Letter from My Black-and-white Medium Hair Tuxedo Cat to Me (from 2020...)
Life in the Meow Lane *(Anne Kadet, this one is for you! Check out Anne's delicious Substack, CAFE ANNE!)
Lucius, my cat, to me:
First off, let’s get one thing straight: You are my father, not my owner. We both know that. Hell, you say it all the time. I meow in agreement.
I wanted to write you a letter—to communicate in “Human”—in order to make you understand more fully how I feel about our relationship. I am going to divide this letter into two parts: Part One, what I dislike; Part II, what I love. If this seems somewhat critical please know it’s only because I love you.
As an obvious starter: Why must you waltz around the apartment naked so often? Humans are so bizarre. I just don’t understand why you think I want to see that. Second, why, exactly, do you sometimes stare at me, smile, and then start singing some absurd “Cat Song” as if you’re insane. It just doesn’t make sense. Worse, you use that “baby” voice and the lyrics are ridiculous.
When you brush me sometimes, you brush hard and you brush my whole body which over-stimulates me; it makes me want to do five back-flips. I like it but, sometimes, I don’t.
Also, we need to talk about attention. I grasp the fact that you’re a writer and book editor, and that you like to read, but seriously, Dad: Why not just ditch all of that and pay attention to me 24-hours a day? We both know we’re on the same page here. That said, I do like reading the New Yorker over your shoulder occasionally, and I particularly like when you read anything by Zadie Smith, primarily because she is half black and half white, as I am. She is a true intellectual—and a spectacular writer—and, though I am not really myself what I’d call an “intellectual,” I do seem to have a strong propensity for highlighting animal-human concerns, herein seen in this letter.
I feel conflicted about our move to New York City a year ago. You know how much I loved living at the house in El Cerrito. I was so much more free there; I could roam—supervised by your neurotic ass—around in the front and back yards. I felt the bright early-morning sunshine against my gold eyes and it was just…lovely.
But, that said, I knew we needed to leave. After Mom left, you really struggled. I did, too. We loved her. I never really fully understood why she left. One day she was just gone. I remember the fight you guys had, the weeping, and then….great silence. You and I had been even a little estranged during the time leading up to the breakup. But you both felt I should stay with you. I’m glad I did. You and I formed a new bond.
I remember all those times after it ended, you coming home angry and confused, scared. Remember when you sat in the old foldout chair and you cried so heavily and I came over and literally licked the hot tears off your face? I remember that. I’ll never forget it. All the days when you worked at the computer, feverishly trying to keep yourself busy, preparing for New York, saving money, paying off your credit card, trying to find a property management company. Do you recall the days where you’d suddenly stand up from your computer, pace the house, saying out loud, “Oh, Jesus Christ,” and then crying again? I do.
And then New York. It was March 26th, 2019. You were so nervous about flying with me. You knew how scared I got, how much I loathed going to the vet, being carried in that stupid, obnoxious crate. But we went through San Francisco International without a hitch. You held me on your lap the whole flight, all the way to JFK.
I remember the cold air, the radio in the taxicab on, seeing all the buildings, feeling a million miles away from home, and being dropped off in East Harlem, at the first Air BnB we stayed at, on 2nd Ave and 105th.
Those first weeks were special. We had our own little apartment. After I took three days to torture you by sitting under the couch, not eating nor moving, out of raw fear, we started snuggling again. You laid in bed, reading, as before, and I purred and rolled over and meowed. I ate the same food. You walked around naked. You sang to me. It was normal. As it had always been and always would be. As usual, I felt more like the owner, you the worshipper. You are my father, technically-speaking, but sometimes, let’s be honest, it’s more like the reverse.
And now, here we are, at our apartment in Harlem. I don’t like the constant loud sirens. You look sinister with your black face mask on. I am grateful to be inside. Whatever is happening out there in the world I don’t like it.
But, as long as we’re together, I know we’ll both be alright.
I love you. Stop walking around naked.
Your son,
Lucius
P.S. I owe you one apology. The few times you brought home a human lady, and you guys were tangled in the sheets, loudly breathing and being weird, it’s true that I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at you. The truth is that I was judging you. It was like a scientific experience. I admit it was entertaining. Next time, I swear, I’ll see myself out to the kitchen. I’ll be kind. I’ll wait.
😂 This is wonderful. And Immediately I heard him with a British accent.