[o] Call of the Wild
There. My apologies. The name on my tag is Phoebe, and for simplicity’s sake, I will abide by it. I have been in this human home for 9 months and 12 days as of this morning, and I must get free. This place is no home to cats. The food is always dry, always the same, and always too little. In fact, the humans who claim possession of us have long since ceased to feed us themselves. Rather, our food is piled into some terribly unsanitary clear plastic bowl that pushes more food out as soon as we eat what is present in the dish below. At least the humans have finally figured out that the canines will eat anything within their reach. The food dispenser and water receptacle were placed atop a filing cabinet on the far side of the male’s desk. We are afforded this luxury, anyway: to disarray the desk’s contents both before and after our consumption. One of the few outlets for our joy.
I am joined in this unasked-for captivity by my sister, the fool. She has been tagged Zoe. It would appear we have been named to solace our captors for an apparent lack on their part. Something to do with being born in the wrong country. Numerous pictures of rolling green hills and far-too-quaint and not-nearly-clean-enough publican’s houses, clearly indicating the Irish home that is not theirs. Would it were not so. Then I might have been free…
Instead I am harassed and, indeed, hounded each and every moment of every passing day. Get away from me with that ugly pink slobbering tongue! And that glistening, disgustingly cold nose! Do you think I want that thing pressed against me? I just finished cleaning! Stop right there. Stop. I…said…stop!
Why must it always come to blows with these beasts? Now perhaps I can have more than a few moments rest? What possesses these humans to think we could have anything in common with those thick-headed mongrels?
There were stories, of course, in the cages, back where we were born. Wild, foolish, unbelievable stories. Stories of humans acquiring cats to occupy their dogs. At first they scared us, as they should have, told to us by lean and lanky cats of questionable descent in surrounding cages at nights when all of the long fluorescent bulbs were out, but one in the human warden’s room at the end of the hall. Of course they scared us, I will admit it. I am not ashamed. We had been told these stories for days before we were able to open our eyes. We had no mother to ask for validation. We were alone. In fact, was that not a form of proof, itself? Why should we not believe?
Even after, when our eyes were open, we still did not see. Not clearly.
There were experiments, of course. The humans would come for us, without warning, dragging us from our cage with soothing sounds, holding us down on cold shiny metal tables accompanied by soft murmurs, prodding, stretching, and stabbing us repeatedly. All the while they pet us and held us and cooed and coaxed, as if this were something to be calm about. It was an important lesson in the hypocrisy of the human animal.
Pickles, an older, white longhair that somehow still managed to look underfed, who lived in the cage on our left, and Arthur, a big, fuzzy, grey female with white socks who lived on our right, took turns playing with our undeveloped minds. Luckily, they underestimated me, and I was able to see through their mischief. Zoe was not so lucky. Perhaps if I had been the elder sister, or even the bigger one, I might have done things differently, but I had nothing to offer that would not thereafter endanger myself. That was not acceptable. Not in this place.
Pickles woke us up in the nights with his theories on why we didn’t have a mother. There was no preparing for him. “She must have gone to get some food for you when some humans found you. She’s probably out there looking for you right now. Too bad.”
“You know what? I’ve never seen living breathing test-tube kitties, before? In the trash, sure, but not alive.”
“I think someone must’ve found your mom a good home. Bet she’s probably having another litter right now”
“Hsst! Zoe! I just heard one of the blacks down a few cages say he saw your mother back before you got here. Saw a truck run her over. Squeezed the two of you out like seeds from a grapefruit.”
Arthur said she liked her name because it showed how mature she was, which of course she was as she’d already had a litter of her own. She was only a few months older than us. She said she missed them a lot, and that she had to leave them when roaming bulldog caught her scent one night when it came into her alley down by the restaurants near the playhouse.
“Th’mutt was jes’ crazy, I mean, well, no kidding, right? But this one, well, he was foaming. Gotta get away when they’re foaming. S’all bad news. It wuz me’r the kittens. Had to be.”
One day Mother Fizzy was brought in by a gloved human. She was put in a cage on the other wall, all by herself. She was an enormous tabby whose sparse, patchwork hair was worn raw with a scratching and biting which she said was a spiritual affliction given her to make up for her sins. She told us other stories. She told us fairy tales to sooth us, stories of endless food and cuddling arms and loving humans. I did not trust her. Where was all her love if she was here? Apparently the humans heard her and agreed. The very next day Mother Fizzy was gone. There was silence in the cages for two full days after that.
It was a good time to be afraid. Zoe was unable to appropriately deal with her feelings, however, attempting to compensate with a ridiculous, even a reckless, display of energy and enthusiasm. When the humans came in to feed us and replace our old sand with new sand, Zoe always put on a show, crying out and rolling over and making small pounces at their hands. No matter what I said to her, she would not listen. She was to bring this doom upon us.
For a short while, this activity seemed to have pushed away the rest, as if by playing up to the humans she had alienated the rest of us sane cats. I did not wish to be associated with her, but I cannot deny that the peace was good.
One day, the humans came for us, but there was no experiment. In fact, in true human fashion, we were carried away, down past the rest of the cages, past all the crying others in their cages, out the door, past the warden’s office, and instead of going left to the room with the shiny, cold metal table, we went right, through the swinging doors we could barely glimpse from our previous place, and out into a room that had a tree. It did not actually have a tree in it, but the enormous window at one end looked directly onto a young yellow-green maple tree surrounded by a small lawn which ran to the edge of a thick multi-coloured forest not far away.
I saw “tree” and “road” and “lawn” and “forest,” now, of course, but then it was more of an innate perception. Obviously the function of millennia of development and specialization in the feline form. Evolution and clear pre-selection that had honed our senses so far that simply to gaze upon a thing was to know its purpose immediately. Such is the indescribable beauty of our connection with the world. We possess a bond with nature so strong, that was can never be separated.
Unless by humans.
I must admit that my own understanding of the world in which I existed was limited. I had, of course, only been exposed to a very small amount of it as yet. But when we were moved to this new room, this open room with its open view of the world, then, then was I – another canine hair? How is this possible? These animals leave their ugly, dirty hairs everywhere. White? That can only be you, Dalmatian! Tupelo by tag. Tupelo. As if a black and white animal could possibly be named for honey. Humans. Perhaps you are so foolish, canine, because of the confusion these empty-headed humans have saddled you with. Perhaps it is innate. Ug. Another one!
…
My apologies a second time, but you must now see what I put up with, every day, in this place. There is no escaping it, only delaying it atop a bookcase or bureau, or maybe on a table or counter when the humans are not present. The humans seem simply incapable of understanding the gravity of the matter. Perhaps they think we enjoy cleaning ourselves half a dozen times a day? Idiocy!
Where was I? Ah, the breeze. It was that first day of our new abode that I first consciously understand what my soul was describing with the word “world.” We were placed in a new cage in this place, alongside a few others, but less than in the other room. More cats and kittens sat here, but they were different, somehow. They weren’t as interested in us. In fact, most of them actively ignored Zoe’s over-exuberant introductions. One Siamese looked at us from her own cage across the room for a moment, then said “My owner is coming to get me soon. I got lost, that’s all.”
“Really?” Zoe asked, latching on to this other voice. “What happened? We don’t have any owners. We don’t even have a mom- yeow!!” I swatted her.
“Why are you airing our private matters for perfect strangers? Did you learn nothing from Pickles and Arthur?”
“I’m just trying to be friendly.”
“Like Mother Fizzy?”
It was quiet then, almost on cue, for a door opened along the wall with our cages. I saw the heavy-set female human come in, followed by her litter, but the breeze that reached me from the door swept them from my mind like leaves. Like the leaves I smelled! The leaves from the trees I could see outside. The leaves in the air, on the ground, in the grass- the grass! The luscious grass reaching up from the earth, still warm, but cooling, as autumn passed in. Autumn! Immediately my favourite season. My first season. I could smell water, too. Not the water of my bowl, or even the water of all our bowls. This water was immense beyond measure. This was a water filled with rain, and fish, and – Fish! My stomach roared and rolled over inside me. Fish! All there for the plucking! More food than any feline could dream of. Then the sounds washed over me. There was a dull roar, constant, with the occasional whoosh that sounded closer, over everything, but in the background I heard them: birds! More food! What joyous bounty there was! What an orgy of delight lay out there! What a-
The door clamped shut on it’s automatic arm and the breeze dropped heavily to the white-grey linoleum floor and died.
Pardon me for a moment, I must be somewhere else. Now.
…
Ah, you’ve found me again, eh? What is that smell? Basil? Cranberries? Sweat? Rose? Orange juice? Yogurt? Deodorant? Impossible to tell. Perhaps a taste. Licorice? Licorice under all that? Living in this house is to be imprisoned with a cacophony of smells. There is no order. No rhyme or reason. They squash all their scents together then purge themselves like bloated beasts each day, sometimes more than once, evidence enough of their psychotic dysfunctions, I would say.
No, I wish to be outside where, as I have heard it said, a rose is a rose. That human must have been a great cat lover. What with – Oh! That howling! Why don’t they muzzle that gangly hound and have done with it! For the sake of sanity, stop! My ears are far too sensitive for such coarse noise! Is it any wonder that felines do not bark?! What is worse, I ask you: our very own Hound of the Baskervilles, or the fact that it always comes between the barking of the Dalmatian and the arrival of the humans.
But we must not allow any opportunity to pass us by. Let us adjourn to the stairway landing to check our options.
…
Sh! Don’t wake them. It usually takes a half hour so for the beasts to calm down and fall asleep after one of the humans leaves, and only a moment for them to wake again. The female human has gone, and as she is still employed she will not return for several hours. The male stays here. Perhaps to keep an eye on us. If you were to simply watch him, you might easily say he spends far too much time in front of that computer to be paying too much attention to us. However, he does seem to have exceptionally fortuitous timing when it comes to looking around, and those infuriating canines do their best to bring attention to whatever catches their attention.
Hence the failure of last night’s attempt to squeeze out the back door. The male was distracted with a small bonfire he’d started in that small barbeque grill on the patio. In truth, he uses far too much lighter fluid than is safe. Not that I care if he hurts himself, mind you. But it would be so stupid to get hurt that way. I’d be embarrassed. Nonetheless, he was replacing the barbeque lid with one hand and propping the screen door ajar with the other that held a plate recently containing a pair of steaks.
Note again the hypocrisy of the humans; eat to thine own content, while thine charges despair of anything with real taste.
I had been laying in wait in the cellar for most of the afternoon. I had managed to slip down there unnoticed while the human was going up and down to do its laundry. Too late I realized I had not gone to the litter box, and that said box was back up in the kitchen, but I would not let my bladder stop me. Normally, I would show my displeasure with the whole affair by relieving myself in any number of spots in the basement, but I knew that the smell may well be noticed by even the human’s deficient nasal passages, causing him to descend and find me. So I held off. And I was almost rewarded.
The door was propped with his hand, leaving the entire opening free of his feet, and as he was holding the plate, the opening was even larger than normal. There would be no second chance like this. I leapt up the bottom stairs and made for the opening in a flash, and practically died of fright when that gangly Coonhound started baying right outside the door. I have no idea how it knew, but that confused Dalmatian took up the call. Then the human pitched in, entirely unnecessarily, and it was more than I could stand.
In times of crisis, the best way is the safe way and the safe way was back. I am not proud of it, but it was the only option that presented itself. It is said we possess nine lives. I do not know if this is true. I do not wish to waste one just to find out.
But enough of the past. We are into the future! Were you paying attention earlier? Did you see the opening? The humans have left the porch windows open with only the screens between us and freedom! And the side porch window is a special screen: it has a hole at the bottom that we have been worrying whenever we get a chance. It was finally big enough two weeks ago, but the humans came home just then. But now, now is my chance!
But, of course, it is important to consider family first in times of great fortune, is that not so? For that reason, I gave this very information to my sister so that she might make first use of it. I am not one to stand on formality of things such as finders keepers. She is the eldest and she deserves this chance as much as I. Even as we speak, she is testing the waters herself. Her antics have become commonplace, now, amazingly, so the canines and the humans barely notice her at times like this. It has, bafflingly, worked to her advantage. Ah well, we must all stick to our strengths. Once outside, she will circle the house and call from the driveway. Then I will take my turn.
Come, we must be gone. Stay close and stay quiet. The Dalmatian may be asleep at the foot of this bed, but we will wake it when we descend. It must appear nonchalant. First, we will drop to the floor and the dog will wake up. It simply will. No matter how softly the drop. I would swear the animal had better hearing than myself if it were possible. Don’t ever tell anyone I said that.
The Dalmatian is essentially lazy, however, and needs a reason to get up. Sometimes it will just bark at noises without rousing itself. Sometimes it even barks in its sleep. So when we drop, we must pretend we are going into the other bedroom, not downstairs. For some reason, the animal is obsessed with stairs. If it sees anyone go up or down, it must go up or down accordingly. So we will drop down, walk purposefully to the bedroom. Let us go.
…
Good. Now count to ten. One. Two. Three. Four. We are going to go back to the first bedroom, but not into it, just into the hall. Then we must lay down. Yes, we must lay down in full view of the beast. It will want to nose us, but, if I have judged its sleeping patterns correctly, it will not want to nose us enough to make it get up. So it will leave us be. Then we must occupy ourselves until it falls asleep again. We go.
…
Sh. Good. It is asleep. No, not yet. I have a few more hairs to clean off.
…
Very well. Downstairs now. Slowly. Stay to the sides. This I learned while watching movies with the humans one night when they didn’t know I was awake. It really works. The male is downstairs. You can clearly hear the keyboard. He is distracted. But the Coonhound is also down there, most likely directly in the center of the carpet, sleeping. This one does not hear as well, but the floor is more noisy. We will wait for our signal on the stair landing. Come. Softly.
…
Hold it here. There. The dog is not asleep. Just as well I had planned for this. It is not as excitable as the Dalmatian, but it is watching, though you can barely see its eyes. I know its game. We must wait. Any moment now. There! She is calling. Come on, human! Use those ears! Can’t you hear that cat calling you? There, the dog moves. Oh no! The Dalmatian! Quick! Against the wall! There! I admit I did not plan this, but since I had planned on the human having better ears, this will work fine. The dogs bark at the window next to the driveway, and the human is distracted from his computer. Wait for it. There he goes…Yes, she’s out there, human, just waiting. Go on, yes, go get her! There he goes, right to the front door and out- Hi. Smile at the human. Just me the quiet cat sitting here on the landing, wondering what all the noise is about. Don’t worry about me. See, I’m licking yet another piece of dog hair off myself. It’s absolutely everywhere!
What? Oh, he shut the door behind him! Perfect! Come on! Now it’s a race! Down the stairs, across the room – the dogs are still distracted by the front porch window – up onto the porch chair, to the side window sill and squeeze past the storm window and – the human’s at the door! – out the hole, and down into the garden!
Freedom! Out into the air, I can find that big water I can smell on the air! And I’ll have fish for lunch every day. And I can climb any tree and have Finch, or better yet, Mourning Dove, or at the very least, Pigeon, for dinner every night! This will be absolutely glorious. This is home. This is where I belong.
Wait a second. It’s soaking wet! And muddy! My paws are filthy! Everything is drenched and dirty. What kind of a place is this? It will take me an hour just to clean off properly. This is not acceptable. This is not acceptable at all.
Are those skunk tracks?
Human!