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The Princeling Who Ran Away
Jessica Zafra
Some months ago, a beautiful white cat took up residence in my building. He appears to be of some foreign breed—larger than the average male cat, white, with black ears and a long, thick black tail. Most cats have an aristocratic bearing, but this one has the air of a foreign princeling who escaped from his retinue to go slumming among the common people. Sort of like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, except that she didn’t eat mice or poop in the yard.
The story of his arrival varies according to which security guard is telling it, but apparently everyone witnessed the great event. In one version, the cat was crouching in the back seat of a moving SUV when he suddenly leapt out the window and dashed towards our building. In another version, he was sitting on the lap of a woman in a white maid’s uniform, and the vehicle was a late-model Mercedes Benz. The accounts vary, but they all mention his grand origins, or as they put it, “Sosyal yang pusang yan.” In time I expect to hear of how he escaped from a tightly-guarded motorcade, or parachuted into the yard from a private jet that was flying overhead. No doubt the real story is more prosaic: maybe his owners got tired of him and threw him out, or he was unhappy so he ran away. I think he decided to abandon his comfortable lifestyle and get in touch with his feral nature. Cookie my sister thinks his owners were going to have him neutered, and he fled on the way to the veterinarian. As far as I know his humans never came looking for him, which is surprising because he seems like a pampered pet.
For a few weeks after his arrival he hid among the bushes in the back of the building and lived on mice and insects. He lost a lot of weight. Then he started hanging out in the guardhouse. The guards adopted him, fed him, and soon became very fond of him. It was one of the guards who worriedly reported that the cat had vomited up a worm. All cats who live outdoors have worms; our vet friend recommends a tiny dose of Combantrin to get rid of the problem. Cookie gave the cat his medicine in a dropper—he obediently opened his mouth, winced at the taste of the syrup, but swallowed it anyway.
The naming of cats is a serious business, and it took us a few days to figure out what to call him. We decided on Matthias. Every day we give him kibble to supplement the people food that he prefers. (Digression: My cats’ favorite brand of kibble is Purina Cat Chow, but thanks to globalization, mergers and acquisitions, it is no longer available in local stores. They’ll eat Atta Cat, but they loathe Whiskas and Friskies with a passion; when we dare offer them the stuff they scratch the floor in the classic gesture of “For me to poop on!” If you know where we can buy Purina Cat Chow, please tell me.) Matthias has a lilting meow and a sweet disposition; he allows himself to be petted and he doesn’t scratch or bite. However, he refuses to be carried. Cookie says it’s because he’s afraid someone will snip off his testicles.
One evening, about a month after we named him, my cats Koosi and Saffy began yowling, rolling on the floor, and glowering at the door. The reason for their agitation soon became obvious—someone was on our landing, singing the feline version of Nessun dorma. We opened the door— the singer was Matthias himself. Koosi screeched and jumped to the top of the kitchen cabinet in a single bound. Saffy did her impression of a lion, which was adorable but not at all scary. Matthias has lovely manners. He looked up at us and meowed, as if he were requesting permission to come in. Then he padded into our apartment, checked out our furniture, and peered into the rooms. In the bathroom he took particular delight in the litterbox, perhaps remembering his former residence.
Koosi and Saffy were furious at this invasion of their territory, but we were thoroughly charmed. We decided to invite Matthias to stay, provided he let us take him to the vet for a thorough check-up, deworming, and de-flea-ing. If he lived with us, he could never step out of our house again; he would join Koosi and Saffy, who believe that the universe is a rectangular apartment. Of course Matthias would have to be neutered, as we have enough cats in the house.
Cats are said to have a psychic connection with humans, which is why so many of them were burned at the stake with the women who were accused of practicing witchcraft. Although we never mentioned the N-word, the princeling knew of our plan. From that evening on, he never set foot in our apartment again. Not even when we invited him, not even when we tried to entice him with cat treats. He still lives downstairs in our building, hangs out by the guardhouse, prowls the neighborhood streets, gets into fights with other toms, and goes courting. Sometimes I see him filthy or wounded in some battle, but what am I going to do. He wants to be a part-time vagabond.
Most days on my way to work, or at night when I come home, he runs over to greet me, and demands to be rubbed. When I try to carry him he lets out a bloodcurdling yelp and wriggles out of my grasp. We imagine that cats are like people, that they want comfort and security and the safety of routine, maybe even the accoutrements of status (the uniformed yaya, the Mercedes). This cat just wants to roam the wild like his feral ancestors, and then come home and rest a while before resuming his wandering. He can’t really belong to anyone but himself; he likes walking the earth too much. The cat wants to be free, which is probably why he escaped from his posh humans in the first place. Those stories you hear about human-feline connections, they’re true. It turns out that this cat understands me better than I understand him.
Update: Mat kept getting into fights and coming home with bleeding ears. Then he disappeared for a whole week, and it turned out he was trapped in an empty apartment downstairs. So we decided that this was more stress than we or Mat could stand, so we had him neutered. He now lives with us permanently. Koosi and Saffy were pissed but they got used to him. All three are thriving.
(This is one of the essays you will find in the new Tw7sted, which will be launched tomorrow, April 20, Wednesday at Powerbooks, Makati, 6pm)
The Princeling Who Ran Away
Jessica Zafra
Some months ago, a beautiful white cat took up residence in my building. He appears to be of some foreign breed—larger than the average male cat, white, with black ears and a long, thick black tail. Most cats have an aristocratic bearing, but this one has the air of a foreign princeling who escaped from his retinue to go slumming among the common people. Sort of like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, except that she didn’t eat mice or poop in the yard.
The story of his arrival varies according to which security guard is telling it, but apparently everyone witnessed the great event. In one version, the cat was crouching in the back seat of a moving SUV when he suddenly leapt out the window and dashed towards our building. In another version, he was sitting on the lap of a woman in a white maid’s uniform, and the vehicle was a late-model Mercedes Benz. The accounts vary, but they all mention his grand origins, or as they put it, “Sosyal yang pusang yan.” In time I expect to hear of how he escaped from a tightly-guarded motorcade, or parachuted into the yard from a private jet that was flying overhead. No doubt the real story is more prosaic: maybe his owners got tired of him and threw him out, or he was unhappy so he ran away. I think he decided to abandon his comfortable lifestyle and get in touch with his feral nature. Cookie my sister thinks his owners were going to have him neutered, and he fled on the way to the veterinarian. As far as I know his humans never came looking for him, which is surprising because he seems like a pampered pet.
For a few weeks after his arrival he hid among the bushes in the back of the building and lived on mice and insects. He lost a lot of weight. Then he started hanging out in the guardhouse. The guards adopted him, fed him, and soon became very fond of him. It was one of the guards who worriedly reported that the cat had vomited up a worm. All cats who live outdoors have worms; our vet friend recommends a tiny dose of Combantrin to get rid of the problem. Cookie gave the cat his medicine in a dropper—he obediently opened his mouth, winced at the taste of the syrup, but swallowed it anyway.
The naming of cats is a serious business, and it took us a few days to figure out what to call him. We decided on Matthias. Every day we give him kibble to supplement the people food that he prefers. (Digression: My cats’ favorite brand of kibble is Purina Cat Chow, but thanks to globalization, mergers and acquisitions, it is no longer available in local stores. They’ll eat Atta Cat, but they loathe Whiskas and Friskies with a passion; when we dare offer them the stuff they scratch the floor in the classic gesture of “For me to poop on!” If you know where we can buy Purina Cat Chow, please tell me.) Matthias has a lilting meow and a sweet disposition; he allows himself to be petted and he doesn’t scratch or bite. However, he refuses to be carried. Cookie says it’s because he’s afraid someone will snip off his testicles.
One evening, about a month after we named him, my cats Koosi and Saffy began yowling, rolling on the floor, and glowering at the door. The reason for their agitation soon became obvious—someone was on our landing, singing the feline version of Nessun dorma. We opened the door— the singer was Matthias himself. Koosi screeched and jumped to the top of the kitchen cabinet in a single bound. Saffy did her impression of a lion, which was adorable but not at all scary. Matthias has lovely manners. He looked up at us and meowed, as if he were requesting permission to come in. Then he padded into our apartment, checked out our furniture, and peered into the rooms. In the bathroom he took particular delight in the litterbox, perhaps remembering his former residence.
Koosi and Saffy were furious at this invasion of their territory, but we were thoroughly charmed. We decided to invite Matthias to stay, provided he let us take him to the vet for a thorough check-up, deworming, and de-flea-ing. If he lived with us, he could never step out of our house again; he would join Koosi and Saffy, who believe that the universe is a rectangular apartment. Of course Matthias would have to be neutered, as we have enough cats in the house.
Cats are said to have a psychic connection with humans, which is why so many of them were burned at the stake with the women who were accused of practicing witchcraft. Although we never mentioned the N-word, the princeling knew of our plan. From that evening on, he never set foot in our apartment again. Not even when we invited him, not even when we tried to entice him with cat treats. He still lives downstairs in our building, hangs out by the guardhouse, prowls the neighborhood streets, gets into fights with other toms, and goes courting. Sometimes I see him filthy or wounded in some battle, but what am I going to do. He wants to be a part-time vagabond.
Most days on my way to work, or at night when I come home, he runs over to greet me, and demands to be rubbed. When I try to carry him he lets out a bloodcurdling yelp and wriggles out of my grasp. We imagine that cats are like people, that they want comfort and security and the safety of routine, maybe even the accoutrements of status (the uniformed yaya, the Mercedes). This cat just wants to roam the wild like his feral ancestors, and then come home and rest a while before resuming his wandering. He can’t really belong to anyone but himself; he likes walking the earth too much. The cat wants to be free, which is probably why he escaped from his posh humans in the first place. Those stories you hear about human-feline connections, they’re true. It turns out that this cat understands me better than I understand him.
Update: Mat kept getting into fights and coming home with bleeding ears. Then he disappeared for a whole week, and it turned out he was trapped in an empty apartment downstairs. So we decided that this was more stress than we or Mat could stand, so we had him neutered. He now lives with us permanently. Koosi and Saffy were pissed but they got used to him. All three are thriving.
(This is one of the essays you will find in the new Tw7sted, which will be launched tomorrow, April 20, Wednesday at Powerbooks, Makati, 6pm)
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