Communal Living

Had I been born early enough, I've always figured I'd have been a Haight Ashbury type - free love, make peace, one for all and all for one.  Of course, it's entirely possible that my dislike of dirty clothes, not to mention dirty hair and body odors, and my aversion to so much as holding hands with someone I find physically unappealing, might have gotten in the way.  We'll never know.

Whatever might have been, I continue to see myself as a hippie-could-have-been and have always thought that the idea of a commune is a wonderful one.  (As I live alone in a two-story house and shudder at the thought of sharing my space for longer than a week, I am well able to separate the dream from the reality.)  So I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when my cat, Arthur, decided that he wanted to try out communal living.

In addition to my other numerous soap-box topics, I am a strident advocate of the necessity of keeping pet cats indoors.  Research indicates that it is far healthier for the cats, personal history indicates that it is less stressful for the humans who know where they are and aren't worried that they've been hit by a car, and the simplest of logic indicates that it is healthier for the bird population in general.  So my two roommates of the feline persuasion live an entirely indoor existence with no knowledge of the larger world outside and they've given me no reason to believe they are unhappy with this situation.

Nonetheless, they are cats, and we've all heard about cats and curiosity.  So when Arthur, closed up in a room he'd sneaked into, discovered a tiny hole where he could squeeze out the window next to the window unit AC, squeeze he did and found himself on my porch roof.  Who knows what persuaded him to wander off, eventually find his way to the ground, and disappear into the neighborhood, but it's hard to imagine a cat who would be unable to resist new sights, smells and sounds.

At first, I was in denial.  I kept thinking that he was in the house, hiding from me, which isn't unusual, and that he'd appear soon.  When I had to accept that he was gone, my brain slowly began to work and I took action.  I reported him lost to the Humane Society.  I made dozens of fliers (on bright hot pink paper) and put them up all over the neighborhood.  I bought a live animal trap and baited it with his favorite food.  And calls began coming in.  A cat of his description had been seen with its four kittens (nope).  A cat of his description had been seen running down the street and the caller wasn't sure where he was now (this call came in at midnight).  When a friend knocked on my door late at night and said she thought he was up the hill, I ran out, in bathrobe and slippers with my keys in one hand and a bag of kitty treats in the other.  I will be forever grateful that no one took a picture of me wandering the streets and alleys late at night in my robe and slippers, shaking a kitty treat bag.

Then came the call that said he was living behind a house nearby with various strays.  Sure enough, there he was, hanging out with about 10 other cats.  I spotted him, called his name.  He stopped, turned and looked at me, and sprinted off!  I climbed into the neighbor's back yard, followed him down steps, through yards and watched him disappear into a basement through the broken window of an abandoned house.  The disparity between my size and the size of the window, added to my unwillingness to carry my trespassing quite that far, caused me to acknowledge defeat for the time being.

This is when it hit me.  My pampered, protected pussycat preferred foraging for food, rolling in the dirt and living side by side with similar felines to coming home to me!  Only I would have a cat who would choose to live in a commune!

Still, even if he doesn't have my genes, some of my proclivities must have worn off on him.  No matter how much he enjoyed life in the kitty kibbutz, he kept coming back to my house.  He was spotted in or nearly in my back yard almost daily.  And finally he was seen lolling under my sunroom and I was able to coax him to me with those same kitty treats with which I had recently toured the neighborhood.

He did not like being captured.  He became a furry whirling dervish, and while his lack of front claws terrified me when he was missing, his back claws turned out to be most effective weapons.  (Tip:  buy stock in band-aids.)  Bleeding and battered, I plopped him into the house and announced that his adventures were officially over.

So how has he adjusted to living life indoors again?  This cat who used to avoid me except at mealtimes and who, following even the slightest alteration to his schedule would hide for hours, immediately ate a can of cat food, then wandered back and forth through the house, even flopping down on the floor next to where I sat.  He's been less skittish around me since and I've actually been able to pet him a couple of times - something new indeed.

Yes, I'm beyond grateful that my errant cat has come home.  I was thrilled to be able to take down the fliers and say to the kind neighbors who inquired that the story had a happy ending.  I'm incredibly relieved that he is safe and unhurt.  And, secretly, I feel a tiny bit validated.  His reactions to his return seem to prove that I was right; living in a commune is probably great fun ... for a day or two ... but it's just not the same as home.

Nelda, We Hardly Knew Ye

She was ebullient, beautiful and bossy.  She'd burst into a Spanish song without notice and then translate the lyrics for us, whether we were interested or not.  She would not hesitate to ask people to move out of the seat she'd "claimed" by leaving something on the table in front of it.  She'd talk on and on but get annoyed if she stopped and someone else began talking.

And she was a drama queen.  When she was upset about something (or usually, someone), she'd literally take to the couch, moaning, all the while proclaiming that she didn't want us to worry about her, that we should just eat and laugh as usual.  Eventually she would, faintly, ask for a bite of food or a drink of water, delighting in the way friends would scatter to meet her needs.

So why do we miss her so much?

She had the hugest of hearts.  She'd be the first to cry with you over the death of your pet whom she'd never met.  She dispensed hugs more often than she dispensed prescription meds.  She'd bring a present for any occasion, or just "because".  She rejoiced when one of us had something good happen to us.

More than food or drink, she loved music and dancing and laughter.  She could never stay sad for long and would laugh louder and longer than anyone else once her tears dried.  She's the person you'd expect to see dancing on the bar before night's end and you'd know it wasn't because of alcohol - she got high on life.

Her exuberance was infectious.  And when she cared about you, you knew she cared from the bottom of her enormous heart.  Yes, she had faults and quirks and eccentricities, as all of us do.  I see that as a positive.  After all, when we truly love someone, we love them not only in spite of their flaws, but because of them, too.  After all, most of our flaws are flip sides of our virtues - you don't get one without the other.

So her delight in being the center of attention was simply a component of her larger-than-life personality,   her dramatics a way of embracing life to the fullest, her bossiness a way of corralling all of us who were "hers".

Today, I'd happily cede my chair to her, even if she hadn't "claimed" it.  I'd be delighted to hear those torch song lyrics translated again.  And I'd let her talk the entire hour if she wanted to.  But what would be truly wonderful would be if I had the luxury of knowing she'd be doing those things again and again - the luxury of being able, occasionally, to be irritated by them.