When I lived in San Francisco, I did so in the company of two of the best cats to ever grace the planet, and I say that absolutely free of bias.
Their names, Dash and Comma, were a writer's joke, one to which I'm pretty sure Dash never took kindly. Then again, she didn't take kindly to much of anything. She was a classic cat: aloof, diffident, haughty-seeming, anti-social. I was her sole human, and she took to me fiercely. But the world at large to her seemed suspicious, a sentiment she expressed by spending the bulk of her time staring daggers.
Comma, by contrast, was practically a dog: he loved everything and everyone, no matter their size, shape, scent or social status. Comma would greet me at the door, sit in my lap when I read on the sofa, curl up under the covers with me when it was time to drift off to sleep. We had long conversations--my end was long on multi-syllabic flights of fancy, his on meows--and generally comported ourselves as the best of friends.
Dash came to me in the late eighties via a roommate. He brought her home as a kitten and promptly named her Asha, after a goddess. I just tried to find information online about this goddess, and came up blank. Maybe my roommate only thought Asha was a goddess; it was the pre-internet days. Anyway, in late-eighties San Francisco, anyone could believe anything about anything, and often did.
A year later, the roommate moved out. He offered me the opportunity to keep Asha; if I didn't, he said, he'd find a place for her with friends. Given that I was home a lot as a freelance writer and he was out at a job all day, I'd rather bonded with Asha. After all, I was the guy who fed her, which definitely elevated me in her discerning estimation.
So I agreed to keep her on. I promptly renamed her Dash, and we became fast friends--as fast friends as Dash would let anyone become, especially someone who'd changed her name from that of a goddess (?) to that of a punctuation mark, and an underused punctuation mark at that.
Five years later, I accepted an office job. Thus, I left Dash alone all day and sometimes into the night. A friend--who, with his roommate, had two cats--suggested I get a pal for Dash, and I agreed.
One day I went down to Animal Care and Control, where animals not snapped up by potential guardians will be euthanized, and searched the cages. Presently, I came across a skinny little year-old thing with large pointy ears and soulful, not to say sad, brown eyes. He had a cold; he sneezed a lot, which was, I'm sorry, adorable.
I took him to a play room outfitted with a carpeted climbing structure and a bench. I placed him him on the opposite side of the room, and sat on the bench. He walked over and hopped up. Next, I placed him at the top of the climbing structure, and again sat down. He scrambled down, walked over, hopped up, and sat next to me.
This suggested that he'd been socialized by humans; I thought him a great fit. Anyway, his coloring was almost exactly like Dash's; it was like I was getting a matched set, and what self-respecting gay man doesn't appreciate the occasional matched set?
I learned from a vet that it'd be best to introduce Comma slowly into the household--which, let's face it, was Dash's household; to her, I was merely a convenient feeding station. I kept Comma in the kitchen for a couple of days, the door closed. Dash sniffed under the door, hissed, and basically behaved as would any five-year-old who suddenly had a younger brother.
On the third day, I picked up Comma and walked into the living room. Dash stared daggers. I lowered Comma to the floor, and Dash slowly approached. There was some diffident hissing and whatnot, but in the main Dash began to practice a sort of resigned acceptance. Comma loved Dash; Dash tolerated Comma. To me they were both adorable, blessed with distinct personalities and enough fur that extraneous bits of it became fixtures on my jackets and slacks and sofa and desk.
The cats and I--and a rotating cast of boyfriends--spent eight delightful years together. Then, shortly after the 9/11 attacks, Dash, aged eleven, fell ill. After a few heart-breaking and tear-stained days, my then-partner and I decided to put her down.
I maintain that humans place fewer conditions on animals than on other humans. The love we feel for our animals is pure, strong, deep. Losing a beloved animal tears a hole in time and space and even in the soul, not to overstate the case. It was with a great deal of grief that Comma, my partner and I bid Dash adieu.
After waiting a decent period, my partner and I decided to find Comma another pal. At a different Animal Care and Control site, we discovered a tortoise-shell kitten, a tiny handful of fur. We brought her home and named her Ellipsis. (God bless that partner's forbearance, never mind Ellipsis'.)
We didn't wait long to introduce her to Comma, who--and you saw this coming, didn't you?--loved her. You know those calendars with photos of cats sleeping curled up together, or licking each other's fur, or gamboling happily? Yeah. That. Our household was a constant Hallmark cat card; the level of cute was so pronounced that I feared we'd wind up in, if not as, a Disney movie.
Alas, even Disney movies have their dark spots. Although Comma and Ellipsis got on famously and loved living together, my partner and I, in due course, did not. After four years together we dissolved our relationship. He took Ellipsis; I kept Comma.
I wound up spending seven more blissful years with that genius of a cat. I'm in the habit of occasionally offering guidance and solace to people who request it. When someone arrived at my apartment, Comma would greet them like some kind of fur-ball receptionist and lead them to the big, green, comfortable chair. He'd then hop up on the sofa next to me and go to sleep. In this way, he'd model admirable calm in the face of life's vicissitudes; this notion was not entirely lost on the folks I was attempting to assist.
Indeed, cats teach us many valuable lessons; here are some of them, in no particular order:
1. Sleep a lot between hunts.
Cats are predators. They hunt--if only, in the case of Dash and Comma, for kibble and the occasional fur brushing. These finely tuned animals know enough not to stint on rest; they sleep between sixteen and eighteen hours per day. Not that we should necessarily emulate the quantity of sleep, but the quality of it? Let me put it this way: naps are good.
2. Then sleep some more.
See above.
3. When angry, arch your back, hiss, and flash your claws.
This is especially useful when "discussing" your relationship with your partner.
4. Flatter those who feed you.
Translated for the workplace: be nice to your boss. If you don't, he may ban you from the snack room.
5. Have a sense of humor.
Ha ha. Just kidding. Cats have no sense of humor whatever. That's why they're such perfect pets for poets.
And actors.
And--yes, fine--writers.
6. We are all animals, underneath the fur.
Or, in the case of humans, underneath the belief that reality television is the apotheosis of human achievement.
7. Nothing is forever.
This last came as no shock to me. I knew Comma's life in those final years would one day end. When he became ill with kidney disease in 2010, there followed six heart-wrenching months of decay, ending in the decision to put him down. No sorrow hath a writer like that of a Comma dropped.
Since then, I have been cat free. It's nice not to have to scoop poop-crusted litter and lint-roll fur from my clothes. But I miss having cats.
One day, my current partner and I will bring home a cat, we've decided. Until then, we have a sort of interim local beast--but let's leave that for a future post.
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