David Hoffman, 1990
My apartment came with a lease that said "No Pets." It also came with a family that had two screaming children and two howling werewolves. Four months later the werewolves moved out, and I settled down for what would prove to be my first real week of peace and quiet. Then came the proclamation. My landlord stood on a hill and with fire and brimstone and trembling voice spoke the following words:
"Thou Shalt Keep No Beasts!"
One month later the new neighbors moved in... with a mysterious shaggy beast. I confronted my landlord.
"Lord," I said, "I thought we weren't supposed to keep any beasts."
"Yes," my landlord said, "I spoketh those words, but I changeth my mind. Anyway, they have a different lease."
A different lease? It suddenly became clear through the horse manure my landlord was shoveling on me that he had been conned.
"Little Muffin? Oh, he never barks."
The next morning it started. "Arrghh! Arrghh! Arrghh! Arrghh! Arrghh!... Arrghh! Arrghh! Arrghh! Arrghh! Arrghh!"
Little Muffin suddenly decided to test out his long dormant vocal cords–on everybody and everything that happened to be within hearing range of his perky, paranoid little ears. I hoped he decided to test his teeth on the landlord the next time he came to collect the rent. I considered poison, but suddenly remembered I was supposed to be an animal lover. Besides, however vociferous little Muffin might be, it was my landlord who deserved the poison.
I now mentally erased the line on my lease that said "no pets." Perhaps I'd get a pet–something large and nasty that liked to consume shaggy little Poodle Terriers. I considered a Doberman–too big. I considered a Pit Bull–too unpredictable. I considered a Python–too difficult to leash train. Perhaps a Gold Fish.
Then one day my best friend on the East Coast called. He was going on vacation. Would I take care of his cat?
"How long?"
"A year."
"A year?! Ronnie, you couldn't find anybody in the neighborhood?"
"Nope, nobody wants him. Everybody's got some excuse. I even tried distant relatives in Bulgaria. I know your situation's not that great. That's why I didn't ask you sooner. But don't worry, I'll pay for everything. Oh, one more thing. Little Man has AIDS.
"AIDS?!"
"Oh don't worry, it's only Feline AIDS. You can't get it. It's not even confirmed. Just the same, I think you'd better keep him inside."
My friend was asking me to turn my studio apartment into a cat hospice... for a year. Well, if Little Man had AIDS, at least he was coming to the right place–I lived in San Francisco. Still, I wasn't crazy about the idea. I was out of work, depressed, and living on welfare. Now I was being asked to take care of a cat who had AIDS. I just hoped he wouldn't mind camping out in a tent in Golden Gate Park.
A week later I drove over to the airport on my motorcycle to pick up Little Man. My friend, who was a veterinarian, had sedated him for the trip. I guess he would have to miss the in-flight meal.
The cargo terminal was filled with wooden crates and sacks of mail. A long conveyor ramp extended from a hole in the wall. The clerk pulled back the plastic strips covering the opening.
"Hey Frank, you got a cat back there?!" I could hear Frank's muddled voice over the whine of the giant jet engines.
"No, ain't seen no cat!"
"Cat's not here yet Mack. Come back in fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes later I came back just in time to see a small carrying cage meowing it's way down the automated ramp. I carried the quietly meowing cage out to the parking lot and strapped it to my motorcycle. Then with a roar, Little Man became initiated into the world of chrome, leather and steel. He didn't cry–he was probably too terrified. When we got home, he staggered out of his cage, drunk from tranquilizers, and headed straight for his food bowl.
"Phew, that was an exhilarating ride! I need a man sized meal." Little, unperturbed by his harrowing ordeal, instantly woofed down half a can of "Moist and Meaty."
"Wow, I was really famished! Tomorrow maybe we can take a cruise up Highway One, huh?"
Little Man soon enough located his favorite perch, on top of my roll-top desk, where he could dutifully observe the goings on in the phantom world outside. By day he would sit, patiently observing the rustling of the leaves, the birds, and the other cats. By night he would study his own reflection. The window was the main movie screen for Little, but he had other diversions as well. Little was an explorer. Little's adventurous proclivities spanned the four corners of the apartment. It was the great uncharted territory.
Little was undaunted in his attempts to investigate every inch of it. He started small, rather laissez faire –a chair, a closet. Gradually he became more daring–a room, a shelf. There was one closet in particular that piqued his curiosity and taxed his ingenuity. He kept tying to open it, sliding his little paw under the crevice. The closet contained rather mundane, ordinary stuff. But not so to the wondrous world of Little the Adventurer. He just had to know what was behind that door.
One day I came home to find the closet door open. Little had done it! He had succeeded in prying open the mysterious vault. Indiana Little, Raider of the Lost Closet. Little now reveled in the secrets he discovered, settling contentedly on a stack of mailing cardboard. I shut the door and left him there.
I wasn't supposed to let Little outside, since his follow-up test hadn't returned. We couldn't take the chance of infecting the other cats, so Little had to remain, for the time being, an apartment cat. To this he adjusted quite easily. His new routine consisted of eating, opening closets and sleeping. This he had a knack for. So did I. We both slept... a lot. Little slept because he was a potential AIDS patient. I slept because I was depressed. It was my job to take care of Little. It was Little's job to cheer me up. This he did mostly by... sleeping. I already slept ten hours a day as it was. Now I slept twelve. After all, I had Little to inspire me. We did a grand job of mirroring each other sleeping.
My excess slumber had only one disconcerting effect on Little–it interfered with his meals. Little would get up from one of his naps, and with a yawn and a stretch, saunter over to the kitchen.
"That was a strenuous nap, man. What's to eat?"
Upon noticing me still laid out, he would walk over and give me a cursory sniff, then assume an observing position near the bed. Patiently, Little would sit there studying me.
"What's wrong with this guy? Is he dead? Doesn't he know I want my breakfast? Ah, wait a minute, he's starting to roll over. This could mean something."
Little was an easy maintenance cat. He required feeding and grooming. If I didn't groom Little my apartment soon began to look like the inside of a giant hair brush. I considered vacuuming him. That way I'd get the dandruff too. But at the first sight of the vacuum cleaner Little would run for the nearest shelf he could find. My friend said Little didn't shed. He shed. The walls shed. The floorboards began sprouting hair. My friend had deposited several hundred dollars with a local vet for Little's medical needs. I considered making an appointment to have his hair removed.
The intermediate solution was to put Little in the bathtub and brush him. This he loved. His purring reverberated off the tile walls. After stroking his back twenty or thirty times, he would roll over in the pile of dirt and hair so I could do his belly.
Around feeding time Little would meow loudly and rub my leg back and forth until my calf began to resemble one of those giant fuzzy leg warmers. This was Little's way of saying "Gee Dave, I think you're really swell. Now where's my dinner?"
There was something about this demonstration that reminded me of a cheap woman–sort of a Tender Vittles whore. When it came to more spontaneous displays of affection, Little was more manly. His preferred method of demonstrating affection was to saunter up to me and butt me with his head.
I was really glad to have the little guy around. In spite of the occasional nuisance factor, there was the quite welcome aspect of his companionship. For someone who was lonely, even an aloof feline provided a measure of solace. Little, quite unaware of my inner turmoil, went quietly about his feline business-as-usual: meowing for his food, licking his paws, tearing at the carpet. Going about the business of being a cat. It was like watching a small child–a being totally committed to the moment.
I studied Little being. He studied me being a human–putting on clothes, darting in and out of rooms, making funny sounds. I don't know who was the more curious. I had attempted to learn the art of being through meditation. Now I could observe being-in-action.
The closet opening became a daily ritual for Little. Perhaps it was his way of proving his exploratory prowess. For me, this particular closet held another significance. For this closet contained a part of my life that I had shut away for the better part of a year. Little's daily ritual of opening the closet had the slightly irritating effect of reminding me of my past, perhaps my imminent future. Perhaps, in his innocent catlike way, Little was telling me what I needed to do in the present.
My friend said that Little would be good for me. In a sly sort of way, I began to catch his meaning. Was Little's closet opening the manifestation of some sublime cosmic force operating inconspicuously through a cat?
Then one night Little appeared to me in a dream. I was fussing and worrying over life's problems, when Little, perched atop my desk, turned to me and said: "Hey man, you just gotta' relax. Be like me."
Whereupon he gave a good stretch and began to purr.