fitz the cat before dawn

I’m not sure of the exact time, but it’s still dark and the dumb one who wears clothes and my feeder still sleep. It’s time for me to wake.

Sigh. This is the most difficult time for me, when I yearn most to run with the noises of the night, to feel the moonlight beckon with its intrigue. I long to feel the dirt between my toes, to roll amidst the scents of the outside, to slink in the shadows to pounce on my prey, to slither under fences with my belly brushing the ground.

Instead, I stand here on this washing machine, only able to stare out the window into the backyard of promise, the backyard of my dreams. It isn’t fair! It isn’t right! A cruel trick, to be locked in this prison! If only I had never known this taste of relying solely on myself for survival. I could be satisfied, like the one who barks with no brain, happy to follow whatever rules my feeder sets down.

I sit down and let my mind drift back to more wild days, picking the litter off the pads of my paws absentmindedly. It was a hard life, but it was a free one, before I was picked up off the streets of Beirut. First to a room with so many other “strays” like me, then to my feeder and the man. We lived in many places, and I escaped often. I had my ongoing feud with a rat larger than me to keep me sharp when we lived on a rooftop, my balconies I would leap from to keep my muscles taut when we lived on a second floor.

Of course, even then, there were darker days. The long journeys I endured in a crate, in a bag, forced to urinate on a pad. The day I was given a shot and woke up without crucial parts of my body. The instability of not having a home or a routine or a place to hide from the world and gather my thoughts.

My feeder was often anxious and sad then, relying on me for her sense of belonging and comfort. A tough job for me, unused to having to care for others than myself. The humans have this expectation of animals, it seems, to be drawn to them when they feel this way. I am a cat of the street! My learning curve is long with things of this nature, and my motivation to apply it is low. I did my best in those days, but I can’t be depended on. This is what the one who rolls in shit is for.

I hear a scurry outside the window to yank me from my nostalgia. I leap at the window with the full force of my two front paws to see, scan the perimeter. Nothing. Oh! If only I could make my way out there. I let out a yowl of pain. The unbearable heaviness of this life.

If I must be up and unable to rest, the others shouldn’t either. I jump down from the washing machine, and quickly make my way to the bedroom, and up onto the bookshelf. I usually start with the earrings and move on from there. Oh, but she left some glasses up here this night, and a roll of tape.

I love the way this tape rolls. Tap, tap, tap. I hear movement from the bed. “Fitz, stop it! Get down, right now.” I slap it with all my might, and watch it soar onto the ground and roll satisfyingly to a stop in front of my cardboard scratcher. I move onto the glasses. I tap them quick, once, twice, and then a slap. Crash. “FITZ!” She jumps out of bed, but I’m much too fast to be caught. This is the fun part though, to let her get close, before I take a jump, land on the bed and streak out of the room to the front of the house. She doesn’t follow. She must be very tired.

I chew on some low-hanging pine needles and knock a few things hanging from strings on the tree down. It’s not the outside, but the subtle smell of nature calms me. I realize despite my love of the night air on my fur, right now, I long for the nook next to my feeder’s legs. I wait long enough for all to be still again in the house.

I’m not sure of the exact time, but it gets lighter by the minute. It’s time for me to sleep.