From the Top by Michael Perry

Author:Michael Perry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wisconsin Historical Society Press
Published: 2013-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

THAT CAT

Back home on the farm I have been contemplating my status in the realm. The trigger for this introspection is a black cat, probably even now this very dang second lying snoozily belly up in the recliner by the window, deep in the dreams of the mice he’s not catching, or the frankly fishy treats I’m financing in order to supplement any nutrients he might have missed in the process of being professionally languorous. Cats are the grand mavens of languor. At least when a dog dreams about hunting, its feet twitch. This reflects a certain goofball dedication to the cause, even if it is only in doggie dreamworld. The only cause that cat is dedicated to is: that cat.

That cat first appeared in my life riding a wave of blue-eyed beseechment, which is to say the first time I saw him he was framed in my elder daughter’s arms, as she and her sister looked up at me with the sort of sad cotton-candy gaze normally reserved for cheap velvet paintings and suspect charity infomercials.

I held the line for upwards of twenty seconds. Then I said yes, trying my best to sound grumpy. There were ground rules, of course, regarding the feeding and the watering and the outer limits of kitty’s health insurance.

Above all—and I believe I even raised one finger and said, “Above all”—I stated in unequivocal terms that we live on a farm, and this would be a barn cat, and barn cats do not live in the house because then we would call them house cats.

• • •

I have to push “pause” here for a moment. I am fully aware that there is nothing more dangerous to one’s career than speaking in public on the subject of cats. You can call the president an alien communard, imply that the Statue of Liberty is a man, and recommend that NASCAR go all-electric and race clockwise and you’ll collect a few uppity emails and half-star reviews, but say the wrong thing about a cat and you’ll find out exactly what it feels like to be chewed up and spit out as a human hairball. So I am proceeding advisedly here. Save your letters; I am a farmboy slow to progress but progressing nonetheless. If you find me a philistine on the feline front, feel free to punish me by sending five swear-dollars to your local humane society, and yes, we neutered.

So the cat became a familiar fixture, rubbing at our ankles on summer evenings when we ate supper on the deck, bringing fresh gophers to the children as they played on the swingset, and infusing the sandbox with a whole new treasure-hunt element. As I am tender of heart, I arranged a large pile of oat straw in one corner of the old granary, where the cat quickly took up residence, his food and water close at hand and the granary mice delivering themselves right to his paws as conveniently as if he had ordered them by phone.

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