When the Grey Cat's mistress
returned she brought with her the scent of dog and other disreputable
flavors. The Grey cat sulked and I heard a whispered 'K' word, and I
reached for acceptance with the understanding that cats do not arrive
ready made. They are products of experiment and learning and a
commitment to deviousness.
watched the Grey Cat look into the horizon and I have remembered his
grandfather, and his great-grandfathers and some very bad tempered
uncles. They had dispute and they had friendships from which the
Grey Cat benefitted.
was little, his grandfather would bring him small, fury and wholly
disabled but still alive creatures to play with. And it was a proud
day for his grandfather when the Grey Cat slipped through the cat flap all
by himself and returned with a green Katydid.
All these events I have watched in
horror. Understanding them as belonging to a part of existence beyond
my control. Yet I wonder if the Grey Cat is lonely. Whether he
pines for less complicated affections. Someone who might actually lick
In the culture of cat he would be
the last of his kind. He is a storehouse of understandings passed
through childless generations of old cat to young. Knowledge that has
kept the Grey Cat whole in this place of Horned Owl and Barred Owl, and so
many roaming packs that once were puppies. A burden of wisdom for the
Grey Cat to take unshared to a lonely grave.
But the 'K' word is forbidden to language
here. Long years of tribulation followed by promises have resulted in
its exile. I can see those promises documented in memories that are
crisp and clear and eminently reasonable.