A Cat Named Darwin (15 page)

This was a handsome cat with black spots against a gray-brown background, the ancestral markings and coloration of the European wild cat from which the house cat is descended. In the world of cat fancy, these markings and coloration are known as "standard tabby." His face bore the classic feline mask, with one fine line running from the outside corner of the eye and one from beneath the cheek, meeting at a point below the ear. Four fine lines—the same as Darwin's markings—started at the eyebrows and swept back, coalescing in a black cap atop his head. Five heavier lines trailed back from this cap and ran to his shoulders, where they came together in a wide black band that continued along his spine to the tip of his tail. Black stripes hung down from the band like ribs along his sides, but the stripes were broken at regular intervals, creating a pattern of spots arranged in columns. Along the tail, the band connected a series of black rings similar to the markings of a raccoon.

It was the spotted sides, however, that set this cat apart from the standard standard tabby, because they vaguely suggested the markings of a fish in the genus
Scomber,
known in common speech as the mackerel. He was a member of that small, exalted circle known as the mackerel tabby, and what a fortuitous fate for a cat: the mackerel is a small tuna; and for tuna the cat will risk life, limb, and the pursuit of sleep. By and by these facts would converge on his destiny.

Late one afternoon I saw this cat lying on his side in the dusty, bone-dry yard of the neighbor on the north side—the one who owned the bougainvillea bush where Darwin and I met. At this time of day the sunlight highlights the red in things, and it struck me how closely his belly fur matched Darwin's overall coloration. For all I knew, the two could be siblings—stranger things happen in the society of cats—but I couldn't help wondering, in a twinge of bemusement, if there was some cosmo-comic significance here.

Meanwhile, Darwin was staying outside more and more of the time. In the evenings I sometimes had to pick him up and carry him indoors, virtually dragging him away from his territorial patrols and the perpetual standoffs/skirmishes along the borders. I never knew which of the strays was laying siege to Darwin's estate, but I knew they lurked everywhere and I lived in constant concern for Darwin's health.

I did not shut him indoors at all times, because I knew how persuasive he could be when he wanted in or out, and I had no other place to live and work. Even were it possible to keep him indoors, I would not have done so, because he loved the slings and arrows of the feline military existence. Combat gave meaning to his life. Danger was what he lived to face. Putting his wishes ahead of my own, I clenched my jaw, bit my tongue, and swallowed the anxieties, the fears, the apprehensions, along with the urges to manipulate and control that made me human. I forced myself to endure this torment of possibly losing him, because I understood from biology that life has evolved to endure pain, suffering, harassment, aggression, disease. I accepted the dangers of the world as not only the price for being alive but the reason for living. So I let him in and I let him out as he wished (within reason and with the exception of the nighttime curfew) because the price of equality is autonomy.

One evening Darwin came in for dinner with a nasty red gash running down his muzzle in scarlet contrast with his white fur. On the one hand, he must have been feeling good enough to fight; on the other, such wounds were open portals to any number of microbes, and this red-on-white cut raised the specter of infection. Given his compromised immune system, another infection was the last thing Darwin, or I, needed.

The next morning, after releasing Darwin to the world, I happened to look out the window, and what did I see but the new cat walking slowly, menacingly to the left. From the left who should be walking slowly, menacingly to the right but Darwin. They stopped about two feet apart and faced off. A low moan started soft and then rose from Darwin's throat into a big, cutting yowl, a sword drawn slowly from its scabbard. Tails slashed back and forth in random fits, and fur stood on end like bristles on a brush.

Suddenly I knew who had slashed Darwin's face, and he was about to do it again as the two squared off. But Darwin was in no shape to fight this young, fit, street-tough stray; he was old, probably older than I thought, and sick and fat and hopelessly out of condition. He just didn't know it.

My beloved Darwin. Fury rushed up from the evolutionary depths of my brain, and I ran to the storage space behind the Murphy bed to rifle through my junk, groping for the Pocket Rocket slingshot with magnum rubber, bands. This was not a toy for children; it was a serious weapon that could be used to hunt small game. I grabbed a handful of large marbles for ammunition and bounded down the stairs to the battleground.

Neither cat noticed me. Each filled the other's mind and obliterated all other perceptions. Crouching low, I sneaked behind the intruder so that I was looking at his back and facing Darwin. With a predator's mind, clear and blank of compassion, moral values, inhibition of any sort, I placed a marble in the slingshot's leather pouch and drew a bead on the strange cat's back. I aimed for a spinal shot about halfway down, in the middle of the large black band, paused, and released. The marble flew straight and almost true, but just a fraction off center, thudding into the back about an inch to the right of the spinal column.

The cat sprang into the air and bolted directly away, flinging clods of grass into the air. It careened around the far corner of the house, the place where Darwin and I had met, and disappeared from my view, crying as it went. The cries came drifting back, pain fading into the distance.

The sound stayed in my brain, repeating itself again and again. I would never have reacted this way before joining life with Darwin. As a hunter, the thrill of stalking, of swinging the muzzle onto the arc of flight, of finding the precise, magic instant to jerk the trigger, the thunder of the round and the blow to the shoulder, the feathers exploding from the target, the crumpling in midair, the delirious charge to secure the kill—such sensations had always blocked all thought and reflection.

Now I could not escape that haunting cry of pain. I had almost killed this innocent creature, merely for acting out the instructions of his genetic code, and now I found myself pulled into his mind, feeling his pain, feeling his fear.

Furthermore, I had saved Darwin only for the time being. I still faced the dilemma of protecting him, and I had few choices, because the use of force, particularly for extermination, had suddenly been taken away. I soon, however, hit upon an alternative solution. I would simply remove the offending stray. Of course, this still left the neighbors' pets, which had diplomatic immunity and could challenge Darwin at will, but I didn't cast my thoughts beyond the immediate problem. Denial is essential if you want to keep your plans on track.

Removal was a practical and practicable plan. Having spent my youth as an avid trapper as well as hunter, I was proficient in the ways of capturing small animals like foxes, skunks, opossums, and cats. The animal pound offered wire box traps for this very purpose, and the next day I rented one. I knew that taking a stray to the pound was essentially a death sentence, but there was always a chance that someone would adopt an abandoned cat, such a big, handsome one at that, and this corrupted rationale was more than sufficient to feed my denials.

That night I placed the trap in one of the paths I had seen the cat take to pass around the garage. For bait I used half a can of fresh tuna, as much to assuage my guilt as to entice the cat, and the next morning I trotted down the stairs to view the trap's yield. It was empty. I was stunned. A stray cat refusing tuna? On the second night I opened another can, this time using premium, unsalted albacore tuna, and used the entire contents. I found my own mouth watering. The next morning I cantered down the stairs, thrust my head around the corner to view the cat close up for the first time ... and found nothing. The tuna was crawling with ants, which apparently found the bait more appealing than the cat did. That night I used yet another can of choice, white-meat albacore, the most expensive brand I could find.

The third morning I galloped down the stairs, stopped at the bottom, drew a deep breath, and looked around the corner—voilà!—this time the trap had worked. The big tabby stood forlornly in the cramped confines of the wire box and looked at me with an expression I could not read.

As I boy I had trapped some stray cats, and of all the animals I ever caught, including wild foxes, cats were the most formidable. They would crouch down when you approached. The closer you came, the flatter their ears would press against their head, and if you drew within about two feet, they would suddenly launch themselves at your face. The speed was blinding. The strength of claw ripping against wire was difficult to comprehend in a creature this small. Sweat would break out on your face because you knew, in the depths of the primal mind, that if nothing had stood between you and these caged beasts, you would have suffered serious injury.

This cat, however, did not crouch down. His body did not speak aggression or menace. Instead, he pressed his side against the wire and rubbed slowly against it. My suspicions were not allayed; I was not about to be sucker-punched by a quick paw thrust through the wire squares of the trap, and I leaned forward with naked nerves, but at a safe distance, to peer at my prisoner.

I could not help comparing him with Darwin. He conveyed a wholly different aura, in part because his basic color scheme was dark, and his markings were far more complicated and intricate. His chest and stomach were pastel orange, similar in hue and tone to the fur on Darwin's side and back. A white star marked the center of his chest. Two rings circled each foreleg, and a wider ring formed a necklace just above his chest. His muzzle was dark tan with a network of fine lines on his cheeks, the background color merging into white on his chin and throat. All in all, he was a rakish fellow, his only blemish an inflamed, bloodshot right eye, possibly the result of a fight.

I could not, however, delay the inevitable trip to the pound. But ... was I absolutely certain that is what I wanted to do? Something gnawed somewhere down below. Had this big, handsome cat hooked a claw into my affections? Of course not. I would proceed with plans in the morning. I carried him in the trap around to the storage room beneath the flat, carefully placed a bowl of water inside, and left him there overnight.

I thought about him that night. He seemed reconciled to his plight and waited in absolute silence when I closed the door and left him in isolation. His cage rested directly beneath the kitchen. I could not get the image out of my mind and drifted off to sleep staring at his face.

Next morning I went down to check on him and found that he had not eaten his tuna and had spilled his water. He had obeyed the call of nature on both channels; fortunately, I had taken the precaution of placing the cage on bricks so the wastes had fallen through the holes in the wire floor.

The time had come to act. The decision had been made. Final. No appeals. I could not keep this cat. It was out of the question. Darwin demanded all the care and attention I could muster. I ... No. To the pound we had to go. I picked up the trap, carried it and the cat to my car, placed a plastic garbage baggie on the floor of the trunk to protect against urinary discharge, closed the trunk, and headed off.

I drove up Redondo Avenue, directly toward our rendezvous with fate, gritting my teeth at what I had to do, when I noticed that my car was veering toward the right. I compensated by turning the wheel to the left, but the more I turned to the left, the more sharply the car veered to the right. Then it rounded the corner, making a right turn on Anaheim Street. I applied the brakes; the car continued despite my efforts to stop. It proceeded for about half a mile and gradually began to slow, slow, slow, and finally came to a halt—directly in front of the Long Beach Animal Hospital.

I got out, opened the trunk, carried the cat to the front desk, and asked to see Dr. Mader. I had no idea what I was doing.

Fate just happened to have canceled an appointment, so Dr. Mader was available. We entered an examination room, and as soon as Dr. Mader closed the door behind him, I began to explain that shutting ourselves in might not be such a good idea since I had no idea how wild or temperamental this cat was. Dr. Mader took one look, bent over, opened the trap, reached in, began petting the cat, and gently pulled him out, releasing him on the floor. Immediately he began rubbing against the doctor's legs and purring like a power tool. I could feel the fear and anxiety in his dithering passes against the doctor's legs, and I realized with a rapidly reddening face that this was a pussycat, not a street-scarred beast.

Dr. Mader placed him on the examination table and pressed a stethoscope against his left side.

"He's purring too loud. I can't hear his heart."

The doctor persisted, however, and was able to ascertain that the cat's heart sounded normal and healthy. He then placed his hand beneath the cat's chin and looked into his face.

"What's this?" he asked, gently grasping with forefinger and thumb what appeared to be a long eyelash protruding from the outside rim of the right eye. Mader pulled gently, with a slow, gradual pressure, and the eye bulged forward in its socket. Suddenly, in a leapfrogging revelation, I realized that the eyelash was not an eyelash at all: it was the long, slender bristle of a foxtail—a species of grass whose sharp, pointed seeds have the capacity to penetrate the skin and bore into the flesh. The effect can be serious, even deadly, because the seed, driven by the contractions of muscle and flesh against its backward-pointing spines, continues inexorably to bore forward, sometimes entering vital organs. This specimen had somehow moved into the space between the cat's eyeball and socket.

"It has to come out right away," said Dr. Mader, and this could only mean a surgical procedure with sedation. Cash registers tingled like wind chimes in the distance, and I wanted to say no, I could not afford the cost. I said yes without any outward sign of conflict. The surgery would be completed by late afternoon. With time to kill, I got in my car, pointed it toward the pound, and arrived without incident to return an empty trap.