grey cat is seasonal. And he has developed the habits of a
He gains an initial purpose at
around six in the evening. He inches down the stairs from the room
where he sleeps. He requires a nugget or two of fresh dry food
before going outside to sniff the cat nip, eat a little green grass.
He sits for a while on the concrete walk looking as old and decrepit as I
often feel. He has though a four legged life style, and after he
throws-up, he crawls back to bed until around eight in the evening.
Leaving the rest of us to wonder how much longer he has for this world.
Toward the barn where the grown rabbits watch for him, they can see him hung-over
and frail, they can see him sick from abuse, they can see him lost to
addiction, and they forget quickly that he is addicted to rabbit hunting.
But he is clever, because when dusk comes
he blends nicely. When dusk comes he emerges lithe and agile and
gleaming and just as charming as a presidential candidate. So of
course we open the kitchen door for him, even though we all understand there
is a perfectly functioning cat-flap, which he only ever uses when no one is
In the morning there is often something nasty
under the table. A foot or an ear. Some part of a creature
that was only the day before hopping happily about, perhaps curious to know
what lay beyond the fence around the vegetable garden. And oblivious
to warnings from wiser heads about the old grey four legged invalid who
lives in the house with the nice man and woman who chase deer and bark at
them, to no effect whatsoever.
Then when he goes missing, as sometimes
he does, I can pretend it's his just reward and I can grumble on through the
day about coyote and the rich dialectic that makes of life a cruel
tapestry. I can look at his food bowl and feel that sense of
sadness. And I can know it is an enabling relationship we have with
the cat. And if he were human I would belong to a conspiracy.