My Life in Cats
A cat must have three different names.
–T. S. Eliot
Here is a poem I wrote when our cat, a cuddly Tom named Red was hit by my school bus. It is part of a collection of writing I put together in fourth grade:
I had a cat Named Red, Red, Red
The school bus ran him over now he’s dead, dead, dead.
Red, Red, Red was fat, fat fat.
The school bus ran him over now he’s flat, flat, flat.
This may seem like the poetry of a psychopath but the thing was we lived on a terrible road with acres of land behind our house. There were cats that we adored who lived short, very happy lives and many times I knew a cat had been ran over because my mother, usually a happy sleeper would have gotten out of bed to make breakfast, frequently blueberry pancakes and there might be a box in our dining room containing the broken body of another feline. We could be sad but we couldn’t grieve. If I believed I loved that cat or the cat loved me that was fine but I was not to share that idea but eat a pancake and go to school.
Why didn’t we keep them inside or at least find a way to fence them in? Well, growing up in the country, albeit a few miles outside of Princeton, New Jersey, death was frequent and often brutal. It wasn’t only our kitties. The handyman shot himself, deer were constantly gunned down in the woods and we lived like feral children aware of the proximity of sudden death.
When I grew up and left for college I decided to have my own cat or even cats. My parents bought a small house my sophomore year that was meant to solve the problem of where I would live. I was desperate to escape their gravitational force and this house was an anchor to keep me close to their mooring. However, it was next to campus and quite adorable so I moved in, found a non-student roofer roommate, and acquired my own set of kittens, China and Blue. One mostly Siamese and one quite black. They both had bright blue eyes and were exquisite. That Halloween I gave a huge party, people came in costume except for a rather imposing and proud Native American guy whom I didn’t really know. Like I said, it was a huge party. Two other vague acquaintances came dressed as cowboys and although my Native American guest was not in costume he had long dark hair and dressed in clothes befitting his heritage. These two men got really drunk and started harassing the Native American guy making war whoop sounds and talking about getting scalped. Apparently, he had no sense of humor and pulled out a large Bowie knife and in my kitchen, threatened to kill them. I was quite drunk and dressed as Ophelia after she drowns dragging around damp lace curtains, flowers braided into my hair. I managed to kick the bad cowboys out and calm down the unknown Native American. During this time someone sneaked upstairs and stole Blue, the boy kitten.
I was very upset and angry and then, after a month, Blue was returned to me a changed cat, sexually aggressive and constantly attempting to have sex with his sister, China. Apparently he’d been locked in an apartment with a cat in heat, the owner wanting to have a pretty kitten as a result of their tryst. I took them to the local shelter to get fixed and peace ensued. The kittens became cats and it was a peaceful year but I was very lonely as my boyfriend had transferred to a different college. He was penniless but for my birthday he sent a gorgeous bouquet of roses which I put in a vase and almost immediately locked myself out of the house. I watched through the large glass window the sibling felines decapitate and consume a dozen roses and then vomited up rose petals to finish the job. After graduation I moved to Hoboken where I shared a terrible apartment with a friend from high school who was highly allergic to cats. Since I was seldom home it felt like a kindness to remain without a pet. My ex-roommate decided he was into cats, especially when he was stoned which was nearly always and offered to adopt them both.
Fast forward a few more years, I have been married, divorced, gotten sober and into therapy and am spending half the week in a Buddhist monastery in Upstate New York, a very intense Rinzai Buddhist monastery where we rise at 4:30 am, chant and meditate for many hours. This decision is based on several factors not the least of which was an enormous crush on the grand poohbah, the head of the monastery who found me both amusing and possibly returned some of my feelings but certainly not all. Living in the monastery simplified my life. Every Friday I left New York City where I now lived and drove this ridiculous car, huge, cheap, dangerous to the Catskills and crept back into my role as a Dharma maiden. I kept this car in New Jersey where I taught Creative Writing at Rutgers regaling my students with bizarre stories about polishing wood and being forced to attend bowl orientation as I had no natural talent at dining in the Zen method.
During sesshin, a seven day retreat when you remain silent and eat all your meals in a formal bowl situation, stay silent and meditate for hours, an orange marmalade cat suddenly appeared and immediately established himself as a rule breaking, wild thing. He climbed the robes of the Roshi and after the week ended the monks decided I was to take him back to New York City because I was the only person who seemed capable of taming him. Chester hated all my boyfriends and if any dared to spend the night there was a chance he would drop from a height, claws extended to make it clear I was his property. I adored him. We commuted to the monastery until the day came that I recognized I was a writer without a subject besides meditation, bread baking, polishing wood and imagining my life as the concubine of a Buddhist monk. In other words, I woke up and moved back completely to the Upper West Side. At this point I was a writer with a teaching job, two published novels and some other things but basically I was poor but happy. Chester loved me and I loved Chester.
Fast forward a year and I have been given residency at a wonderful arts colony in California adjacent to Neil Young’s ranch in the San Bernadino mountains above Paolo Alto. It will last two months, I will be housed and fed by a gourmet chef and there are no pets invited. I ask my parents to take Chester but it’s not a great fit. My mother will not concede all to the cat and my father regards him as feral and absurd. Three weeks into the residency I receive a strange note from one of my fellow artists. “Sorry about your cat,” it said. I called home and was given a muddled explanation as to why my parents executed Chester who may or may not have been bitten by a bat who may or may not have been rabid and anyway he was now deceased. I am devastated but strangely unsurprised and inform my mother that when I have a baby I will never let them babysit because if the baby fails to please they will likely kill it. My mother responds by informing me Chester has destroyed the couch. The other artists are horrified.
Skip to present day. Several children surrounded the kitten clearly unschooled in how to approach a cat, any cat, even one this small. I, a long-time lover, guardian, and mother of numerous cats understood that if you act eager to please and needy a cat will shun you. Rufus was a rescue, found in a box in the rain. Although he was fearless with my husband and me, he had a low slink, a Groucho Marx walk whenever anyone else came into our house.
Rufus
On our move to Michigan he found a new location discovered when my future daughter-in-law was looking for a hand towel but opening the drawer she found this.
Rufus has a mysterious girlfriend, a mouse we named “Moronica” for her inability to find a way to escape from possibly the least dangerous cat in the universe. Moronica lapped Rufus many times skittering around a kitchen chair until she finally left for the basement and he rolled over whether to mourn her departure or demand a belly rub I am unable to decide. In any case, we suspect they have a relationship based on a lack of understanding of their roles as hunter and prey. He is not allowed outside unaccompanied. My job is to supervise as he consumes grass and pukes. I do so gladly.
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach