speculating on what might have been. If only I had connected with Darwin a few months earlier, I could have had him vaccinated against the FeLV ... If only ... I felt a twinge of resentment—resentment of the burden Darwin had become in his time of need. I spun away and forced myself to face the challenge of keeping the two cats separated.
Feline infectious anemia resolved the issue. On the morning of the fourth day it reemerged and resumed its siege against Darwin's life. When I awoke, I saw Darwin lying on his side at the foot of the bed, gazing vacantly at nothing. His eyes were listless, as if his soul had wandered off into space in search of a somewhere haven, and he would not answer my greetings. I peered into his eyes, but try as I would, I could not push my will past the retina and slip down the optic nerve into his brain. I could not experience his mind. I saw only the vacant, silver-green reflections.
Once more to the hospital. Once more oxygen, intravenous fluids, antibiotic drip, catheter, daily visits, much money. The milk of human kindness. Preoccupied with Darwin's predicament, I freed the new cat. The neighborhood was his for the taking.
Three days later I brought Darwin home for another convalescence, with doxycyclene squirted into the corner of his mouth four times a day for two weeks and pureed food injected down his throat. Somehow, he managed to keep his weight and slowly, gradually, he came back from the brink.
This time, however, the episode left him physically deformed, for his right pupil was dilated more than the left. In darkness or light, the difference remained. Horner's syndrome, said Dr. Mader, common in cats with FeLV. A minor thing, perhaps, but it ruined his symmetry and framed the fear of impending loss.
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Another casualty was the posture of his left ear; he now held it lower and pointed more to the front than the right ear. Probably owing to nerve damage, a classic problem attributed to the virus. Both pupil and ear were permanent changes, symbols of time, the passage of life, the solemn gestures of fate.
I let him go outdoors to pursue his interests as nature saw fit. There was nothing to do about the intruder, other than to hope the two did not fight again. As it turned out, they did not, probably because Darwin, in his weakened condition, was spending the majority of his time indoors and simply did not encounter his rival. When he did venture forth it was generally for a few hours during the day, when cats seem less inspired to fight.
***
Meanwhile, I continued to feed the new cat along the shady north side of the building, and he quickly accepted the arrangement as a natural right, driven in part by an appetite that was turning out to verge on the supernatural. The second time I fed him, he was sitting near the sidewalk at the head of the driveway, and the instant I whistled, he spun and trotted toward me, emitting a long, yodeling cry that bounced and warbled with the jerky motion of his gait—mee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow—as he trotted along. No matter how often I fed him he wanted more, and I could not help wondering why it had taken him three days to enter the trap for tuna.
The feeding became a ritual that I looked forward to, partly because I felt a kinship with anyone who had such a gargantuan appetite, and partly because I simply felt a deep attraction. With his small, dainty feet, he struck me as a bit of a softy, not so tough in the strategies of the streets and alleys as many of his peers. And perhaps I sensed the random privilege of my own incarnation as a member of Homo sapiens and realized in the subconscious labyrinths of my brain that there, but for the grace of God, went I.
A Cat Named Darwin Page 12