Day 82…still

 

I ran, even though I didn’t want to. Even though I don’t like to. I would sprint when I was younger. All over, when the mood struck me. Run nearly up the walls.

      She had a…something back then. A little device. A creature of pure, red light lived inside. The creature came out sometimes and I would be mad for it. Crazed. I chased after it. Up, over, and under furniture. Through doors and into closets. Clipping across carpet. Sliding across that white, slick floor.

      I don’t why. I don’t know what that little creature of red light meant to me. I suppose it was only that I could never catch it. It was galling. Infuriating. I could catch everything else. Eventually everything else came to heel. The light made me question myself. My power. My ability. It made me feel slow. I hated it. I chased it with malice.

      But there was never any resolution. One day was the last day I ever saw the light, though I had no way of knowing that at the time. And then I became a cat who didn’t want to run.

      But here I am now, running. At first I ran because Dorothy had struck me. But then I ran because I didn’t know where or when to stop. Every place I arrived was equally wrong. Equally dirty and wild and sharp.                           

      I stop occasionally to catch my breath, but fear grips me when I am still. The strangeness is suffocating.

      The world grows dim.

      I run.

 

 

Day 83

 

I became exhausted. Eventually I could no longer run. In the dark and alone, I slept fitfully in the crook of a thin tree. The night was wild with hoots and caws and the skittering crunch of night things roaming. I thought at times that it might have been a bad dream.

      But then I woke and I am very much here, in the wild. Under a tree. Alone.

      I still don’t understand. Why was Dorothy angry with me? What had I done?

      Nothing. Nothing at all.

      But humans are like that. Even She would sometimes behave in ways that I could not fathom. She would yell at me, with no warning or provocation. I would nestle on her stomach as she lay in bed, changing my grip ever so slightly in search for a better spot, and suddenly she would buck and shout and toss me aside like I’d done her harm. Some foods I could take. Some would raise her ire. Some things were play. Some things were not.

      It’s hard to find true balance around humans.

      Especially the strange ones. The ones you don’t know at all. Like the man. And the one before. It was almost impossible to tell what would upset them or please them. I made it a point to attempt to do neither.

      But now I am walking. I have no direction. I sense I may be able to get back to Dorothy if I wished, but that’s not where I want to be. I want to be home. Could I find home on my own? I don’t believe I could. I think I should go back and wait for Her, but would Dorothy attack me again? Will She know where I am?

      I have to get home. I suppose if I walk long enough, I may find myself somewhere familiar.

      “’at? ‘at? ‘ey ‘at!”

      There is a voice – small and reedy – coming from somewhere up above. It is somehow familiar.

      “’eh ‘at! ‘ou out? Out? Huh?”

      I look up and around and do not see the source. But then something moves, twitches, on a branch up above and I can see the face - but mostly the tail - of a squirrel.

      “Are you the squirrel I met before?” I ask, sitting back peaceably on my haunches.

      “Ob’v,” says the squirrel, jittering further down the branch so I can see all of him. “No ‘ember?”

      “Well now, yes,” I say. “Though squirrels mostly look alike to me.”

      “Ah,” says the squirrel, creeping ever nearer. “’ember you. Big gray. ‘ou out? ‘ow out?”

      “They set me free,” I lie. Or is it a lie? “I’m going home now.”

      “’ood,” says the squirrel. “Where zat?”

      “Somewhere. I’ll find it. Don’t worry.”

      “No worry. Find ‘coon? Get ‘em, eh?”

      “The raccoon…” I haven’t considered that. “It seems unlikely that we’ll meet.”

      The squirrel blinks rapidly. “Okay. ‘ood luck! Find fam’ee!” It races away into the tree cover. I remember now that it doesn’t have a family. I suppose I should have said more then. Too late.

      And besides, the squirrel has reminded me of that night with the raccoon and what it feels like to be cut and cut back. How it hurts. And how I survived it.

      I flex my paws. My claws are long – almost uncomfortably so. Dorothy did not care for me in all the correct ways. That’s fine. Here, in the wild, that’s good.

      It’s natural to be scared. Normal and good. But I have power of my own.

      I walk slower now, with more confidence. When the leaves rattle, I look sharply, almost eagerly.

      I will not be intimidated by this world I do not understand. Instead, I will tame it.

      But for now…I’m hungry. I must focus on myself and my needs if I’m going to make it home...

 

 

Day 86

 

How did I become this? Where is my pride? Where is my strength?

      I’m lost. I have been lost, the entire time, but the forest only seems to tighten its grip on me, inch by inch. Yesterday, at night, in the deepest dark, I found a clearing, which became a road. I followed it for a distance, until a bright, yellow light appeared in the distance, growing ever closer. There was a sound there, as well – a grinding, roaring shout that followed the lights towards me. I felt I should know what they meant – what it all meant. But I was dumb with fear. Or simply dumb. I froze, froze until it was nearly on me…and then I fled. Back into the darkness. Racing. Breathless. Brainless.

      Hopeless.

      I still haven’t eaten since the morning Dorothy chased me away. I thought it would be easy. I thought I had, hidden away within me, the instincts of a hunter. I caught that mouse, after all. But I was wrong. I can seemingly do no more than wander and sniff and waste away.

      Now it’s morning and I’m back to the road and there is something laying in the middle of the surface. An ugly thing, with a long, pink tail and oblong face. I sit in the dirt a long time looking at it. It must be dead. Perhaps I was right to run away last night.

      And now I wonder if it’s edible. If it was, could I eat it? Is that what’s become of me?

      I take a cautious step and then a great, roaring machine appears in the distance, racing down the road. She had something like that. She made me ride in it sometimes. I rode in it that last time, after the raccoon…

      The machine passes and the creature in the road makes no attempt to move. It is dead. I feel compelled to inspect the carcass. My hunger guides me.

      Cautious and slow, I make my way across the road, looking back and forth, anticipating another roaring machine. None appears. I step to the side of the carcass. The thing is even uglier up close. Larger, too, now that I see it better. A rodent’s face. I see no wound, however. There is no gore and no…

      “Step away!” I nearly shriek, leaping away as the creature rights itself suddenly. “What’s the game?” yells the creature, gathering itself up, baring down towards me. “What were you plannin’, huh? Bite me? Eat me?”

      “You were dead!” I say, which is an impossibly stupid thing to say.

      “Just playin’,” says the creature, backing down a bit. “That’s what I do. It’s a strategy.”

      “Strategy for what?”

      “It’s a life-savin’ strategy,” says the creature. “They think you’re dead, they leave you alone.”

      “You’re in the middle of the road,” I say. “The fact you aren’t dead is entirely luck.”

      The creature seems a little perplexed by the logic of this. “No. I’m not dead. So it’s a good strategy.”

      “Well I’m also not dead and I don’t go around laying perfectly still in dangerous places.” In the distance, another one of those machines begins to approach. The creature notices and flops to the ground. “You have to be kidding me.”

      The creature is silent. I prod it with an outstretched claw.

      “Go away,” it mumbles. “Strategy.”

      I try grabbing at the scruff of its neck. I remember my mother doing that to me when I was very small. Even She would do something similar when She wanted to move me from one place to another against my will. But the creature is heavy – possibly even heavier than me.

      “Knock it off,” it hisses. “Strategy.”

      The machine is coming closer. I try once more. I can’t budge it. I dart away, back to the woods. Behind me I hear a horrible squeal and an even worse squelch and crunch. The machine passes on. I wait a moment in the woods, listening, not daring to go back. But the road is silent. Utterly silent.

      There seems to be no escape from the madness of the wild.

 

 

Day 87

 

I do not know what dying feels like. Even having seen it happen with my own eyes, I have no sense of what it feels like. So perhaps I am dying. I don’t know. I can’t imagine what else it might feel like, though.

      I’m weak. And I’m very tired. It is a chore to move now. I don’t even remember falling asleep last night. I was walking and then I was waking, pressed against damp stone. That seems to be happening often now. Moments simply…vanish.

      I suspect it’s because I haven’t eaten. That must be the cause of all things. Food. It’s hard to believe there was ever a time when I turned my nose up to food, but a good human makes it easy to be picky. She always found Her way back to my preferred foods, even if it took a few days of ignored bowls or spat out treats. Why She ever thought to change things I never knew. I like what I like. I don’t think things are all that complicated.

      But now there’s no choice. No food at all. Just the wind and the grass and the gibbering chirp of birds. Distressed birds, crying loudly. Curious, I move toward the sound. There’s a nest up high in one of the branches. I can just make it out. They’re being especially noisy today. But, oh…

      There, at the foot of the tree. There’s a small bird. Half-formed. Nearly nude and crying weakly. No one comes for it. No one does anything.

      It’s just a baby bird, lying on the ground.

      My mouth moistens. It’s strange and involuntary. My stomach twists and pulses.

      The little bird exhausts itself, crying out, flapping small, useless wings. I step closer.

      From up above, another bird darts down, nipping and piercing the back of my neck with the point of its beak. The mother? It swoops again and I swipe at it, entirely on instinct. A pair of feathers float down. The bird returns to the higher branches, chirping madly, but staying away.

      I examine the fallen baby bird. Bat it gently with my paw. Its cry grows weaker and weaker.

      I’ve never been so hungry.

      I put my mouth to its chest and bite. The crying rises up, then dies away. The baby bird is silent. The birds up above are silent. Soon, the only thing I can hear is the sound of small bones grinding and snapping inside my mouth.

      I leave nothing edible behind.

 

 

Day 89

 

I have left the woods. I found a place that reminds me a little of where I live – of where She lives. But only a little. None of the smells are right. The details are similar, but different. There are houses here. Rows of them. The roads are busy. Roaring machines start and stop and fly in every direction. I have to be cautious.    

      I found a pile of soggy food beside the stairs of one house. It smelled a bit like the food She gives me. I wouldn’t have eaten food like that before – food that had been out, that had gotten wet. But I’m still so hungry. I ate some, but then a child suddenly appeared at the door of the house and I got scared and ran. Since then I have wandered, examining.

      There are many quiet, dark places here. I find many places to sleep, though I don’t sleep well anywhere. I wait out the heat of the day beneath a crooked plank of wood and bags of debris. There are other wild creatures here, though they are just as secretive and stealthy as I am. I see squirrels shimmy up and down poles. I wonder if any are the one I met before. There are other cats here, too, though I have no desire to make their acquaintance. At least not yet. I need to recover my strength.

      How far away am I from my home, I wonder? Am I heading in the right direction? Perhaps not, but the further I go the more likely I am to see something I recognize, yes? The world is not so big that I cannot find what I want as long as I look long and hard enough. And I have to assume She is looking for me, too. Maybe we’ll met in the middle? I’m sure we will.

      Eventually I sleep. When I wake it is dark and cool, almost cold. I feel dirty and sore. And I itch – badly. Just a little while ago I felt something like a little bug crawling across my shoulder, but it jumped away before I could catch it.

      There are great lights up and down the road, similar to the ones I could see out of the window of my home at night. The world is a strange purple color, and quiet. Some houses are lit bright, and others are dark. I set out down the road, examining, moving slowly. I can hear things moving about in the shadows. I try not to jump at every strange sound.

      There!

      I had thought it might be… There is another pile of food set out in front of one of the houses. I quicken my pace, refusing to run. When I reach the pile there is no one else. It is fresh. Very similar to what I eat at home. I dive into it. I gorge, half-choking on unchewed morsels.

      As I am eating as quickly as I have ever eaten, another cat sidles up. They don’t say anything. They just calmly, coolly slink up to the pile and begin to eat.

      I hiss. I’m very hungry. I don’t want to share.

      The other cat ignores me completely. It is orange and white and does not even acknowledge me.

      “I found it!” I cry. “Go away!”

      It just eats.

      Suddenly there is another cat. It is black and white. It helps itself to the food. It also ignores me.

      “It’s mine!” I say, shouldering up against the orange cat. “Go away.”

      But they don’t care. Perhaps they can tell that I’m weak. Is it so obvious that I cannot fight back? Soon the food is gone. I could have eaten more, but for now I’m satisfied.

      The black cat and the orange cat go their separate ways, neither having said a word to me. I didn’t want to talk to them anyway. Not really. What would I even have to say?

      From a distance, though, I watch them stalk away, into the deeper darkness. They are both so sure of themselves. They look strong and well fed. Perhaps they are the sorts who have homes but choose to wander? I met one like that once. It lay on the fence of our yard from time to time. One day when I was outside I walked up to it and asked who they were and what they were doing.

      “Whoever I want to be and whatever I want,” they said, which still sounds like a silly answer to my ears. They told me a bit about the cats that live outside and the cats that live inside (like me) and the third brand, which did both. They could be inside when they wanted and outside when they wanted. The cat on the fence had a perfectly good home not far from my own. He just liked to explore and talk to the neighborhood cats. He was never hungry, never in want, and never confined. “No offense,” he’d said, single paw drooping down, “but your type is the worst kind of cat there is. How can you be satisfied, living like a pet? Haven’t you any pride at all?”

      She came out to collect me about then, shooing him away – that cat that lived between two worlds. Perhaps these are like him. Cats without want of any kind.

      I follow the orange one, though I don’t know to what purpose. I suppose I must continue on my way soon, but there is something comforting and less hostile about this place. It’s familiar and quiet. I can see myself living as an outside cat, at least for a time; and when I go home, perhaps I’ll become that third brand, too rough and seasoned to live entirely indoors.

      As I follow the orange cat, I see the lid of a nearby bin shift and clatter to the ground. There is a creature there, hovering at the mouth of the bin, glaring down at me, dark bands shrouding its eyes in the deepest shadows.

      A raccoon.

      It leans forward, teeth barred, hissing. I arch and recoil. My claws scrape and click across the hard ground.

      “Mine,” it murmurs. “Don’t. Come. Near.”

      Black lips quiver. White teeth flash purple in those strange lights. I feel transported. Back, back to that night. The monster that slipped in through an open window. A window I could have come and gone through, were I that kind of cat. The raccoon that cut me. The one that started all this.

      What could I have done better? How could I have changed things?

      Could I stand to let something like that happen again?

      Its mouth is wet and dripping. It stinks of rotten food. I back away. I back away slowly. I back away.

      It watches my every step. Only the eyes move. It watches as I stumble sideways and turn and run.

      I’m running again.

      I run out of the light and out of the street and out of that row of houses. I run to the darkness.

      I feel I can hear it breathing behind me. But it’s only my breath. Coming in gasps. As if I’m chasing myself.

      I come to my senses and slow down. Lost again. There’s no use for it. I’m back in the woods. I find a small nook between two trees and settle down to wait for morning.

      I needed to move on anyway. I’m getting closer to home. I’m sure of it.

 

 

Day 98

 

My days have settled into a rhythm. Sleep. Exploration. Scavenging. Hiding. Sleep.

      There have been days of solitude and days of terror. There are more creatures out here roaming the wild than I ever would have imagined. They are all strange and single-minded in their own ways. I have been chased by dogs, attacked by birds, and ever set upon by some unseen enemy that bites at my flesh and drives me half-insane with discomfort. Hostility from my fellow wandering cats has been rare, but so too has been kindness. I am on my own, at least until I get home and return to Her.

      I admit, though, that some days I forget where I am going and what I am striving for. I get so consumed in simply living that I forget my purpose. Never for long, but it does happen with unsettling frequency. I’ve begun to wonder whether or not I should simply wait for Her to find me? If She is looking, how much harder am I making things by moving all the time?

      The thought gnaws at me.

      And now there is this…

      I have found a strange place. Again, it is similar to home, but different, in many key ways. It is enormous, to begin, and surrounded all over in a sort of tall, metal fence. The fence is no trouble for me, but it gave me pause at first. That’s what fences are supposed to do, after all – keep you to one side. But I saw a white cat scale the fence with little effort. Later, I saw another orange cat climb underneath the fence at a certain place. All day long, the fence was bypassed, by humans and cats, and humans with dogs, and always by squirrels. In and out. Curiosity got the best of me. I went in.

      It was stranger still on the inside. The houses were gargantuan, stretching off for great lengths, dotted repeatedly with many doors and windows. More like a hive than a house. There were rows of those roaring machines, all silent and still. Small wooden fences here and there. Stairs all over. Little lawns, reeking of dog urine, and patchy flower beds filled with drooping perennials. Like a city unto itself. A small, isolated version of the world I had been lost and wandering across these last few days.

      It is thick with cats, napping on step rungs and lazing on the tops of those tiny fences. Some wear collars like I once did. These ones seem civil enough, if not a bit haughty and distant. Then there the others, who have never been collared and never could be. There is a natural sort of madness in their eyes. They are free – perhaps too free. Guided by instinct. They can be shy and strange, but rarely unkind. All, every stripe, seem wary of me, though I suppose that may be because I am wary of them.

      The humans here pay us little mind. Just this morning, I happened to be standing outside one of seemingly infinite doors, when it flew open quite suddenly. I froze. The human that came out looked down at me, said something – neither a shout nor a silly coo – then shut the door and walked past. It’s almost as if I were expected to be here.

      As noted, this place is also rife with squirrels. None are as strange and talkative as the one I once knew, but they are also much fatter and stupider than I am accustomed to. It makes little sense to me. There are so many cats here and so many squirrels, and while they are not allies, it would be inaccurate to call them enemies. I have seen very little bloodshed in my time here, but more, I have seen very little effort to that end. These cats simply don’t seem to care.

      No one seems to care. This is a quiet place, seemingly free of danger. It’s easy to find food, as long as you aren’t picky. There are places you can go and places you cannot go – places where humans are less welcoming and cats have created personal territories. But those places are rare. For the most part, this is the safest I have felt since that day I met the raccoon. I don’t know how long I should stay here, but for now it seems there is no better place for me. I’ll wait for Her here. And if She doesn’t find me, I’ll go out again and find a better place to wait.

 

 

Day 149

 

It’s hard to fathom how quickly the days pass. Have I really been here so long?

      I haven’t left this place – this strange maze of endless, multifaceted homes. And now it seems it’s too late. The days grew colder and colder and then suddenly it was snowing and it has become all I can do to simply take care of myself. I have seen the snow many times in my life, but I’ve never before experienced it like this. There is no comfort to be found anywhere now. The best one can hope for is a brief respite from the fiercest sorts of winds and chills and collected snowfall.

      So life is frozen, and so is my progress. I have not forgotten about Her. I assume She has not forgotten about me. But there is no hope of my finding Her in these conditions. So I wait until it is warmer and easier.

      While I am still safe and relatively well, it must be said that this place is not the sanctuary it once appeared. Death still finds a way. Some time ago, before the worst of the cold had set in, I was seated in the shadows below a stairwell, watching a fat, black cat lay at the bottom of a small, solitary tree, and gaze up at something I could not see – something high up in the branches. It seemed to be playing at hunter, though it didn’t quite look the part. For me, it was nothing more than a mildly entertaining diversion. But then a dog I had not seen broke loose from its owner’s chains and flew across the space in no more than three steps, grabbing the fat, black cat up in its jaws, biting and shaking. It was the shaking that did all that needed to be done. I could hear the black cat fall apart in a thousand places, one after another. And still the dog shook and shook. The cat didn’t even cry. It hadn’t the time or the breath.

      In the end, all was done in only a handful of heartbeats. The human arrived, screaming, swatting at the dog until it dropped the fat, black cat’s wet, limp body onto the grass. Then the human dragged the dog away. It didn’t come back for the black cat. No one did. The cat, who I had never known, lay in the grass for a day or maybe two. Eventually someone retrieved it. Maybe a human. Maybe something else.

      As far as I could ever tell, there was nothing at the top of that tree.

      There was another, though that was an old, old cat. It had hid itself away in the corner of a shed, below a metal barrel, and then lost the strength to move again. It cried out for help. It cried out for food or water. But there was nothing to be done. And even if there were, there was no desire to do it. There are friendships here. There are hierarchies, clans, and even things that may pass for family. But all of those are secondary to survival. That is the first order, every day, for everyone.

      And so the old cat was left to die. As the end came clear, I made a point to avoid his shed. So I’ve no idea when he died or if he was ever found. But I assume he was alone. That seems to be the way of it.

      I am alone, mostly. I say mostly, because while I prefer to keep to myself, lately I have gained an unwanted companion.

      She is as white as the snow that continues to fall even now, though she is sticky and clumpy in places. Her white coloring makes her indifference to cleanliness all the more apparent. She is the wild, instinctive sort of cat, having been born here not so long ago. She speaks fondly of her mother, though she does not know what has happened to her. She knows nothing else about her origins.

      She is a simpleton and not at all the companion I would have chosen. As it is, neither of us chose the other. I had found a nice sheltered spot behind one of those smaller fences and underneath a very shabby sort of couch. Pressed up against the building’s wall, I found a little warmth and a break from the snow. And that is where I’ve stayed. I spend most of the day and just about all of the night in this spot during this cold time. And I was alone in this spot until recently, when I awoke to discover a strange cat pressed up against me.

      “Cold, in’it?” she chattered, breathing out white steam.

      “What are you doing?” I asked. “This is my spot.”

      “An’ it’s a good one!” she purred. “Ooooh, it’s bad out. Warmer here, though.”

      “That’s because you’re dug into my side.”

      “Yeah.”

      I’ve had some experience with these kinds of cats now. They aren’t easy to reason with because they don’t abide by the same social rules as the rest of us. And some are even more instinctual than others.

      “Bah!” I shouted, suddenly and forcefully. I have found that some can be dislodged by loud, unexpected noises.

      “Oh!” she gasped. “You got me! Okay, don’t pay attention. I’ll do it to you.”

      “I’d rather you just…”

      “BAH!” She put her paws out. “D’it work? D’I get ya?”

      “Please go away.”

      “It’s very cold out,” she replied, as if there was nothing else that needed to said. And I suppose there wasn’t. Because it was cold and I’m not entirely heartless. Plus, warmth is warmth. I let her stay, thinking she was the sort that wandered and would disappear of her own accord. When I woke up next, she was gone.

      “That’s better,” I said to no one at all. But when I woke up the next time she was there again. This time she was chewing on something small and black.

      “Caught one!” she said. “Have some.”

      It was a mouse. Very small, very dead, and very mangled. I hadn’t eaten in ages then. I ate what was left.

      The white cat stuck around.

      “You remind me of my mother,” she said once. “So kind and grumpy. Same color, too.”

      “I can assure you, I’m nothing like your mother.”

      “Maybe,” she said, sounding almost sad. “But no. You’re just like her!”

      I’m still uncertain how I feel about this cat and her company. But the cold season is long and I must do whatever it takes to make it through. When the cold breaks and the snow melts…that’s when I’ll be on my way.

 

 

Day 191

 

I sit on the top of the fence looking down at the white cat as she cries and writhes and whimpers. I understand what’s happening. I understand there’s nothing I can do to help.

      Even before the cold had fully snapped, they had begun coming around, marking territory, and hissing nonsense in the middle of the night. All shape and size and age of male cat. They caught her scent and apparently, somehow, she was ready. I don’t fully understand it. I know there is some key difference with me. I could sense the change coming over the white cat, but I felt no part of it. There was no urge to participate and there never has been. I know I’m not alone. Other cats are like that, but never the wild ones. Never the ones that are forever outside, living and dying on instinct. And these were those sorts. Ragged and mean things. They made me uneasy.

      But the white cat felt her own urges. She followed her own instructions. There’s no way to know which one caused this. It makes no difference anyhow.

      They aren’t around now, of course. I’m the only one left. And I’m useless. She cries out. Her eyes are shining bright. There is wetness all around her.

      And now it has begun to rain.

      “How many do you think?” she whispers up to me between gasps of pain. “It’s so many…”

      I don’t reply. I rarely ever do, I realize. I appreciate now that she still talks to me anyway. I have not appreciated the sound of her voice before. I haven’t appreciated not being alone.

      “How many?” she croaks. Her body is changing, down there in the dark and the wet. It looks a blur to me, but I can see the shape changing. Melting, almost. Bits breaking off.

      “One at least,” I whisper down.

      “More than that!” she half-laughs, half-shrieks. “More more than that!”

      She falls further apart. Bit by bit. Piece by piece.

      And how her cries are small, surrounded on all sides by cries that are smaller still. Infant voices. Instinct beyond instinct. Dark shapes stumbling in the rain. Turning over. Laying still.

      “How many?” she whispers. I see seven in the darkness. But not all seven move, and not all seven make sound.

      “Four that I can see,” I reply. I’m not sure how I’ve come to that number. She sputters and hacks. Her cries are gone. The only sound she makes are deep, wheezing breaths.

      “No more?” she sighs. A few of the little ones wriggle and writhe their way nearer to their mother. She tries to corral them with an aimless, dragging paw. Some find her. Others roll farther away. “There must be so many…”

      There is a light. In the moment it flashes, I think it must be the sky, and the way it sometimes roars and cuts that electric blue. But the light comes from inside the house. From the other side of window here. There is a face, looking down on us. Another flash. And another. I wonder what that means or if someone is coming. But no one comes.

      The white cat has stopped crying. Stopping moving. There is no movement. Not even breath.

      The small, dark shapes draw closer. Burrow into her, as best they can. Except for some, which don’t move at all. Many don’t move at all.

      “Are they dead?”

      I turn, startled, and find a heavy, pale orange cat sitting at the base of the fence. “Are they?” it says, staring up at me. “Or do you think you can claim them, just like that?”

      “Go away,” I say, inching forward to the edge of the beam. I don’t want to think about why he’s asking or what he wants. I don’t want to think about any of this.

      “No,” he says simply. There are notches in his ears and over his eyes. He’s that sort of cat. The kind that does not simply threaten.

      There are little cries behind me. Weak, little cries. I know there aren’t that many, but to my ears it sounds like multitudes.

      “Go away,” I say once more.

      “You are him, then,” says the pale orange cat. “The one that hardly talks. Was she yours? Are they yours?”

      “Go away.” I’m leaning forward. There’s a strange part of me that wants this coming violence, even though there is no chance of it going well for me. I don’t understand this desire. I don’t understand why I’m so unwilling to let this cat do whatever it is he wants to do, but I absolutely will not allow it.

      “Step aside and let me…” I move first. It’s madness, I realize. It’s also likely my only chance.

      The pale orange cat rears back as I descend, moving fast, but not fast enough to avoid my weight as I crash down on top. My claws slip through the skin at his shoulders. My teeth reach out and find only air as the larger cat rolls and bucks, sending me into the damp dirt.

      He’s hardly hurt. I’ve squandered my only advantage.

      Now he dashes forward and I move vertically, lengthening, holding out my arms and claws and daring him to come inside. I don’t know where these ideas come from. This is nothing I was ever taught. He takes the challenge and bulls inside. I bring my claws down, but already he’s got a hold of my soft stomach, pushing me backwards, onto my back, slashing with every available claw. I slash back, with noticeably less power. I find an ear and bite. He shucks me away and in that moment of breath I can feel the scratches across my belly come to life. It’s just like then. All over again. The raccoon in the moonlight.

      When he comes forward again, I swipe high. It’s not a conscious thought, but I realize as it happens that I’m aiming for his eye. I strike the ridge of his brow as he make contact once more, barreling into me, dropping me with ease.

      But my strike counted. He doesn’t capitalize, but instead howls and dashes away. Off into the rain and the dark.

      I lay panting in a growing puddle. The cuts sting more and more as time goes by. I want to lick them, but I also don’t want to move. I haven’t fought like that in ages. And I’m older now. Older than I’ve ever been. I feel half-dead. Perhaps I am.

      I am there, in the lapping puddle, for I don’t know how long, when I hear a slamming sound. A door closing. The sound comes from the other side of the fence.

      It takes three tries to make it to the top of the fence. Looking across, I see blinds twist and close and I realize that the glass wall was a door the whole time. Someone was there the whole time.

      It’s quiet. I look down and she’s still there. The white cat makes no sound and takes no breath. She’s gone. And all alone. But where are the little ones?

      I drop down to the ground and there are signs everywhere. Signs and scents, strong even in the rain. But only the white cat remains. Only the mother. Where did they go?

      I remember the slamming sound. Perhaps…I allow myself a moment to imagine that they have become the indoor sort of cat. Cats with collars and food bowls that never run empty. I think their mother would be pleased by that. I don’t know if it’s true, but I don’t know any better.

      And then…there. The smallest cry. It comes from just below her still body.

      I push at the white cat. She weighs hardly anything. There was one more. One more below, gray as a worm. It crawls back towards its still mother. Looking for food, perhaps. Looking for warmth.

      It hurts to walk. I step to the glass wall and tap with my paw. They missed one, I think. Come back for the last. But no one comes. I don’t consider the possibility that there had never been humans. That’s the story now. That someone came for the little ones. They’re indoor cats now.

      I pick up the last kitten and drag it under the damp, shabby couch. I hold it against my body. It cries and squirms and reaches out for its mother.

      I’m tired and sore. The blood is matting along my underside. It hurts to stand, to sit, to lay, to breathe. I can feel myself falling asleep. I can’t do anymore for anyone.

      I’m resigned to the fact that when morning comes there may be two dead bodies with me in this narrow space. Or there may be three. That’s still to be decided and I’m too tired to have a say.  

 

 

Day 213

 

The kitten is white and wild and dumb as a dog. He listens to about a third of what I tell him.

      “Stay out of the road!” I dart out as he wobbles along the edge of the curb, looking at bushes and talking about a squirrel he saw the day before. There is another one of those roaring machines, poking carefully along the road. I snatch him by the scruff and drag him back into the shadows.

      “Is that a human?” he asks.

      “No,” I reply. “Not everything big is a human.”

      “How about that?”

      “That’s a building.”

      “Oh.”

      He survived. I can still hardly believe it, to be honest.

      He survived the first night, which meant he was stronger than he looked, but that only seemed to beg a slower death. I’ve little experience with kittens, but I know they can’t eat the same food as the rest of us. They need their mother, and his was not available. I was frantic at the start, seeing only the ways in which things would come to a grim end. But then I turned my desperation outward. I picked the little kitten up and began to carry him.

      She hadn’t been alone, his mother. Kittens were not rare here. It was a natural occurrence. The trouble was I rarely ever left my small corner. I had no idea what was possible in this enormous hive. So I took the kitten and went out in search of a mother. I asked around. I looked into every shadow and cool corner. I went places where I was not welcome. And I found mothers. Most wanted nothing to do with me and this kitten that was not theirs. I understood that. But still, I pressed on, pleading, wandering, hoping.

      The one I found had no kittens. They had been taken away.

      “I heard that happens sometimes,” she whispered, stretched out in the remains of a bowed cardboard box, wedged below a stairwell. “And some are happy – some of the mothers. Because they don’t feel anything towards them. They don’t want them around. But not me. I…I liked them. I liked having them…”

      She was gray, like me, though spotted white. The white connected her to the kitten. “Maybe there’s something shared there,” she said. I nudged the kitten forward. It could still hardly walk. Still, it found its way. The mother lay back and closed her eyes. I stood outside the box and waited. I considered leaving. It felt like I had done my part. But when I went back into the box, I found the mother had turned her back to the kitten. He writhed aimlessly in the center of the box.

      “Do you…will you raise him?” I asked.

      The mother cat didn’t turn around. “I’ll feed him. He isn’t mine, though. I don’t want him.”

      She was true to her word, on both accounts. She fed him for a good time, and that was all she was willing to give, though now she can give nothing.

      “It doesn’t last forever,” she told me, the last time we visited. “He isn’t mine and…anyway, it doesn’t last forever. Good luck.”

      “Is that a human?”

      We’re outside the big fence. I almost never come this way, but I’ve heard there’s a place further down where someone leaves whole cans of food out in the morning. The creamy, meaty kind I hardly ever had back home.

      Back home…the cold is gone, isn’t it? I suppose I’ll be back on the trail soon, once I’ve sorted out this idiot kitten.

      “No, that’s not a human, it’s a…” I pause. He’s talking about a dark lump in the middle of the road. Red and disintegrated. Dusted in a small swarm of flies. It looks orange, perhaps. Pale orange. But it’s too far gone to be certain.

      It’s not safe out here, is it? Not for any of us.

      “It’s a pile of dirt,” I say. “Now come on.”

      It takes some looking, but we finally find the place. There are two cans of cat food, both licked clean.

      “I’m hungry,” says the kitten.

      “You? What a shock.”

      “I am, though.”

      “Right,” I sigh. “I know.” Perhaps we should wait here, somewhere near. I wonder if there’s a competition for the food they lay out. Will I have to fight? The gouges on my belly still sting and run hot at all times. I have to sleep on my side.

      “Oh my god!” I jump at the sound of a human child shouting. But I don’t run. Curiously enough, my instinct is to place myself between the kitten and the source of the noise. I suppose this what living in the wild will do to you.

      The voice belongs to girl, who drops to her knees and scoots tentatively forward. “Little fluffy kitty,” she coos. “Are you mama?”

      I pull back, holding up a paw, flashing my claws. I growl as well. The girl stops, but doesn’t leave.

      “It’s okay,” she whispers, softer than before. She relaxes on her knees, dropping her hands to the ground. “That was too fast. I’m sorry. You’re both very pretty. I got excited.”

      I don’t know what she’s saying, but her behavior reminds me of Her – back at the beginning, when I young and scared and didn’t know humans could be good. She was patient. She spoke softly. She made me feel okay.

      “Are you guys hungry? Did they eat all the food already?”

      She rises, slowly this time, and disappears around the corner. I stay tense for a time, but nothing happens.

      “Was that a human?” says the kitten.

      “Yes,” I concede. “That was a human.”

      “Was it nice?”

      “I don’t know.”

      We both relax. The kitten begins to explore, and then suddenly she’s back. She has an open tin in her hand. She sits down on the ground a good distance away. I recognize the smell coming from the can. I recognize it very much.

      “I don’t have a cat, so I don’t have cat food,” she says, laying the can on the ground in front of her. “I hope you two like tuna fish.”   

      “Is it food?” asks the kitten.

      “Yeah. Let me go look.” I approach slowly, ready to bolt at the slightest flinch. But she is still and calm. She smiles, rest her hands in her lap as I move closer.

      “It’s not expired or anything. In case that’s a concern.” She cocks her head to the side. “You two don’t look very similar. Not that that means anything.”

      The smell almost hurts, it’s so enticing. My face is over the rim. The girl is still as stone. My tongue flicks out for a taste. And it’s just as wonderful as I remember. More than wonderful. I bite into a flaky hunk of meat. It tastes good. So good.

      “Okay,” I say to the kitten. I hope he can eat it. But if he can’t I’m certain I can eat the whole thing on my own.

      I step back to let the kitten take a bite. The girl says, “Oooooh,” and seems to sink just a little. Together we finish the can, licking the metal ridges clean.

      That’s when I notice the girl putting the tips of her fingers along the kitten’s neck and spine. She rubs gently.

      “I like it,” says the kitten, dumb and sweet. “I really like it.”

      I sit back and watch. Maybe this is his chance, I realize. Perhaps she’ll take him indoors. Perhaps she’ll give him a collar. Perhaps she’ll take some of the wildness out of him – enough to keep him safe.

      She picks him up. I flinch, but don’t make a move. She watches me out of the corner of her eye as she presses him gently in her hands.

      “Take him,” I say, though I know she can’t understand me. “Please take him inside.”

      “You want your baby back?” she says, looking down at me.

      “Take him with you,” I shout.

      “What?” says the kitten.

      “You don’t want to be separated, do you?” says the girl. She puts the kitten down at my side. He’s beaming up at her.

      “I liked that,” he cries out. “I really liked that!”

      “Okay,” she says, slowly climbing up to her feet. “Be good.” And then she leaves.

      She didn’t take him.

      “Do you think she’s getting us some more?” says the kitten, face hovering over the lip of the empty can.

      “I don’t know,” I reply. Another cat appears as if from nowhere, nudging the kitten aside to inspect the empty can.

      “All gone?” he asks.

      “All gone,” I reply.

      “Well…” The cat wanders away.

      “How many cats are there?” asks the kitten, stumbling into a bed of weeds, swiping awkwardly at a buzzing fly.

      “Here?”

      “Anywhere.”

      “Too many to count.”

      “Are there more cats than anything else?”

      “I don’t know,” I say. “There’s only as many cats as the world allows.”

      “Is that a lot?” asks the kitten.

      “It’s enough,” I say.

      “What’s next?” says the kitten, head poking through a row of dusty gray stems.

      It’s quiet again. I can hear a door close somewhere far away. Muffled voices. A cat howl. A dog bark.

      “The same,” I say, crawling into the bushes next to the kitten. “More of the same.”

      We’ll stay here for now. There’s no better place to be. I press up against the kitten and feel his strange jitteriness slow to sleepiness

      The day grows dim.

      There are footsteps. I assume they will pass by and so hardly raise my head.

      “Look! They’re still here.”

      It’s the girl and another, older woman. The girl kneels down in front of us. The kitten hops back to his feet.

      “She’s back!” he shouts. “More food? Huh? Did you bring more?”

      “Isn’t it cute?” says the girl.

      “Uh huh,” says the older woman, leaning down herself. “The mother looks like she’s had a tough time. Is she skittish?”

      “Not really,” says the girl, putting out a hand and scooping up the kitten.

      They came back.

      I don’t bother saying anything this time. I just watch.

      “We can keep them, right?” says the girl.

      “I like this!” cries the kitten as she nuzzles him into her face. “I like this a lot!”

      “Yeah,” says the older woman. “Let’s give them a bath, though. And then the vet first thing in the morning. I can see their fleas from here.”

      “Yay!” says the girl, holding the kitten aloft.

      “Too high! But I still like it!” says the kitten. The girl starts to walk away.

      Please don’t just take him, I think. Take him and keep him. Don’t pretend this time.

      “And you,” says the older woman, leaning closer and closer to me. “What sort of cat are you? Will you come, too?”

      I’m not afraid. Whatever she’s saying, and whatever comes next, I’m not afraid. Because they’re taking him. That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I believe. They’re taking him. Giving him food. Giving him a collar. Giving him high shelves and a dry bed and red, dancing dots of light.

      I hardly remember the time when I wasn’t always tired and sore and hungry.

      She can do what she wants. Whatever she wants.

      “Well, you’re either half dead or a very passive kitty,” says the woman, wrapping his hands around my limp body. The scratches on my stomach ache at the touch, but I don’t show it. I keep it to myself. “I’m also starting to suspect you’re no one’s mother, either. But oh well. Kittens are for kids. I think you may be more my style of cat.” She cradles me in her arms. I remember being held like this. I remember being carried.

      She even bobs a bit as she walks.

      I remember that, too.

      “Oooh, now that’s a good purr,” she says, walking back along the path, following the girl and her kitten home. “I think I know exactly the kind of cat you are. Yes, I think I’ve got you pegged.”

      Her words are gibberish in my ears. I hope she never stops talking.

 

 

Day XX

 

He grew up to be just as fluffy and white and strange as his mother. They call him Marty. They call me Doc. It’s not my name, but I come when they call it.

      Marty and the girl are fast friends. She twirls a piece of ribbon tied to a stick. It’s Marty’s greatest obsession. He sleeps on her pillow at night, at her feet at dinner, and on her desk during the day. There is a boy here, too, though he’s older and spends his time in a very loud room with the door closed.

      I keep to myself mostly. It can be very loud here, and chaotic. I don’t have the patience for that. There’s a space on one of the higher shelves, in behind a row of stacked books, where I can be alone and comfortable. One day I found a blanket laid out on just that spot. I think I know where it came from.

      Because at night, when the house grows quieter, she’ll be the only one left awake. The older woman. The mother, I believe. She sits on the couch, all alone in the flickering light. That’s when I come out of my quiet corners and hop up onto the couch with what remains of my nimbleness. She holds up her hands and lets me settle into her lap. Then she scratches me, just so. Behind the ears. Down my neck, and then my back, lower and lower, but not too low. Never too low.

      I sit like that for ages. And sometimes, in those moments, I remember. I remember the old house. The older house. Even the one before. The dog I once knew. Dorothy. I remember the man who never really liked me and the raccoon that smiled down on me from his perch on the windowsill.

      I remember Her. Of course, I remember Her. All the good things She was. How She loved me and how I loved Her.

      She never found me. And I stopped looking. I feel guilty, somedays. I wonder what’s become of Her. Did She find another cat? Does She miss me even now?

      But the scratching goes on. I purr and drool, just a little. She talks to me as we sit there, though I’ll never know what she’s saying. Still, I do my best to let her know that I hear her, and that I agree with her, and that I’ll go on listening for as long as I’m able.

      How long that will be is a mystery, but I hope it’s long enough.