GYPSY CAT

As the day begins, I hear the lonely cry of the gypsy awakening from a troubled nights sleep. The chimes in my window provide the musical accompaniment. She's been sleeping here for most of the past month. I don't know where she goes during the day. That's her business. She simply prefers to leave the apartment when I do. I've made it clear that if she needs to get inside when I'm not there, an upstairs window is always left open a crack. It's easily accessible for one with tree climbing abilities. But when I return home, she's always waiting by the door. We go inside and have supper. She's a finicky eater; I, however, will eat most anything. We might watch television. Or rather, I watch the television while she studies it. She will look from the screen to my face checking my reactions to the mysterious flickering images. At night, she curls up next to my ear and purrs me to sleep. By the time I awaken she has already been up long enough to require a morning nap on the couch downstairs.

We have grown accustomed to one another's presence within a short period of time. We have an understanding. She needs her space and I need mine. When I am working, I am not to be disturbed. This is generally respected. Recently I was working on a particularly delicate project. She leapt onto my drafting table not counting on the fact that it was tilted at a precarious angle. She smudged her way down the board ruining several prints in the process. Upon landing unharmed on the floor, she simply stood there as if she'd been in the other room, heard the ruckus, and dropped by to see what it was all about. Three nights ago, I came downstairs after a relaxing shower to find her scattering bits of colored tissue paper all over the rug. I voiced my objections immediately, of course. She simply looked up at me, as if to say, "Don't bother me right now. I'm creating." Otherwise she's a rather pleasant companion really.
I never thought I'd say that about a cat.

(1995)