There were diverse and many alley cats mewing and nuzzling on this street, before the Cat Massacre of 2008. Out door cats without owners, they were friends to many people on this street. They had fine personalities, and were robust. Ramon was the closest of the feral cats to this household. He and I communicated easily. And there was a friendship between Noodles and he that went with a common, divided species. Cats know what social stratification is. This is one of many reasons they are so much more successful than most people.
I heard some of their conversation, through the screen door, one July. It was something common and urgent. Hushed, and heartfelt. My cat is both humanitarian and a cynic. It's a trait that grows in rocky soil, like most traits here on the North Side. Noodles came to the screen door and tapped, and the two cats filed in as quick as I could jerk latch and knee the lousy door open. They went directly to the kitchen table, and took seats at the round Formica. I followed.
"My family and I subsist on woodchucks and oppossums. We are fortunate. There are rodents everywhere. We eat well...:"
"Ramon would eat Punxatawny Phil, if he got a clean shot at him," Noodles jocularly interjected, and we took some time to laugh freely. It let go the tension. There was urgency to get on with. "We are proud and independant creatures, are we not?" Ramon lowered his head, so not to make this request a challenge.
"Why, Ramon, you've been nothing but a fucking wonderful next door neighbor all these years," I said. We paused. He continued.
"Noodles tells you keep large amounts of canned cat food here, in your home."
"Of course, Ramon, I said." Noodles monitored the interface. "If you are in need, I am certain we can assist."
"You see, normally we live off the land, but my great uncle has contracted colitis. He can not digest our rodents. He needs canned food."
Well I love the way simple solutions to trouble can be so mutually rewarding. In no time at all, we were trading beef chunks in gravy with cheese for dead wood chucks. I never would have guessed they were so tasty chicken fried. It was that incident of illness that started us all eating together. We adopted communality.
I heard some of their conversation, through the screen door, one July. It was something common and urgent. Hushed, and heartfelt. My cat is both humanitarian and a cynic. It's a trait that grows in rocky soil, like most traits here on the North Side. Noodles came to the screen door and tapped, and the two cats filed in as quick as I could jerk latch and knee the lousy door open. They went directly to the kitchen table, and took seats at the round Formica. I followed.
"My family and I subsist on woodchucks and oppossums. We are fortunate. There are rodents everywhere. We eat well...:"
"Ramon would eat Punxatawny Phil, if he got a clean shot at him," Noodles jocularly interjected, and we took some time to laugh freely. It let go the tension. There was urgency to get on with. "We are proud and independant creatures, are we not?" Ramon lowered his head, so not to make this request a challenge.
"Why, Ramon, you've been nothing but a fucking wonderful next door neighbor all these years," I said. We paused. He continued.
"Noodles tells you keep large amounts of canned cat food here, in your home."
"Of course, Ramon, I said." Noodles monitored the interface. "If you are in need, I am certain we can assist."
"You see, normally we live off the land, but my great uncle has contracted colitis. He can not digest our rodents. He needs canned food."
Well I love the way simple solutions to trouble can be so mutually rewarding. In no time at all, we were trading beef chunks in gravy with cheese for dead wood chucks. I never would have guessed they were so tasty chicken fried. It was that incident of illness that started us all eating together. We adopted communality.
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