Is it you?

Extraordinary sympathies occur between humans and other species. In this particular case, it happened between two warm-blooded ones, though, I dare say, life’s unbridled imagination comes up with even stranger combinations than this one. 

I was in a dry spiny area of South Africa, volunteering in an animal sanctuary. My somewhat quixotic goal was to observe the individual personalities of the leopards there. 

Oddly enough, though, it wasn’t a leopard, but a small African Wildcat named Tim, that, among the twenty or so of them that haunted the house and its immediate surroundings, drew my attention straightaway; fascinating me with his combination of wildness and sociability. Like the others of his kind there, he was free to venture into the bush all around and to revert to uncompromising wildness, if he chose. Or, he could concede to a partial taming by staying close to the house. Most of his clan had chosen the latter, enticed by regular meals, soft cat beds distributed about the place, and the overall protection provided by the building’s thatched roof. As a result, in the warmest hours of the day, both floors were strewn with felines in various attitudes of repose. 

Tim balanced the best of both worlds, demonstrating an unusual flexibility of character, both feral and domestic. During the day, he tended to keep his distance from humans. I had noticed a fierce aloofness in his eyes when dodging the friendly pat on the head. His yellow stare would then widen to freedom’s uncircumscribed horizon. 

My presence was soon to alter that gaze, however, and with a depth of sentiment that seemed to transgress the emotional capacity of an animal. At all hours, he would acknowledge my presence with intense and disinterested affection, (for it was someone else’s job to feed these particular cats). On that first day, he greeted me as if prompted by some sudden recognition, and showed a trust that made me ill at ease. How well we humans know our own deceitfulness! 

Neither was it the case that our friendship protected him in any way from a pariah status that he might suffer among his own. Quite the contrary, in fact. By strength of his independent nature and intelligence, he held sway over his group like a king, even while disporting himself alongside them in the dusty courtyard, in various forms of play or slaughter. Neither was he the largest, or most beautiful among them. He was smallish, thin, taut like a cable, and his sandy striped coat lacked shine. I had begun to notice signs of ill health. Yet he was also the most intense, the most soulful and intriguing of the lot. 

In the evenings there was not much else to do but read and write as the African night’s homicidal darkness overcame daylight’s abrasiveness. Tim then entered my room, attracted, like most cats, to its mood of tranquility. He began with a thorough investigation of my possessions and of every corner, whether out of nosiness, or to assure himself that all was safe. Then, placing his front paws on the edge of the bed, on which I lay for lack of any place to sit, he studied my face with a combination of fervor and sheepishness. Meeting with no rebuff, he jumped onto the sway-backed mattress, purring loudly. Euphoria then made him configure repeatedly a figure eight on this newly conquered territory, incapable, in his gratitude, to stay put. This evening behavior contrasted sharply with his daytime disposition of cool self-sufficiency, even with me. I had seen how with one dexterous paw thrust through the wire fencing, he extracted a young guinea pig from its enclosure. And like a seasoned hitman, crushed the vertebra with one bite, devouring the little beast, fur and all in a matter of minutes. Evidently, the pellets of cat food, served daily in plastic bowls, did not quell his wild instincts. And so, he considered the multiplying, helpless guinea pigs as part of his rightful stockpile. In which case, one could only admire his stoic moderation; for I had noticed that he killed only two or three guinea pigs a week. A regular Seneca. 

His species was ancestor to our domestic cat and both could be confused at a quick glance. My own pet, a bright ginger tabby, now gone to his forefathers, had shown in no small measure, signs of this ancestry: large ears, long legs, prominent shoulder blades like a diminutive cheetah, the small refined face of a Sekhmet deity, the same ruthless hunting skills. In sandy-striped Tim, I recognized my cat’s vivacious elegance, in sharp contrast to the dull complacency of so many domestic pets. 

Alert to any sound at night, Tim became the guardian of my sleep. Had he had a weapon he would have used it. And after two nights of listening to roosters crowing at improper times, I came to wish ardently that Tim, – or I, for that matter, – had a gun to shoot the dyschronic poultry into eternal silence. 

Once Tim had secured my hospitality, a suggestion of jealousy appeared among the rest of his clan. Some of them marched in, flaunting their bravado and pretending an equal claim to my space. Sometimes five of them at a time would inspect my open suitcase on the floor, hop onto shelves; play soccer with my mother’s Swiss watch, negligently left on a table. The most persistent intruders were a fat, brindled character that came in with the solemn air of a tax collector, and a compulsively mischievous grey female that enjoyed causing trouble. Both would first look up at Tim on the bed in challenging fashion, then at me, disapprovingly, before embarking on their own brazen exploration and rearrangement of my room. Tim’s sovereign indifference would finally force them out. 

Once or twice during my stay, Tim’s dark brother also came in, though in a different spirit altogether. Evidently, he respected his sibling. His yellow sapphire eyes set in his raven beauty, showed a friendly acceptance of Tim’s privileges. At the same time – or was it my imagination – an air of melancholy would err across his little face, as if he knew of his brother’s physical decline. 

I took note of this latter fact increasingly. Despite his independent disposition, Tim was not in good shape. His perennially swollen nose bled from time to time. At night, he threw his head back, gasping for air, sneezing violently, as if the very obscurity oppressed his breathing; symptoms all too familiar to me, having observed the very same ones in my cat not long before his death. 

Tim never sought any help from me; only the favor of being with me. His animal dignity brought back to memory the unfortunate circumstances of my cat’s demise. I had then been in denial of the inevitable and had taken advantage of that mute resignation characteristic of condemned animals. And so, I had cravenly left on a romantic trip during his last week. 

One night, I fell asleep at last and dreamt of my cat. In that dream he was alive. At moments, half awakened by the crowing roosters, I could still feel his presence next to me. But in the morning, he had departed. Perhaps still prompted by instinct, he had slipped from my dream, through the open door and into the shrouded dawn, just like Tim. 

Was I right in thinking that my pet had possessed far more African Wildcat genes than the usual domestic feline? In which case, the nose polyps found in both animals might be attributed to a genetic weakness in this particular species. At any rate, the fact seemed to merge the two cats into one. But there was also a sameness of personality that, sometimes, produced an uncanny physical resemblance in a turn of the head, a manner of sitting, the inflection of a meow. It all seemed to superimpose the living cat on the one gone or vice versa; even though my pet had been strong and healthy most of his long life, whereas Tim, I perceived, would not live long. 

It was as if one animal shored up the other, in a kind of call from beyond the veil. When Tim peered into my face with preternatural yearning, some essential part of my cat took over. It had become habitual to my mind, on the brink of sleep, to turn both animals into one. I did this consciously, of course, in a kind of daydream. And in the first instant of waking, I was almost compelled to call my pet’s name. Immediately realizing the mistake, I called Tim instead, but the latter had usually already left the room before dawn. 

The morning of my departure had arrived. At this hour, Tim would typically be in the courtyard, playing with his brother or patrolling his territory. Today, however, he was staying with me, eyes riveted on my preparations, crouched on the floor, round-eyed, anxious. How fragile and ephemeral he suddenly appeared! 

As I closed my suitcase, he jumped on the bed, and stared as if attempting to hypnotize me, as if his life depended on it, in fact; hunkering beside me in a state of agitation that was characteristic of animal despair. But nothing could change the time of my departure. This was a familiar scenario to me, and as I measured the depth of my infamy, I cast about for a happier ending. 

While my suitcase was taken down the steep steps to the car, Tim and I remained alone for one last time. We both knew that we would never see each other again.

Or would we? 

I no longer could resist the urge to whisper my cat’s name: Telesto. And as Tim responded, I recognized the familiar voice.