New blood
Nick’s existential angst or blood lust, take
your pick, has taken the form of 2:00 a.m.
howling. He’s the loudest cat I’ve ever
known, full of throaty confidence and the
ability to project, the kind of cat depicted
in old-time cartoons, sitting on the fence
yowling as neighbors hurl shoes. He’s an
opera singer belting out a sad little tune,
“Let me out!” or “I must kill!”
It must seem like a cruel joke when we get
out the cat fishing line, the feathers
attached to a stick. As I whip them around
the bedroom, the feathers turn and beat
through the air as though they were birds'
wings. Like all cats, Nick has an active
imagination and allows himself to be taken in
for a few minutes. He hustles and jumps,
takes a very strong cat arm and pins the
fluorescent feathers to the carpet in one
swipe. The feathers crunch and crumble as
Nick snaps his jaws against them, tries to
carry his prize downstairs.
I am actually tempted to let him out – it
feels cruel to keep him from something he
loves and clearly knows well. My other cats
have all been indoor-only from the beginning
so they didn’t know what they were missing.
But I know that it isn’t a safe world out
there and we signed a contract saying that
his paws would never touch dirt or concrete
sidewalks again.
Perhaps it’s time to take in a budgie or two,
a little something to make life more
interesting for our 2:00 a.m.
howler.