Conversations Across Cats
Most words in most conversations don’t harbour much value to me after I’ve heard or spoken them; I always distinctly remember the thoughts or ideas I’ve been left with and the emotions of myself and whomever I spoke to, but I seldom recall the exact words. I can feel my way through the thin veil of memory corresponding to most conversations I’ve had whilst holding my pet snake – Apollo. I can typically – reluctantly – visualise conversations I’ve had whilst in tears, alongside conversations where the other party was in tears. I can always recite a conversation I’ve had with someone if a cat was present – for some reason.
Portrait 1: Rath
[I was sat on a bench on the side of a path leading away from – or towards – home. Next to me was who I like to call Junot – derived from Jean-Andoche Junot. His coat was titian and mostly soft, although some of it had been clumped together by the nearby flora and fences, making him feel almost flocculent. His face was aged despite his youthful hair, and it was indicative of the scars his environment had left with him. Beneath his fur and around his nose, paling skin revealed the tolls of England’s ticks. His face also looked squashed – but relaxed – and in a state of perpetual movement. This was because I was scratching behind his ears.]
From the direction of home, a child ran in my direction. The stand-out visual that remained with me after this encounter was a neon green and black watch on his right wrist.
“Wats ‘er name?” Once I corrected him on his assumptions of Junot’s gender and my ownership of him – before asking anything else – he corrected my correction by gracing me with the knowledge that all cats are girls. “Why you no’ call ‘er Rath?”. I thought for a while about how to answer. I managed to deduce what he was referencing from a few context clues and then rattled my brain some more for an interesting way to explain French history to a child. Before I’d deduced a solution to my dilemma, he hounded me with a line of inquiry about Junot’s age, weight, BMI, medical history, and relationship status – he didn’t use those words, but it meant – more-or-less – the same thing.
During this time, his mother caught him up and stood opposite Junot and me. She scolded the boy for running ahead and talking with strangers and grabbed him by the hand to leave us be.
The child – empowered by the confidence of some unknown, cosmic origin – pulled away and jumped towards the bench to pat Junot’s back. He looked to his exhausted mother, and then to Junot, and then me. “Wanna see somefink cool?” He – further exemplifying the unnecessity of confirmation before going on – slammed the opposite hand onto his watch, forcing the distorted sound of low-quality music to gurgle out from its tiny speakers. “This ain’ a watch, this an Omnitrix.”
I thought for a moment about how his ultimate line was a replica of the motif in Joey Valence & Brae’s song: Omnitrix. I loved their music at the time of our conversation, mere weeks after the corresponding album’s debut, and was led to amuse myself with the suggestion that all paths that defined me must intersect, making me the centre of the universe and its only main character. It was a silly untruth – obviously – but it made me chuckle and I recall it being the first time I’d laughed on my own in a long while.
Following this, I thought about how the child was the first person I’d told what I called the cat.
Portrait 2: Honesty, Lies & The Missing Full Picture
[I received bad news and retreated to the comfort of our neighbourhood hero, whom my housemates call Tortellini. She was a hero because I knew others who sought her when they were sad, and it nearly always improved their moods. Now it was my turn. Her coat was healthy, thick, and primarily brown with black spotted on. Her pink collar appeared unyielding around her neck but I knew better than to remove it. She sat on my legs as I sat on a wall opposite the car park, and my hand rested still on her soft back. The motivation to commit enough energy to stroke her body length had not found me yet. My interlocutor was a housemate.]
We spoke about a lot and a little at the same time. I’m relatively sure I remember it all now. After discussing how our days had gone, politics, and making a passing joke about a videogame we’d been playing together, she finally divulged her destination and intent. It was to buy pizza from a shop near our house. I was reminded of how our kitchen sponges were torn and unusable, and this comment brought about the response: “Absorber, I hardly know her.”
Before leaving, she asked why I was with Tortellini: “I never see you with cats.” My lack of a coherent response to this comment prompted her departure. She left me with a lot to think about: primarily the lies I left her with.
Where I’d not provided her with full insight into my rituals, I’d insinuated that I didn’t often retreat to cats. For as much as our lives had intersected, it occurred to me that it was never when I felt at my most vulnerable. The puzzle that was required to solve for a clear picture of me and my ipseity lacked its weakest pieces. She didn’t know me – and hadn’t seen enough of me – if she didn’t know how important cats like Tortellini were to me.
Portrait 3: Enthalpy
[Following some upsetting family updates and bad academic results, I went for a walk near my home and found solace in the presence of a cat on a bench. Resting heavily into the bench – moulding my back to its contours – accommodated my bittersweet indulgence of the biting cold air. I arbitrarily and nonsensically felt that it must’ve cooled and relaxed my mind, with thoughts racing fast enough to generate heat. The cat – named by people before me – was called Napoleon and was the first cat I met after moving. He resembled Junot and other students often confused the two, although I always felt that Napoleon’s strong and stable health made a clear distinction between them both.]
The third group of students approached us since we sat together. This wasn’t too surprising despite the lateness as it was typical of them to go on nights out in the city then – this was true of any day of the week but especially Mondays. I was caught off guard by their almost collective acknowledgment of my existence, and not just the cat’s.
What started with brief introductions or kind ritual statements escalated when they asked for my opinion to contribute to the conversation that they had been having before approaching me. It was explained to me that one from the group holstered two beliefs and the rest wanted me to dispute them. One was that homosexuality was a disability as it impeded parentship. The other was that racism was purely systemic; thus his personal beliefs made no difference and shouldn’t be changed.
I didn’t think much about how to dispute these statements and made a blunt disagreement with the arguments being poised. I was upset that someone in my generation – maybe a little older than myself – boldly possessed such fatuous stances.
I thought about this, in further frustration and upset, for another hour.
Portrait 4: Entropy
[Roughly an hour later in the same location.]
An older gentleman had been sitting next to me for a few minutes; he was gently tickling Napoleon’s front paws and shoulders. We had yet to speak a word to each other, and I entertained the uncommon comfort I felt despite being in the presence of the stranger. “Do you know his name?” I pushed.
“My wife calls him Bean, the kids call him Napoleon, I call him Cat. And you?”
“Napoleon.”
“Of course. Where’d that come from? I’ve heard it enough that I no longer think it’s queer.” I wasn’t used to hearing people use language in such a way that the words held different meanings between us, and I eagerly prompted him to talk some more.
“It’s from before my time here?” I ended this sentence with an inquisitive swing, as though I wanted clarification he then didn’t give.
No one spoke for a while.
“I met a kid once that was into some cartoon show. It was at the park and he was fascinated with my old dog, harassing me with little facts about this thing he liked.” He interrupted my development of coherent thought. “I think, when me ‘n’ my missus passes on, I want him to pass too. Bean, not the kid. And peacefully, of course, I don’t think that’s wrong. You might. It would make us happy. My old spaniel – if she’s anything like how she passed – could do without us and get some more rest.”
I wondered if Napoleon made him comfortable enough to say these things this late. I didn’t ask why he was out at such a time. I didn’t think he was wrong to think what he did, although I didn’t tell him that either. I indulged that our paths intersected at this point. I thought that I’d want them to collide again, even if it’s after we’ve both passed.