Interstitial

"This cat who lives, sometimes near us, prefers be-
neath the house,
She scavenges to make her way - she never
kills a mouse . . . "

I began that poem many years ago - as a child - and didn't finish it right away, as I recall, because I wanted to watch this cat some more before adding other thoughts and textures and senses (or, to use my phrase at that time : good words) .

I was reminded of this cat from my childhood recently when observing another cat doing the same thing : living in the interstitial spaces between other lives and homes in a neighborhood I frequent.

This present cat (I call her "Stish"), is all shadow and smoke: not only does she display shadowy colors of grays and blacks in sundry shades on her scruffy, short-haired coat,

but she also engages in shadowy behavior : now you see her, now you don't; now she approaches you in case you have - and can share - something to eat, now she skitters away when she judges that you don't or won't .

She obviously likes it this way; perhaps her very life depends upon it.

When I caught a glimpse of her recently, she was already watching me.

I have a habit of saving the juice from a can of tuna and pouring it into a bowl for her. Since I sometimes open the can outside, I feel that - if she's near enough to me at the time - she can hear the manual can opener working, and that sound acts as a Pavlovian "come hither" prompt.

She approaches me up to a certain point (8-10 feet), and patiently waits, exhibiting that "high catness" detachment that expresses perfectly the attitude: "Get on with it - 'cause if you won't feed me I will look elsewhere and pretty damn quickly, so - get on with it ! "

I can't help but grin and shake my head as I study her studying me - often lingering as I pour the juice into her bowl to see if she will ever express impatience; she never does.

AS soon as I retreat past a requisite distance, she's at the side of the bowl in an instant, lapping up the tuna juice.

Then she's suddenly not there.


I think I can finish that poem now :

She comes and goes in shadowlight - we never see her long,
She slips between the spaces where she sings her
daily song:

"Come feed me if you're so disposed, or leave me quite alone
My life is interstitially dependent
for its home.

I did not choose this life, it just evolved this way for me,
But now I can't imagine being any-
thing but free,

Since life is short and brutal and affection rare and sweet,
Dispense to me the latter and the former
you can keep. "