"At least five things" -- a story with a cat by Carla Sarett

 Yes, it's spring and time for another short sweet story for dark times.  This one has a cat (perhaps in preparation for my adoption of a cat soon.).  Thanks to the editors of Sunlight Press for publishing this optimistic story:  "At least five things."

To read it, click here

Dmitri's Cat by Carla Sarett

I have been remembering cats I have known—I say "known," since I am not an owner of cats. Merely an admirer; since owning animals, plants, children has always seemed out of my reach or perhaps my inclination. 

Cats possess, more than other creatures, true mystery. They sleep most of their lives, motionless, and seem to be most themselves in sleep, far away from the routine in which they have been thrust by needy humans, hungry for any morsel of affection from their beautiful feline pets.  Even a brush of fur against the leg pleases the undemanding human.

And I have been thinking, also, of cat people I have known. Some of the cat people I knew briefly, fleetingly, and yet from their cats, I feel a kinship with them, a bond that persists decades later. 

Not every cat owner is a cat person. 
Cat people are a breed unto themselves.

I think of a man named Dmitri, one of my husband's two maternal uncles.  Dmitri's cat slept in the top drawer of Dmitri's desk; the cat hid from the other members of the household.

At that time, the household consisted of my husband's widowed mother and her two brothers, Constantine and Dmitri, and their long-time bossy housekeeper who came during the day.  In this country, such a living arrangement would be considered odd; but in Athens, it was unremarkable. Besides, the elder of the two brothers, Constantine, had led a peripatetic life and was often absent.  He held an important position in a large Greek city planning firm, and his job took him to Cairo, Damascus, Istanbul, Tangiers.  He was a tiny, fiercely energetic man, with no time for pets or, I suspect, people who disagreed with him.

But Dmitri, thin with elegant features and hooded eyes, was a different sort of person.  He had been sick as a young man, stricken by tuberculosis during the Second World War, from which he had never fully recovered.  And he had been rejected in love in his twenties—the shock of it had caused him to try to kill himself, although afterward, he remained best of friends with the man who married his love, and by extension, the love herself. 

His bad health prevented Dmitri from living much of what is called an ordinary life; although he did work, in civil service, as a structural engineer.  He rarely travelled, he ate the same foods almost every night (he believed zucchini were beneficial to digestion); he rose and went to bed at the same time—that is, except when he dined with his best friend and his wife, the lively woman Dmitri had not married.  I never saw him without a thin sweater.

His spare time, he dedicated himself to reading.  He had a vast, impressive library in Greek and French, he had read any classic one could name and many works of modern Greek poetry not available in this country.  While he read, his faithful cat sat quietly in his lap, and when Dmitri left to study to take his "daily constitutional," the cat returned to the top drawer, always faithful.  The cat was as quiet as Dmitri, and by her intense love for him, I 

knew Dmitri was a kind man.   

I wondered how Dmitri felt living with his more ambitious, wealthier older brother, so adored by the two sisters (another widowed sister did live separately, also in Athens.) The sisters hung on every word Constantine spoke, they repeated his advice, they never doubted his expertise. Dmitri must have known he was the more intelligent of the two—this I gleaned from a flash of amusement when his brother spoke, a faint, almost invisible reprimand to his brother's many grandiose pronouncements on this or that.     

Dmitri spoke no English (or at least not well enough to converse) and we communicated in French, or what I recalled of French.  I did manage to tell him that his cat was beautiful.  Since he was shy, even if my French were better than it was, we would rarely have spoken.  He stayed in his study with his cat and did not eat with the rest of the household, at least when I was staying there.    

I wondered if my presence in the apartment was disruptive to a man who lived such an orderly life. It was hard to tell. 

But before I left Athens, Dmitri gave me a present.  I still have it, on a bookshelf: it is a copy of an ancient head, and it has what Greeks call the "archaic smile," a stylized smile used in the Sixth Century BC and earlier: the almond eyes wide, the face still, the lips slightly upturned in an expression of contentment and reverie.  That smile is considered one of the first signs in ancient art of humanity, since nothing is more human than a smile. Yet, the archaic smile is elusive. It is a hint of a smile, nothing more, and yet something more—it's a smile a cat might make.

Dmitri hadn't spent any time with my husband and me; I didn't expect a gift.  He shyly pointed to the head and told me (in his perfect French) it resembled me. I suppose it wasn't only the smile that he saw—the long features, too, are like mine.  But he also saw my smile.  

He was a cat person.

Find more of my cat stories in  SPOOKY AND KOOKY TALES

International Cat Day: Chopin for Igor by Carla Sarett

In honor of International Cat Day.   This little cat tale first appeared in CONTRARY CATS, an anthology of feline stories, as well as my own SPOOKY AND KOOKY TALES, available on Amazon in a Kindle edition.  

Chopin for Igor

Carla Sarett

The Cat People might well have become, had the times been different, the premiere online community for all things feline.  At its launch party, the brash young CEO, Lily Gold, handed out sparkly pink cat t-shirts— but those souvenirs were all that remained of the company a year later.   

As it happened, I was wearing my Cat People t-shirt when I saw Lily years ago in a coffee bar downtown.  It was late on a pearly-gray afternoon, when the days become short and sad.  When she waved, I admit that I hesitated to join her.  I sensed how raw her defeat was, and her brand of ambition was foreign to me.  Besides, the only cat I had owned had been strangled by the rough boys next door, its neck cruelly broken, and its runt-like body abandoned in the street.  After that, I had never wanted another pet.

I knew nothing about Lily Gold.  For lack of anything better to say, I said, “You must miss working with cats.  You seemed like such a cat person.”  

She did not smile.  “No, I was never a true cat person—not like my sister, not at all.”  And that was when I heard the story of Lily’s younger sister, Rose.

##

Rose Gold rented a house in a small town called Narberth, about ten minutes or so outside of Philadelphia. Her house was no larger than an apartment—it was delicate in structure, with a tiny flower garden and a white picket fence.  It sat slightly behind a far grander house and, in an earlier century, had probably served as servants' quarters, but now was rented out to young singles like Rose. In the large house lived her landlords, Herb and Sally Taylor, who owned an antique store nearby.  All in all, it was an ideal situation. Rose was a quiet tenant, the rent was fairly reasonable and the Taylors were responsible landlords.   Rose and the Taylors saw little of one another.   

A few months after Rose had moved in, a dog-sized gray tabby showed up at her doorstep.  She immediately recognized it as one of the Taylors' cats—they had a few.  Even so, she allowed the cat to enter, taking great pains not to touch it.  The huge animal moved slowly through every room of the house, with complete freedom.  Then Rose prepared a plate of left-overs and watched as the cat nibbled a portion, as though extending her a courtesy.

Over the next weeks, the cat visited Rose at its pleasure – and Rose looked forward to its appearance.  She stocked her cabinets with gourmet cat food, just in case. Sometimes the cat climbed on her sofa while she read and permitted her to stroke its warm soft fur.  And one day, the enormous cat jumped in her lap and purred.  It rested with her for hours until Rose fell asleep.  Rose felt divinely happy.

The next day, Rose found it impossible to concentrate on her work.  Her thoughts were only of the cat and whether it would return that night. To her joy and amazement, the cat was waiting at her doorstep. The cat meowed and brushed against her as she walked through the door. Rose knew that the cat had decided in her favor. 

"It’s strange, but understand, it wasn’t my decision," she let Sally Taylor know.  "I’d never just steal your cat, or any cat. This just sort of happened." 

Sally Taylor was gracious if somewhat chilly.  “What can you do?  We have two other cats, they’re Siamese, and they’re both so sweet and loving, they’re wonderful.”  Her tone implied that this other cat was not as sweet, and, it went without saying, not as loving.  In any event, Sally insisted, “we cherish all of our cats.”

“Of course, I can return him right now,” Rose said quickly.   

“No, I have to respect his decision.  If you ever get tired of him, we’ll gladly take him back, no questions asked,” Sally said.   

Rose almost hugged Sally. “I’ll never get tired of him, don’t worry,” she promised.

“I’m not worried,” said Sally.  “But cats have a mind of their own, don’t they?” 

Rose named her cat, Igor, after her favorite composer, Igor Stravinsky.  She filled her house with catnip and toys and all manner of gourmet delicacies.  She sliced tiny pieces of melon for Igor’s dessert and watched him eat, slice by slice.

She learned the music that made Igor purr—not Stravinsky, but Chopin, especially the Ballades.  Tears streamed down Rose's face as she heard Chopin’s chords and Igor's soft purrs. 

If someone visited Rose – a rare event, to be sure --Igor hid in a large desk drawer, curled in a ball. As Rose entertained, she pictured Igor, waiting for her, soft and warm.  The moment she was alone, Rose opened the drawer, picked Igor up and clasped him to her as tightly as she could.  When she slept, Igor lay beside her, “not too close, just close enough.”  Rose's family became accustomed to hearing stories about Igor.

Their life together went on this way, for about two years, when Rose met Alexei Cohen—an IT consultant brought into her research department at work.   Rose’s family was relieved—Alexei had a natural charm and confidence, an ease with people, so Rose’s solitary ways did not matter to him. As for Alexei, he had no doubts about dark-eyed Rose.  Within months, he asked Rose to marry him and she accepted.

"I’m a cat person," Rose told him.  “My cat found me, I didn’t find him.”

“Cats always find people,” said Alexei.  He had his own cat story -- his family's cat had jumped from a speeding car, on a highway, and had, miraculously, found Alexei days later at his college dorm.  

“That’s the thing, you can never forget a cat,” he said.   

When Alexei stayed with Rose, Igor concealed himself in the desk drawer and only emerged when the stranger left.  “I’m worried, Igor’s so sensitive.  But maybe when two people love him, he’ll feel more secure,” Rose told her sister.

For the wedding, Rose wore her mother's white lace wedding dress, which touched many of her friends and family.  The honeymoon in Tuscany was perfect, or almost. Rose could not hide her fears about Igor.  More than a few times, she called the cat-sitter to check on Igor. She explained, “It’s complicated.  I’m not his original owner.  I never can be absolutely sure.”

Alexei paid little attention.  Everything about Tuscany and dark-eyed Rose pleased him.

Afterwards, they moved into their new house-- a large rambling house, fit for children, and not far from where Rose had lived in Narberth.  It was one of old stone houses on the Main Line, with a graceful circular driveway and rhododendron bushes lining the walkways. 

“Yes, it’s extravagant,” Alexei conceded.  “But I’m in no mood to economize, not now, not with everything ahead of us.”

Rose carefully planned for Igor’s adjustment to his new setting.  She laid down many strict rules: Igor could never be touched without first obtaining permission; Alexei must never play music that Igor might not like; Igor needed time alone with Rose; and Igor must be allowed to sleep with the two of them.   

 The restrictions did not faze Alexei.  After all, if Rose doted on her cat, what of it?  He laughed, "I'd hate to think if you had to choose between Igor and me!"  

Alexei himself loved Chopin and would play the piano for Rose and Igor, as Igor rested on Rose’s lap.  Alexei respected Rose’s rules—and he left them, undisturbed.

But soon Igor sickened. He ignored the pet delicacies that Rose prepared and lost weight. He became a mere shadow of himself, not the enormous cat he had been, but a thin and sad looking creature.  He slept in the closet. He stopped meowing

“We need to take him to a vet, there’s one in town,” Alexei said.

“No, I heard he puts animals to sleep, and their owners don’t even know about it” Rose said, terrified.

"Nonsense," answered Alexei, "How would he stay in business if he were killing cats?" 

Instead, Rose found a holistic animal practice out in Buck's County, over an hour away, who offered daily treatments.  Her trips to Buck’s County consumed Rose’s entire day – she had to give up her job. Following instructions, Rose administered Igor's treatment one drop at a time, with a tiny eye-dropper. She purified the house, discarding any toxic material that might contaminate Igor’s fragile system, which was smaller than a human’s.  Igor remained sick and unresponsive.

Alexei’s work took him to other cities—like many consultants, his work schedule was beyond his control.  When he called Rose from airports or hotels, he heard only about Igor.  Alexei was patient, but in truth, he knew that Igor was simply an ordinary cat-- and he knew that cats die, especially when they are denied normal medicine.  But there was nothing unkind about Alexei Cohen.  At airport gift shops, he searched for little cat gifts and souvenirs for Igor.

Rose visited a spiritual counselor for animals who was famed throughout the area for saving lost causes.  “It’s his past life that’s killing Igor.  He once lived with a family who beat him. He’s signaling his past life,” the counselor said.  “You need to assure Igor that the present and the past are not the same.”

Every night, Rose whispered to Igor, we love you--no one’s ever going to hurt you again.  “He’s traumatized,” she told Alexei.  “It’s natural that he’s so weak.  He needs our help.” 

Alexei said nothing.

For weeks, Rose sat alone with Igor.  She never turned on a single light.  Alexei left silently in the morning and removed his shoes when he returned home, in order to avoid any unnecessary sound.  But he still played Chopin for Rose and Igor.  Sometimes, the two of them fell asleep together. 

And then Igor vanished.  Rose searched everywhere – her desk drawer, the garden, the attic, everywhere, but he was gone.  Igor had been allowed to roam outside, but he had never failed to come home.

“Cats always come back,” said Alexei, as he stroked Rose’s hair.  “He’ll get hungry, and he’ll come back.” 

Alexei posted signs around the neighborhood, "Lost Gray Tabby"-- on telephone poles, at the local supermarkets, anywhere that signs could be hung.  Many kind people called about stray cats, but none of the reports fit Igor’s description.  

“Yes, Igor showed up for a day, but then he left,” Sally Taylor said when Rose called her.  "You never know with cats, do you?" 

Each long day of cat-hunting became the same as the long day before.  Rose woke before dawn.  She drove around Buck's County and around the neighborhood of her spiritual counselor. She walked through every park and past every house. At home, she stayed on high alert for the merest hint of footsteps or meows or a faint scratching at the door.

All of this made no difference to Alexei’s feelings about Rose.  She was what he wanted.

One night, when Alexei was out of town, Rose awoke and heard a meowing in the distance.  She must have suspected or hoped that it was Igor—and she walked down the narrow road to find him. It was pitch black and the road had no sidewalks.  Rose was invisible in the darkness—her back faced the cars.  The driver who hit her had no idea she was there, according to the police report.  She was dead by the time Alexei's plane hit the ground.

Alexei Cohen delivered his wife’s eulogy.  He spoke of all that he loved about Rose, of the impossibility of her early death and the hollowness that stretched ahead.  “But,” he warned, “The future is there, whether we want it or not.  We will do the best we can.” 

About a month after Rose’s burial, Alexei opened the door and discovered Igor, sitting very still.  He held the door open – Igor brushed against his legs and meowed until Alexei picked him up. Alexei sat down at the grand piano and played Chopin for Igor.

"He's a cat person, now," Lily Gold told me.

--

You can buy SPOOKY AND KOOKY TALES here

April Foolishness: The Calligraphy Cat by Shana Marshall

Today's bit of April Foolishness comes from my very talented niece, Shana Marshall, a student at San Francisco's School of the Arts -- who while not singing opera, dashed off this very sweet and funny feline tale.

(For cat lovers:  don't miss the anthology, Contrary Cats where cat tales, funny and not, abound.)

The Calligraphy Cat

Shana Marshall

           His hand shook as he glided the quill across the paper. He was almost done, and this commission had been the most difficult and most tedious of his entire career. Although Jim was only twenty-four, he had a nearly thriving career as a calligraphy artist. I say nearly, because it’s difficult to ever truly have a thriving career as a calligraphy artist, but Jim was about as close as it gets. He had been awarded a slew of unrewarding jobs in the past few months, until he received a call from Dean Sarah Stein from Harvard University, commissioning him to design the graduation diploma for the 1974 graduation year.

            It was 7:46 am on the day that they had asked Jim to submit his final design, and he was on the final word- “university.” His meeting with the Harvard faculty was set for 9:30,  Needless to say he was running late. He had planned to complete the design the night before, but of course his mother had called asking how to change the ribbon on her brand new typewriter.  Jim, being a good son, had walked her through it step by step. Unfortunately, after he got off the phone, Jim thought he deserved a break and sat down to watch Johnny Carson, after which he fell asleep.

            As Jim scrambled to finish the last few letters with beauty and consistency in the rest of the document, he noticed his cat Alfred meowing loudly and rubbing against his leg.

“Alfred, I swear to god, just give me two minutes here and I’ll come and play with you.” 
Alfred was a needy animal, and decided that Jim’s offer was not up to par with his desires. He leaped up onto Jim’s desk, much to Jim's dismay. Jim was in the middle of a word, and could not lift the quill off of the paper, let alone push his 18-pound cat off of the small, square desk.  Alfred tiptoed across the desk, completely ignoring Jim’s anguished yells, and then it happened. Alfred was not particularly graceful for a feline, and he had accidentally dipped his paw in the ink, and then gotten scared and jumped off of the table, treading all over the document on the way.

            Jim was in shock. He sat there with his mouth open, staring at his ruined masterpiece. It was now 8:37 am and Jim was still in his underwear, with messy hair and coffee breath. He needed to clean himself up and get from Brooklyn to SoHo in the next fifty three minutes. Jim was at a loss. He looked at his design, “it’s not THAT bad,” he lied to himself under his breath. The complete document actually looked quite beautiful, save for the four Alfred-sized paw prints that made it look like something you’d win for shooting the most ducks in one of those carnival games.

            Jim thought for five more minutes while he went to brush his teeth, 8:42. He finally decided that:

A)    He didn’t really need to shower, he had showered the day before and he wasn’t an extremely sweaty or smelly person

And

B)    He would bring the diploma to the meeting and calmly explain to them the situation, and that he would have a new one for them in a week.

Jim took deep breaths, attempting to calm himself down as much as possible as he got onto the subway. It wasn’t his fault after all, how could they possibly blame him? Or give the job to someone else? ….Or completely ruin his reputation in the calligraphy business? Or fuck up his entire life? No job means no money which means no house or food, and what would he do with Alfred? When was the last time you saw a homeless man with an obese orange tabby? Maybe in a moment of madness from the hunger, he’d be forced to consume his beloved cat? Wait, he was the one who got them into this stupid mess in the first place! He deserves it!

STOP.

Jim took his inhaler out of his briefcase and took a few puffs. He looked at the frightened woman sitting beside him and apologized profusely. Luckily he had snapped out of it at the right time because this was his stop. He apologized one more time, and then got off the train.

He exited the subway station and walked to the building, scrambled up to the elevator and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. It was now 9:27 and Jim was wondering how he ever managed to get there on time. He sat in the lobby and a moment later a woman came out and said “Mr. Young, they're ready for you."

Jim walked in and they immediately asked to see his work. He took it out of his briefcase, a stern looking man grabbed it out of his hands and before he could utter the words "let me explain" the man said "thank you, you can go now."

That was it? Jim was distraught. This was his big break and it was all ruined, by a cat no less. They didn't even give him a chance, how could they not even let him explain what had happened? Jim was a timid man and obeyed. He walked out of the room.

Three days went by and Jim didn't leave the house. He lay in his bed, ate potato chips and watched the Newlywed Game. He decided to spite Alfred by only feeding him two cups of food a day as opposed to his usual three.  
On the third day of his hibernation, Jim received a call from the Dean of Harvard University. "Hello Mr. Young, this is Sarah Stein, thank you for your wonderful design for the Harvard graduation diploma. We thought it to be a bit avant-garde at first, but after much thought we came to the conclusion that the deep metaphoric symbolism about the animalistic tendencies of the real world, and how the graduates will be entering into it is exactly what we were looking for with this diploma. It's a step in the right direction for Harvard University. So thank you Mr. Young, for putting so much thought into this project. We hope to see you at graduation."