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My parents still tell stories about how, when I was very young, like pre-Kindergarten-ish, I informed them that I was actually a cat.
"Oh really," they said.
"A black and white flowered cat." was the clarification. (flowered being the Chinese term for mottled or spotted.)
"Ok." was their response.
Mom was happy to have a small black and white cat pacing on her back as a cheap, at-home version of a spa massage.
Dad contributed to my rather fragile grasp of reality by indulging me with adorable fuzzy jackets and hats featuring leopard spots or little ears on top.
Of course, this only lasted until adolescence hit and I was scowling around the house in black leather poser motorcycle
clothes-fuzzy/cutesy be damned.
In high school my greekguitar friend laughingly informed me that they’d concluded the song "Man eater" by Hall & Oates was about me.
"Of course," I said. "Tigers are maneaters."
My community college boyfriend created a persona named "Oh Hell Kitty".
To this day I can’t figure out if she was flattering or insulting somehow. He proudly showed me my anti-Sanrio personification: he gave her long, dark, hair and fishnets, and made the kitty eyes slightly slanty.
WTF?!
At the dorm at UCLA, my roomie Angela and I opened up one of my Dad care packages. Amongst the many treats, there was a full adult sized jumpsuit, of a black and white cat, with a hood and ears, and a black tail, accessorized with the included cloth yellow fish. We laughed ourselves into tears, and for the life of me, I still don’t know where he bought that costume it was so cute and random and bizarre. Of course we took photos.
I had a friend once who was studiously into astrology. Complex readings mixing Eastern and Western approaches, charts, etc.
At one point he thought "an Aquarius Tiger" would be his ideal match. I pointed out the illogic of such conclusions.
He pointed out that he was still interested, despite the "fact" that such an Aquatiger would be characteristically unable to commit in relationships. Thanks a lot.
When P and I decided to marry, I was asked with great scrutiny about my exact time of birth. I already knew his folks would want to know my birthdate so their astrological feng shui whomever could recommend auspicious wedding days.
"No, we need to know what TIME of day." said future MIL (MIL = mother in law for those of you who have never been on The KNot website).
I was later informed that "it’s Ok."
"Whaddya mean it’s OK,?" I demanded.
Mom explains that it’s acceptable, since I was born in the morning, and although Tigers are maneaters, they only eat at night.
Riiiight.
Has no one noticed that I eat incessantly both morning and night?
A few weeks ago P and I were at Global Exchange. The best gift shop for miles around as everything in that store is purportedly scot-free from worker or environmental abuse. There was a bin full of fur hats with cat ears.
"If my Dad were here he’d buy me one." I say to P,
who patiently reminds me that a few years ago Dad did buy me a spotted, feline, fur hat, the one featuring poofy balls on the ends of strings, that came from the Hat shop in Berkeley, and that I wore the damned thing in Argentina where small children meowed at us (me) in the street.
When mom is in Taiwan tending to grandma, P and I have to go feed Mimi every day for a month. It’s taken him years to become friends with her. When we first brought her home from the shelter it felt like introducing 2 new alien species.
"Does it actually know its name?!", he asked.
"Of course!" , we said.
Not quite buying it, he starts calling out: "Susan! George!" She ignores him.
"Mimi!", draws an immediate look from those pretty eyes.
Now she loves P’s shoes & rubs, and he knows her sad, baleful looks when we are leaving her alone, and the little motor of purr when she’s in his lap.
B humors me on our running dates as we have world-ranging conversations as I gasp for air & still can’t shut up. Running at our lake neccesitates a constant dodging of Dogs and birds. I told B about how I fell in love, how I pathetically frequent the store to flirt with the little parrots, stroke their necks - mooning over them like a lovesick swan. This leads to a discussion of why P & I can not own a parrot nor dog.
"They would die of loneliness and boredom. Dogs and birds are pack animals. But a cat is not. A cat enjoys attention but is perfectly capable of entertaining herself."
before Sensei died I had been trying to convince him to get a feline friend.
They may act aloof, but in spite of themselves, when a cat falls in love with you, they will love and remember you to the end of their 9 lives.
I want a cat. Dad is offering us his beautiful, perfectly white Bipolar cat. She is crazy as all get out, but I love her and missed her soft fluff sleeping and pawing on my head when I left Taiwan last July. She was so seductively beautiful one would choose to sleep with the long haired ball despite the humidity and heat, and despite her rapid cycling mood disorder.
P has enough problems being wed to an occasional feline, (is there such a thing as a were-feline as opposed to a werewolf?!) & enough troubles already with one sentient creature in the home that scratches, dings, and shreds household items.
For the rest of this current life I visit Mimi when we can, and Dad’s three model-perfect white Taiwan cats (those 3 literally have a feature magazine spread of their pretty selves in Taiwan cat mag) too.
Meanwhile, there’s a calico in the backyard, she and I sit on opposite sides of my little yard. We both stare at the finches and sparrows on the feeders, and chase squirrels.
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