Tabby Rules

Tabby Rules

Me, here, name’s Tabby. Not original for a cat. But then my owners, two of them, are unoriginal sorts. They wear black and gray. I’m black and gray. We kind of match. They adopted me from a shelter down in the city. The city was mostly gray, as was its sky. Of course, it was black at night. Except for the moon and stars. But even they looked gray because of pollution.

My motto, for what they call these days a dysfunctional couple, is that I rule. I call the shots. Where’d that come – call the shots? I do not know, but it doesn’t matter. It’s in the language, so here I am in my new home. It’s a rather shabby flat, not downtown, but not uptown either. I believe its’ called outskirts.

Back at the shelter, they’d named me Shakespeare. Classy. I was only a wee one then so I didn’t learn about classy until the hollering at each other by the couple who adopted me. Right off I heard them fighting about my name. I was in one of those things called a cat carrier. It had my blanket from the shelter. Five holes, the size of American pennies (which, by the way, I just heard were not going to be made anymore, a pity) allowed me to breathe.

They opened the carrier in their living room as gray rain fell outside. I crept out. I batted my eyelashes at the woman who reached out to pat me. Nothing doing. She screeched. He told her to shut up, that there was nothing to screech at. He smiled at me. I don’t smile, don’t know how, so I did what I knew how to do, purr. It was supposed to be a sign that I was glad to be here. He didn’t get it. At least I don’t think he did. He ran his rugged hands through his gray hair, shook his head and asked his wife why they’d done this thing: adopt me.

“Because it’s good for us to take care of a live being. And he, poor creature, was found in an alley, with a squealing mouse in his mouth. We rescued him from that shelter.”

“I wonder if anyone rescued the mouse.”

“For his, or her, sake, we don’t know, now do we, or do we care anyhow. You ask the stupidest questions. Hrrmph. I think I’ll show Tabby, I just named him, since I’ve heard no name from you, where I’ll place his food and water. Then I’m off to the shops. Do not, I repeat do not let Tabby outside.”

He was sunk in his chaise lounge with The Times. Things were terrible in what were some of the former colonies. Tribal warfare. Civil wars. Corrupt leaders. Illiteracy. Malaria.

He felt it right not to answer his wife. Maybe, from here on, he’d not answer her at all, ever. Maybe he’d do something rash.

I knew his thoughts. You probably wonder how I knew his thoughts. I can’t tell you because I don’t know how I knew or know people’s thoughts. In this context, this knowing and not knowing doesn’t matter. It is what it is, as the saying goes. I know what I know. I know what I don’t know. If I could I’d take a philosophy course and learn about free will and the mysteries of brains. Not a chance for a cat.

So, to continue. Off she went, and there we were. Me and the man in the chaise lounge with the newspaper which hid his face.

I made my move. Could I do it in one fell swoop? Of course I could. The newspaper, why it just about flew from his lap, and there I was between the legs of his mouse-gray pants that smelled like all the smells of the shelter before the volunteers doused the place with disinfectant – the stuff, solids and liquids, we rid ourselves of after our meals. But maybe not. Perhaps it was, at that moment, just me reminiscing.

The man’s eyeglasses dropped into his lap right in front of me. I moved my front paw so save them from falling onto the carpet – a multi-colored affair that gave all the black and grayness of us and the flat and the outside some kind of palatial air. Or so I termed this small scene.

“Goodness, Shakespeare. You fairly startled me.”

I placed my head under his hand and hoped he understood this was a sign of affection. He stroked under my chin. I thought I’d have what I remembered as an orgasm. But now that couldn’t be because I’d been castrated back at the shelter. He’d called me Shakespeare, but she’d renamed me Tabby. I’d have to tend to that. Later. For now I needed these snuggles.

I settled in. We slept.

I awoke to him snoring. I had not heard a person snore, so this sound like a hurtful moan was new to me. I didn’t like it. I jumped onto the floor and, gently, bit his ankle. He awoke, gurgled something, got up, leaned over and patted my head. This was love.

We trotted to the kitchen. He turned on the light fixture in the ceiling, and the grayness of the room turned into yellow, like that canary I’d once had my eye on until I learned it was only a photo in National Geographic on a table at the shelter.

I sat by my water and the leftovers of some cheap cat food. I’d have to somehow let them know about this. I watched him fix some kind of drink from a brown bottle and a bottle of white fizzy liquid. Then we trotted back to his chaise lounge. I hadn’t noticed he had a treat in his hand. What gratitude I felt in my gut when he handed it to me. Yep, this was love.

When she got home, five hours later, we were nestled in bed. He’d fixed me a tablespoon of pure tuna. He’d changed my water. I watched her slither around the bedroom, take off her clothes and stand naked while she reached for her flannel nightgown hung from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. Naked, she was no beauty, but then I had no comparisons except for the people of naked tribal women in National Geographics.

He didn’t wake up when she made her way into the sheets. I stayed put. If this couple was going to get things together, I’d have a lot of work to do. I’d start with lots of purrs.