Catie is sitting on top of her platform, tranquilly surveying the neighborhood. She is happy; I can see this by the lazy curl of the tip of her tail, which is tucked neatly against her body. It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when she hissed at me every time I came near, when she wouldn’t come out of her cage except at night, when there was nobody around, and then only in an attempt to escape.
There was a time, not terribly long ago, when she would run away if any of us approached. Now, she doesn’t even bother to look half the time. She knows the sound of my footsteps, knows that she needn’t worry about me, knows that there’s a pretty good chance that I’ll come over and pet her.
I look at old pictures of her, candid snapshots from the time she was still wild, still a kitten. We’d put food out for her and her siblings and her mother, and they would come over warily, one at a time. The mother always came over first, and one of the kittens would follow after a while. Catie was usually the first one out, followed by her orange brother. The tuxedo twins were the shyest of the bunch and we almost never saw them, but Catie and her mother and brother got used to us, at least a little, and would tolerate our presence while they ate. Just as long as we didn’t get too close.
I don’t know what cats remember. Does Catie have fond memories of sleeping outside, under a bush, or are they fearful memories? Does she miss the freedom? She seems perfectly content to lounge around here, indoors, dividing her time between the cat tower in my office — the “solarium” — and our bed at the other end of the house, with periodic visits to the family room, dining room, and living room. She seems perfectly content to eat the same thing day after day, to be brushed with the rubber brush — does it feel like her mother’s tongue? — and to play with the stuffed toys.
I’ll never know. But now, a year and two months after we captured her, a year and two months after she bit Jen’s finger nearly to the bone, a year and two months after she adopted us, the story has changed completely. And every morning, I’m treated to the same sight: Catie, sitting on the tower by the window, keeping an eye on the neighborhood.
Catie Keeps an Eye on Things
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