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Part of the Wilderness
I am a cat. My color is black. I sleep in the loft of a cottage, but I live in the woods surrounding it. In the woods, I’m not an omen of bad luck, not a lofty, unpredictable burden shedding hair like a snowstorm. No. In the woods I am the free spirit of a tiger. In the woods I am fierce and nimble. I am silent and powerful, bounding forward on short, sturdy legs, green eyes burning with primitive instincts and the thrill of the hunt. In the woods, all my senses are heightened. I can smell a mouse’s den that has been abandoned for months. I can see the individual veins of a leaf from twenty feet away. When I move, I do not stumble. Each movement is precise and perfect, each paw step radiating grace and strength. When in the woods, I lose all track of time. I can travel for days on end, eating when I am hungry, drinking when I am thirsty. I watch the moon wax and wane; the leaves crackle and turn brown. I explore the hidden chambers of the forest as a mighty tigress, not a tame house cat. The woods are my life, and I am the woods.
It is a bright summer afternoon, and heat waves ripple across the deep grass. The sprinkler whirs and clicks as it waves back and forth over the vegetable garden. I sleepily watch Mrs. Percy with one eye closed and the other half open. She does not notice me. Come to think of it, she hardly notices anything besides the boxes she and Mr. Percy are constantly hauling from the house to the large truck on the driveway. At the time I think nothing of it.
I stand up and stretch, and then shake out my coarse coat. I feel the need to be somewhere, to do something. With a skillful jump, I get off the compost bin and trot through the yard, under the rhododendron bushes, inhaling the rich smell of fertile ground. It is a lazy day, and all the other cats are sleeping, so why do I feel this itching urge to be active? In my frustration I take a lush hydrangea blossom in my jaws and shake all the petals off. Feeling better, but not less active, I prowl through the garden, searching for an adventure.
The Percy’s other cats, Phil, Buttercup, and Twitch, are not exactly boring cats, but they never do anything useful with their lives. I have personally witnessed Phil chase his tail for forty-five minutes while making no progress. Twitch, the slim, pretty white cat, will stare at the goldfish bowl forever, her blue eyes following the course of the brilliant orange fish. I used to do the same, but I soon realized it was worthless. Buttercup is pale yellow and spends her time inventing ways to steal food from the Percy’s. I must admit, despite her dragging belly, she is surprisingly quick.
The other cats tease me, telling me my ways are not the right ways. They say we have lived with humans for so long, that must be the way it is meant to be. They are very wrong. I know because I have become part of the wilderness again, and it feels right. There is nothing I would like more than to change forever, to stay in the woods until I die, and then have the wild leaves cover me, and the dark, damp earth be my grave. I would like an oak tree to grow from my body, and to some day spread majestic branches across a blue sky and wave in a fresh breeze, whispering my legacy. I would like other cats to change to the old ways after me until all cats lived in the woods. Then life for a cat would be perfect.
I peer cautiously around the side of the house and, deciding it is safe, make a dash for the apple orchard. Flocks of sparrows are twittering and fluttering about in the branches. Perhaps I can catch some. No, that won’t do. I am already full, and it is no use to kill harmless creatures. I sigh heavily and plop my chin onto my well-worn, hard paws. I wish something will happen…
Suddenly I hear human footsteps coming towards me. Instincts tell me to panic an instant before my nose detects the urgent, hunting scent coming from the human. But before I can flee, strong hands clasp my ribs and press me into the human’s chest. It is Mrs. Percy. But what is she doing? I do not fight, but meow in confusion and pain.
Again I am tossed into the metal monster. The pungent smell of fear clots the air. Buttercup, Twitch, and Phil are locked in their cages and pushed under the seats, mewing for help. I lunge for Twitch’s cage and lock my teeth in the wire mesh, pulling until my gums bleed. The wire holds. I rake my claws across it now, screeching. I must help Twitch! I must help them all!
A horrid thought has occurred to me. The Percys had been moving boxes; now were they moving us?
Mrs. Percy picks me up and tosses me inside an identical cage. My fur is spiked along my spine; my eyes are wide with fury and disbelief. The Percy’s have always been kind, giving us enough food and good places to sleep. They take care of us when we get sick, and they brush us just because they know we like it. They take dainty Twitch on their stomachs when they read books, and they supply Phil with all the pointless toys he will ever need. I am allowed to roam, and Buttercup is allowed to get fat.
I sink to the hard, smelly floor of the cage in defeat, occasionally letting out a distressed meow. Gentle Buttercup is in the cage next to me, screeching with terror. I finally give up meowing and close my eyes, letting the jerky rhythm of the car bump me all over the cage. In my mind’s eye I catch a fleeting glimpse of the beautiful forest, glistening in the summer light like a pile of sequins, its cool recesses beckoning to me. I could not let this happen. I would get out, no matter what.
There is a metal ball on the outside of my cage. I reached my jaws through the mesh and start chewing on it, paws pressed against the screen. Finally it gives way and I tumble into the car. I waste no time in getting the others free. But just when I am freeing the last cat, Phil, Mr. and Mrs. Percy notice what is happening. Mr. Percy unbuckles himself and clumsily lunges for us. The seatbelt snares him and makes him fall backwards. We are losing time. I frantically tug the lock on Phil’s cage, but it refuses to break. Mr. Percy recovers and attacks again. Buttercup and Twitch leap to the top of the seat and into the back, and I recede under the seat, where he cannot get me. Mr. Percy is very frustrated now. He grabs Phil’s cage and tosses it into the front seat, and then reaches for me again, growling in his human language.
I tense my muscles and spring, not clawing him, but buffeting him backwards and sitting on his chest. Then I hiss urgently for Buttercup and Twitch to come out from hiding. I jump from Mr. Percy’s chest, Twitch and Buttercup following closely. In the blink of an eye my head is out the open window, the wind blowing my ears back. My back paws are on top of Phil’s cage. I growl bitterly as I realize there is nothing I can do.
Mr. Percy makes one last pounce, but we are too quick for him. Three blurs—one black, one pale orange, and one bright white—speed out the open window, landing painfully on the grass that borders the road. My legs give way and I roll a ways down the hill before regaining my feet. I quickly stand up and look for the two other cats to see if they survived. Both crawl out of the grass, frightened and exhausted, but with small smiles on their faces. They run up to me, purring, rubbing their sides against mine. Then, on an unspoken signal, they follow me.
I am walking quickly, almost running, as I head strongly and surely for the woods. They have never seemed so inviting. I am running now, bounding fearlessly through the tall grass, Buttercup and Twitch by my side. We enter the sweet-smelling depths of the forest, tails twitching in apprehension. The two other cats do not know how to live in the wild, but I will teach them. They are already exploring the woods, sniffing the ground and cocking their ears.
The seasons pass happily. Summer’s boiling days come to an end, and a crisp wind blows golden leaves from the trees, which Buttercup likes to toss up in the air and pounce on. Frost appears in the mornings, covering the forest in crushed crystal ice. At night we sleep together to keep ourselves warm, our breaths like ghosts in the frozen air. Snow falls heavily one night. Twitch likes it immediately and is soon pouncing playfully in the drifts. I walk to the stream that has not yet frozen and bend down to drink. The water is freezing but refreshing. New growth pops from the icy ground in tender shoots of green. The air is alive with birdsong; the wild apple trees dress themselves in pink and white blossoms. There are many mice now, which we hunt with enthusiasm. We frolic through the flowering fields, over hills and under trees, remembering the way things used to be. Storms come in the form of great purple clouds. Lightning splits its claws over the sky. We huddle together under a rotten log, mewing with fear and excitement. Summer comes again—hazy, hot, lazy summer. I lay on a flat rock by the stream, watching a fat bumblebee buzz by. Twitch and Buttercup are off somewhere now, but I don’t know where. I don’t care. I am very sleepy.
Twitch has a mate now. He is a handsome orange cat with jade eyes and a white chest. Twitch has kittens inside her, and the pregnancy is going well. They will be born late in summer.
Buttercup has lost weight, but she still eats the most of any of us. Sometimes she misses the Percy’s, but she agrees that living in the wild is much better, even though it can be hard. We get along very well without them.
We spend many more happy days in the forest. I am getting old now, and I prefer to sleep most of the time on my favorite rock. But Buttercup and Twitch are still very young and active, though Twitch’s belly is bulging. One day Twitch does not get up. She claws the ground fretfully, pulling up patches of moss. It is her time. She screeches in pain as the rest of us watch helplessly. Twitch hisses, a signal that she wants to be left alone at this important time. Tails down, we recede into the bushes.
It seems like a long wait. Twitch’s mate is panting; something a cat does only when he is very scared. After what seems like a day there is a friendly meow, telling us we can come and see. My heart melts at the sight of the nursing kittens. They are all absolutely beautiful.
Buttercup finds a mate also—a long-haired calico that ran away from his owners. I find myself becoming jealous of the younger, prettier cats. Will anyone ever love an old cat like me?
One day, while hunting a rabbit, I see someone coming towards me. He is white with black spots and pale hazel eyes. He is hunting the same rabbit. I hiss and we are soon locked in a fierce tussle. I, being the heavier cat, come out on top. Surprisingly, he licks my nose. We walk home together.
It is autumn again. Twitch, Buttercup, our mates, and I are sitting at the edge of the woods on top of a heap of boulders. We are staring at the Percy’s old house. They have not come back since that day they tried to take us away. Now the garden is overrun, the windows are dirty, and the door has fallen off its hinges. It is a cat place now.
I lick my mate behind the ears, purring. My belly is full with kittens. Soon I will give birth. Twitch’s kittens, now quite big, are chasing a butterfly through the tall grass. I can not wish for anything more. And I know that when I die, an oak tree will spring from my earthy grave, and its branches will whisper my legacy into a wind that says, ‘freedom.’
