Over the weekend, we were planning to pick up the outdoor feral cat, Barbie, whom we’ve been fostering, from a three week stay at the vet to cure a nasty tunneling infection when we spied the following doings at our place. Here is some color commentary on their play by play. To tell the truth, it’s what cats do.

-Marlow

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Two neighborhood outdoor feral cats, Pittypat and Simon, are out sitting on our porch right now waiting for us bi-pedals to wake up and recharge the food bowl for their evening degustation.

Our side yard and tree lawn trees and bushes are filled with birds, dozens and dozens of them. All different kinds, even crows and hummingbirds, marshalling for a chance to hit our tiered fountain for a drink or a brief evening bath. They nervously eye the cats.

There are three basic personality factors present in our neighborhood cats: the kind who run up when you say hello and rub against you in cheap romance; the kind who run away certain that you mean to ravish them; and the kind who just look back and don’t move a muscle. We love all three kinds. Meanwhile, the cats are still catching the last drops of sunlight and squint dopily with their front paws in the second position of ballet. They look like they dropped acid. It’s just a food coma after they wolfed down the proffered evening kibble.

None of them has an ounce of worldliness, and worldliness is always somewhere in the back of my mind. It’s just been there and won’t go away; and that’s why sensing this from me, these cats are so ashamed when they find themselves uncommanded but compelled to race about helter-skelter and suddenly stop only to look around and fiercely announce to all of us onlookers that they meant to do that.

They are always trying to affect the Mr. or Mrs. Casual Worldly in a popped collar polo shirt, pressed pants, and wide acid-attitude eyes. I know — mostly for certain — that none of them are on acid or other hallucinogens.

They are so smug with their secrets like pregnant women who haven’t told anyone yet. Hardly anyone on their bi-pedal staff has any cat in them is why. So, they are vapidly indifferent to us.

They are completely doubtless. It is their special force, their doubtlessness, which welcomely ushers them into the finest places. All rules vanish when they treat us with compassion and purr for us, smilingly oozing charm as they make us feel grateful for recognizing that they owe us some brief time and attention.

We should see them as they truly are — the Japanese Mafia — Yakuza. We’re just weak-assed gaijins, you know, foreigners in Catlandia — to them. They recognize and use our imperfections against us. They just never have anything to lose, so they do what they do.

If they could, they’d all pick each other up in maroon Lincoln Continentals and take rides to the fish markets and then to sunnier sides of various old downtown streets for a nap. They all love maroon Lincoln Continentals for how exotic they look in cruise-mode motion as well as when parked by the curb.

They’re so completely beautiful and shiny furred that when we are young, they make us afraid and awed of their eccentric behaviors

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There are certain phases regarding cats that have implanted themselves in my being during my time in this cat world.

The first: “But who are they? Who are their people? Of course, they are badly off, quite bad off, but they act as if they are descendants of the kings of the jungle.”

Next: “Oh, and of course, they are most times pretty dreadful, but their lives are terribly rich.”

Third and final phase: “Well, dear, but they are amusing.”

So, as with all mysteries, they are not well off, nobody truly knows where they came from, but they are very, very amusing.

Thanks, Ms. Christie.

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PS Not less than 2 hours after Barbie’s return home, she was caught porking out at our neighbor’s front porch, open air, evening hour, cat buffet.

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