(Stationed in the suburbs of Petah Tikva in the house of my mother and her husband until I can hit the road again, I spend many hours walking. The road shows me many things, and one of them is inescapably roadkill.)
The dead cat hung on the fence like a lost glove. At first I thought it was a stuffed toy when I caught a glimpse of its head and front paws, soft grey and white, like a real kitten. I wanted to take it with me, but of course such a nice toy would be missed and someone will surely come and find it and a small child will delighted. I realized it was a dead cat when I walked into the stench and then closer to see the flies making their way into the feast through the eye-sockets, mouth and the soft skin around the loosely hanging claws. Head and front paws flipped over toward the street, on the other side a bloated gut and stiff tale with a snapped tip sticking out of the limp spine like an old radio antenna.... or like a dead cat's tale. The fur was still intact, but under the skin organs and bones sagged and moved distorting the firm kitten body into a baggy corpse. After standing on the narrow sidewalk by the highway alone with the cat, trying to understand everything, I kept walking towards the park, to sit on a bench and think about things and I can and cannot take part of mending, and about the cat I left hanging on that fence.
my world has been filled with dead cats. we always had between 5 and 20 cats running around our house, basement, outbuildings and barns, all different ages and sizes. Mostly we kept the cats out of the house because of my fathers allergies but i remember once when i was about 6 there was a fresh batch of around 8 kittens in the dining room, crawling around and nursing. We were in a rush that morning, trying to get to somewhere or another (probably school) in time and somehow there was a loss of focus. I stumbled and fell on a kitten, poor thing, its neck was broken, or close to it, either way, it was dying there in front of me and i couldn't stand it. to not see it suffer; i knew it was going to die, i took it out back with the 22 rifle on my shoulder. staring down the sights, the smallest delicate kitten mewed in pain and despair, and I felt the same feelings when pulled the trigger as when i shot that deer when i was 13. I apologized to both of them, not understanding anything anymore; was it my place to play its fate and end it there, was it my fault i don't know, but it showed how fleeting and delicate it all is. Years later that kitten is strong in my memory and generations of litters have come and gone, perhaps there is still some of its blood in our flock of felines at home, crawling, scratching, and pooping in the coal pile in the basement.
ReplyDeletethis time of year they all like to hang out in the celler room, next to the furnace. the coal pile is a heaven and a haven for them, one giant heated litter box with the perfect texture and the earthy smell of carbon.
and last night i dreamed about cats, two big ones and a small one: walking, somewhere in canada (either vancouver island or cape breton) came to a cabin where i was to stay. i had heard rumors of panthers in the area, although did not believe it, first saw the black panther with its silky, smooth, lustrous coat. a smaller tabby appeared, and out of the bushes runs another catamount, this one golden and chomping down on the tabby. the black panther moved towards the scene, the light reflecting off of its soft coat as it merged and became one with the gold king.