Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Autobiography of an Expansive Tom Cat


I am proud to state that I, Yotur na’Atira, have sampled life to my fullest. Despite criticism to the contrary, I have always considered my tummy’s appetite and paws’ begging talent to be special gifts from our miri moon mother, Uma. I’ve an extensive menu of ABCD memories, beginning with appetizer yard scraps, moving on indoors to heaped plates of choice Friskies entrees. Dessert is usually a variety of kitty treats, served by Auntie Brenda. I think I could have had a distinguished career as a feline food columnist. Malka scoffs and labels me an epicurean, whatever that is. He is, sorry, he was determined not to be governed by his appetites for food and attention. I miss those reproving looks he gave me from eyes, glowing golden with conviction. My creed is that of the saintly beggar: Ask and you will receive. A full begging bowl, a tidbit of chicken, a head rub, a tongue scrub. Instructed by our receptive whiskers, we beggars devoutly believe in the world’s charity, so, raising our tail banners, we pad on with cheerful meows. Oh, yes, I also have an appetite for love.

Unrequited love. A bulging stomach, oh, but a heart craving to be filled by affection. As a probationary ABCD Collective member, I discovered a love for Ragni Ourai and her pup, Uli. No joy. They were a tight family unit, and now years later, after Ragni has died, Miss Uli still ignores my obvious attempts at friendship, turning away from soft nudges and murmured compliments. It’s this traditional hrana antipathy for miri. I should feel the same way about dogs, but I don’t. A mouse in the house won’t move me to hunt it. The sight of a caged bird only tempts me to ask it how is life behind bars. The new pup, Laihainai Ourai, rolls me over to chew my ears and paws as if I were one of her cloth toys. This is not how I imagined being a dog’s companion. Fini with the two-species-as-pals fantasy.

I adored Miss Douglasina Prickle Puss, my Collective instructress. Her soft midnight pelt and haughty glare were entrancing. Again, no joy. Miss D. was bewitched by herself. Malka and I commiserated over this realization. So I offered him my devotion. There are, again sorry, were conditions to being his favorite friend. Sometimes we shared a cat bed. Sometimes I cleaned his ears and face. Sometimes he would let me taste a bit of his breakfast. Other times, I was permitted none of these. Then he would stalk by me, imperious tail switching impatiently, while I swayed behind encumbered by my huge insignificance. And now he has left me without a meow of goodbye or here’s where you can write me. Perhaps you will read this post, Malka, wherever you are. My appetite for love and food departed with you.

Diabetes has replaced my several desires with an obsessive craving for water, then with a need to immediately void it. My stomach shrinks. My pleasant tenor meow has slid down the scale into querulous hoarseness. I cry to be let outside where I can pee into grass instead of kitty litter. I am insatiably thirsty for the water of life, even as it drains out of me. Beyond the screen door, sky clouds are dropping water on our thirsty garden. Is this a promise that my thirst, too, will be quenched, my appetites finally satisfied forever?

Posted for our late ABCD member Yotur by Esmeralda

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