The Conversion of Littelilly

Cat and I are like intertwining jinn-jang bugs – this is Tao – and it can't be forgotten that every cat, gato in Spanish, contains in itself three letters from Tao, where g is as if a hole left in ponchos by Indian women for the soul not to become a prisoner of the fabric. [translation mine]

Julio Cortazar "Last Round (The Conversion of Theodor W. Adorno)"

Soaked in a newspaper, brought to me, as always, by local postman, a nice older man with a big hackneyed by time bag, and sipping tepid, yet still strong, coffee, I heard the meowing that, for that exact moment, I didn't realize it would accompany me for the rest of my days. I've ignored it at first, thinking it was one of my neighbour's tomcat preparing for heating or being severely pecked by a stronger than itself bird. Not paying much attention to this sudden cat mourning I've returned to my morning routines: reading, teeth washing, phone calls to close, or less close, friends, some time at my typewriter that begun to cover with thicker and thicker dust – the inspiration has left me recently, I wasn't able to flood the paper with a single real sentence, only word clusters, letters resembling prison breakers – and, finally, putting my favourite flannel shirt – inseparable comrade of my forest walks, often lasting for the rest of my day. That particular day was different, though.

Right at the head of my path leading from my gate to my doors sat this little, scrawny cat. Squatted in the middle of the path it looked completely exhausted. Grimy, with jagged ears, paw next to paw. A white tie under pitch black neck gave it a kind of seriousness, at the same time resembling desperate pedlar sent from doors to doors, like from Biblical Caiaphas to Annas, unable to sell his magnificent detergents or highly alluring holiday offers. The kitty was staring right into my eyes, two small points flickering in the midday Sun against dark green of my hedge. I called the cat, showing relaxed palm out away from my mouth, imitating taking food from it, a bay for simple-minded cats thinking the hand is full of splendour. Slowly, I crouched down and on bended knees I begun to approach the kitten that now I felt pity for, as I could read from its eyes a silent history the cat wanted to tell me. A sad history, full of violence aimed at the cat from other cats, and from people.

The cat started to sniff, moving its nostrils, as if wanting to smell if I really have something in my hand, it even stood up on its all four legs, stretched its back, then disappearing in the hedge. The nimble leap of submersing into the green surrounding my property, made me go into rapture. Passing the thickets I sought with my eyes the mysterious visitor, yet, unable to catch sight of it.

***

Few days later, immersed in my duties, just when I've almost forgotten of the path meeting, I've suddenly heard the same meowing. My heart literally jumped for joy, not knowing why, I longed for the unknown cat figure. I gazed through my window; the cat was sitting in the same place and the same pose as earlier, yet, I'd the feeling, a bit closer. This time, not to frighten the cat away, I've prepared for it a small feast. I took a piece of raw chicken from my fridge, chopped it, poured some milk onto a saucer, and armed with the food I slowly came out. I put two trays in the halfway from my house to the cat and retreated back home, making the cat to realize I have no bad intentions for it. I watched through my window the secretive visitor that happened to like my house and my path and my hedge for its games.

The cat sniffed the air for a while, polishing with its tongue the rugged fur, then, as if casually, stretching its back, flexing and almost falling asleep on the way, finally reached the trays. At first, it circled it few times, sniffing hard, shaking its paw in the air, as if trying to tell me that it doesn't eat such things, that it's too little for him, or her (I didn't know yet the cat's sex), that it's used to caviars and heated milk, not some chicken offals for ragtag and bobtail. During the cat's tray dance I've finally noticed it's a catkin. Fairly young, as I imagined, but severely stamped by life. Not only her ears were jagged in few places and the fur dirty, I've also noticed a considerate, bloodstained wound at the back of her head. Watching her vote of no confidence for food given by human being I started to realize someone must have treated her really bad. In normal circumstances the catkin would have already eaten away the trays, meowing with satisfaction, maybe even begging for more. But Littlelilly, as I called her later on, was different. She circled the trays few times, in the meantime washing herself with her long tongue, squatting, observing the surroundings, peeking at my door, as if worried that I might nip suddenly out of them. And then, out of the blue, she sobbed a little milk, snatched whichever bit of meat and dashed into the hedge. I waited for a little longer in my window, but she didn't shop up again that day. I've left the meal, though I was pretty sure that the tomcats would zero on the meat while my cat was gone, where I put it, hoping she might come back and try the hurriedly prepared feast.

***

A week has passed since my last rendezvous with the catkin. I lost hope she might return to me, my head started to fill up with dark thoughts that somewhere in the forest thicket she was attacked by a meanie tomcat, or closed in a barn to catch mice and she died of hunger, lonely, weakened, when one warm summer evening I was shook out of my thoughts over a glass of cherry brandy by the familiar lingering meowing. I sprung to my feet, wanting to jump for joy, run towards the meowing, hug the cat, take her home, stroke her back delighted in her purring I haven't heard yet, but which was filling firmly my head. I froze in half-leap, remembering she is skittish, and it's her third visit so far. In the darkness I descried two shiny points of her eyes, delimiting her geographical position, disappearing afterwards in my kitchen to open a tin with cat delicacy I bought a week ago, put it in front of my house, right at my steps, on a brand new cat-tray. I left it closer than last time, hiding myself on the porch and observing the situation from my hiding place. This time Littlelilly approached the food almost immediately, nosing the air around and staring at me with a grain of salt started to eat the meal in haste. Having finished, she quickly moved away to a more safe distance, sat on the pathway, still with her eyes fixed on me and started to clean herself in a catlike way. The washing lasted for some time, she tightened her back paws, just to lick them carefully, she cleaned her back, tail, front paw balls with such an elegance that it filled me with a feeling I'd want to spend the rest of my days with this particular catkin. I slowly stood up from my porch armchair, approached the steps, crouched and with a big smile gazed at her evening toilet. Though she was pitch black, not mentioning the little tie at her neck, I could see more details: her long whiskers, white spot on her back left paw, red tongue. My inside was plucking towards her, but I knew I can't afford such a flight of fancy; it might destroy our acquaintance which has already started with a pinch of mistrust. I waited till she finishes washing herself, meow goodbye and disappear gracefully in the shrubbery and took the tray inside.

The next morning I was woken up by a pleasant surprise. There, Littlelily was sitting on my window-sill. As soon as I moved, a bit frightened with the sudden change of reality, ready to jump, with eyes wide open and enlarged pupils, she sniffed the air. I gently turned myself towards her and with my lips imitating meowing, I smiled, exhibiting the palm of my hand. She replied with a silent meow, softly skimmed with her paw the window pane and disappeared from the sill. When I came up to the window, she wasn't anywhere near; she managed to dart away from my nosy eyes into her place of slumber.

***

Since then, the visits became regular. In the mornings and evenings she came to me, breaking my habits, demanding food or my concentration on her errands. Often, as I put the food for her, closer and closer to my door, she just approached it, didn't eat though, sat right next to it and stared at me with her big eyes, washed herself, she even lay on the porch few times basking in the sun. One day I decided to take a chance. I left my doors wide opened, leaving the agreed food tray in the hallway, as if a bribe for the catkin which let me observe her in exchange for meals. I returned to my everyday routines. When she didn't come in the morning, I thought all was lost. But my lunch preparation was interrupted by her lengthy meowing. I saw her in my kitchen doors, examining, how new for her, surroundings. Not wanting to scare her, I pretended not to notice her, indulging in, with open delight, slicing carrots and breading meat. All of sudden I felt a timid stroke at my calf. I looked down and saw the most beautiful picture one could ever imagine. The catkin stretched out on her back paws with front ones leaning against dresser drawers. She was filled with calmness and with full cat smile begged me for something to eat. I cut off a fair piece of meat and gave it to her. With her claws she pulled it out of my hand, ate it in haste and evacuated from the kitchen.

After I've prepared the meal, I've moved to my living-room and couldn't believe my eyes. My catkin, in her majestic kittyness, was lying on the sofa, coiled, fast asleep. I approached her in silence. I wanted to stroke her, but at the same time, I was afraid not to scare her. I've decided not to tempt the fate and just watched as her chest ascends and softly drops. After a while, Litllelilly woke up, opened her sleepy eyes forgetting where she was, meowed finely, drew nearer to let me stroke her. I put out my hand which met with her paw, as if she wanted to greet, me at the same time showing me where to stroke her. She scented me carefully and held out her head. I started stroking her which caused her a lot of joy; her front paws were trotting in spot, and I could hear scarcely noticeable purring. Unfortunately, the pose in which I was caught by the catkin wasn't much comfortable for me and I had to move a bit; this was my mistake. My too fast movement frightened Littlelilly away, she bolted, snorting at me. Oh, how I regretted my movement, what a saddness filled me because of thin unfortunate deed, when, at the expense of my comfort, I lost her joy. I promised myself that next time I won't make the same mistake; if there is another time.

***

I lost hope, when one rainy Sunday I heard scratching at my terrace door. I saw Littlelilly, chilled, soaked through and starved, meowing silently at me and still scratching the door. I opened the door, the cat rushed into my house, settled herself next to warm TV and started to wash herself and, as if nothing has happened, lay to sleep at the top of tube. How happy it made me feel, especially that I begun to think I won't see her again. But she came back, she must have felt that she can be safe with me, she understood my mistake was not intentional but resulting from my discomfort and she came back. I didn't disturb her peace, letting her choose her own moment for cat cuddling. So it was, after few hours of TV heating, when it was me to nap, she awoke me with trotting and scratching my chest. I looked into her eyes, begging me to put my hand on her back, stroke her, as she wants it badly right now. Therefore I started stroking, softly, scratching her a bit behind her ears which must have cheer her up a lot as it was echoed with loud purring, louder I could ever imagine. Yet, it didn't last long. As soon as she fell asleep on my chest, she rose, slowly this time, stretched herself, looked into my eyes, then through the window, meowed, jumped dwon and with cat silence was at the door, demanding to let her out. On her command I opened the door and she disappeared in greying day. I could imagine she was no stay-at-home personality, after such a pleasure she must revel, catch few field mice or bats, brag about the event to other cats.

Since then, Littlelilly visited me every day, every day settling on my TV, then on my belly or chest; the ritual was always the same – trotting, stroking, purring, falling asleep, meowing and leaving me all alone with warmed chest. She never stayed over. She never had the courage to fall asleep with me, as if she was still afraid I could do her bad when she was dreaming. During the time I managed to cure her, her fur begun to gleam, all the wounds closed up, even the nasty wound on her head stopped being a problem; the catkin started to smell like me.

One day, however, I made some little mistake, maybe it was just unexpected background noise which made the cat take offence and with loud meow and snorting she ran out of my house and I didn't see her for a long time. Once again I lost hope, I've almost forgotten about her, even stopped putting food in front of my house.

One autumn evening she appeared once more on my pathway in the same spot as at the first time, again starved, dirty and cut. I was glad, wanted to greet her with a piece of her favourite chicken liver, but I was too fast, Littlelilly disappeared in the thicket of leafless hedge. I left the delights on the pathway and got back home. After a while I could see her approaching the food, grabbing it and disappearing one more time. Again, I had to tame her, again the same gestures and movements, my overprotection and uncomfortable poses at the expense of her comfort. But it all paid off. We spent winter evenings together, sometimes even whole days, but never ever the nights. Even during the hardest frost she'd rather go out than stay with me. For such a contingency, I've prepared in the toolshed a warm and cosy bed, I've even took care of fresh food and water.

***

Our hide-and-seek lasts for eight years. Every time, it's either me who forgets to leave the door opened for her, or she, running away scared by an accidental noise. But she always comes back. Or I recall her, seeing her on the pathway. Lately, I put the food for her more often, I take more care of her. As I feel it's worth doing. I know that even if she'll run away, she'll always come back, happy, purring, wanting for me to stroke her and to feel the warmth of my house. That's why I love her and believe that one time she'll stay for the night.