Lycanthropia

Molly is an upright shadow with golden eyes. I have to be careful, walking through the house, that I don’t step into a dark spot on the floor and crush her underfoot or shuffle past a corner and kick her where she sleeps. She curls to nap in the blackest recesses of the house. Through her I have become body conscious and have learned to double-check all my movements: Where I step, where I sit, where I stretch out to nap. On these dull, rainy afternoons, when dense clouds obscure sunlight, she is especially vulnerable, and I am vigilant, alert to movement in every cranny.

Of all the cats, she is the most affectionate, rubbing against my ankles and pressing her long, dark fur into my touch. She is a social cat. She appreciates music, prefers Mozart or James to Telemann and Counting Crows. She will not endure Beethoven, and leaves the room in a haughty huff during the opening bars of the Eroica. We have come to a compromise over Pearl Jam. She tolerates them, but only once. If I repeat a CD, she leaves her favorite spot on the sofa, leaps up on my desk and glares. The signal is clear: One of us must relent. The few times I overruled her, she uttered an angry yammer and prissed out of the room.

Molly is the most vocal of the four cats. Rocky lost his powers of speech when a veterinarian accidentally destroyed his vocal cords while intubating him prior to surgery. His blocked urethra was opened and his distended bladder was emptied, but he came away from the procedure mute. Now he simply croaks and squeaks. Max talks, but only to fake mice and genuine insects that fall prey to him. He’ll hold a frenzied moth at bay by pinning a wing with his front paw, and he’ll very politely explain how he is sorry for all his carnivorous urges before eating it. Scruffy never talks. Like the Sphinx, she keeps all her wisdom to herself.

Molly demonstrates no such restraint. Like a feline blogger with an axe to grind, she talks loudly and about everything. “Mouse?” she asks. Where is the toy mouse? And why aren’t we playing fetch? Throw the mouse. Mouse is her favorite word, and she repeats it again and again during the course of any conversation: Mouse!

“Out!” she says, standing at the back door. This, of course, means, “I have been standing here behind your chair for a good three minutes and I expect you to pay attention to my every whim and open this door right now!” Outside, on the back step, she says, “Out!” I am out! Let me in! I’m tired and I need a nap! Once inside, she pauses at my chair and tells me the whole story of her outdoor adventures; or, if I have been lax in opening the door, she tells me off in no uncertain terms while crossing the office, never looking back, making her way to her food dish or the water trough.

“How?” she asks. How did this food dish get empty? How come there is no water for me to drink? How long has it been since somebody scraped out this litter box?

If mouse is her favorite noun, now is her favorite adverb. She has no patience. Everything must be done now. “Now, now, now, now, now,” she says.

Ow! is her only complaint. Ow! You’ve stepped on my tail! Ow! That’s my paw! Ow! Watch where you’re sitting. The operative part of her discourse is clear: Molly will not budge. If anyone moves, I will do the moving. Like all the women I love, she makes her own determinations and bends them only after sustained negotiation.

She is open to negotiation. If she sprawls across the loveseat so I cannot occupy it, I’ll rub her head and shoulders, scratch round her neck, and gently persuade her that it is in her best interests to relent. She does so by degrees, as a reminder that she is not acquiescing, but simply compromising in the moment. Tomorrow I might not be as fortunate. “I understand, darling,” I tell her.

She stretches and kneads the sofa, arches her back so I’ll rub down the length of her spine. “I like you this afternoon,” her loud purr tells me. “I like you a lot.”

Tomorrow I might not be so lucky. “I’m thinking!” she’ll shrug. “I’m busy. Leave me alone.” Fortunately, I understand this behavior; I’ve done it often enough myself. But because we mostly live in the moment, today’s rebuff will be diminished by tomorrow’s small intimacies.

“Now!” she’ll tell me. Scratch me there! And I’ll realize again that her vocal warmth is worth the price of her small silences.

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