Pussycat, Pussycat

My new lover has a cat, which, he says, hates everyone but him. I am warned not to go near her—she bites and scratches. I just smile and lie back against the car seat, resting my cheek against the safety-belt, face turned away from him. I think of his earnest expression as he tells me that “Honestly, she won’t go near anyone else!”

Arrogant bastard. I’m quite fond of him really, but he’s one of those typical people who think that they’ve bonded with an animal because said animal condescends to be fed by them, and can’t be arsed with those who don’t offer a constant supply of bribes.

He’s beginning to feel the same way about me. He’s seen me around his mates, you see—ugly creatures, most of ‘em—and because I don’t drape myself all over them at every given opportunity (and God knows what that says about his previous girlfriends), it means he is special, and knows how to handle me. In reality, I’m like his cat, in more ways than one. I let him feed me, pet me and tell me I’m beautiful, but he’s not that important to me as such, he just fills a space in my life, fulfils certain needs.

Sound mercenary? Well, I suppose it is, in a way. But excusable, considering my history. You see, in a past life I was a cat too.

Lots of people have a problem with me saying this, and I can understand, but I know what I know—if no-one chooses to believe me, it’s their prerogative. I’m a firm believer in reincarnation and the Buddhist theory of coming back as a different species is true. I used to be a cat.

Still am, in fact. My facial features give it away—slanted green eyes, pupils that often look more like vertical slits than round, faintly pointed ears, small nose, wide mouth. I even walk in a slightly clumsy manner. Yeah—thought that would make you look twice. Cats aren’t in the habit of being ungainly, are they? True enough, but what happens when they lose their tail and whiskers, their tools of balance?

God, I miss my tail.

I dream sometimes, of still being a literal, four-legged cat. Chasing birds, stalking, sleeping in corners, on chairs, on beds, in front of fires. Tail wrapped round my shoulder. It twitches sometimes, as do my paws. Stretch, languorously, yawning. Tail  moves. I settle in a new position, flames making patterns against my inner lids. My tail…

I awake, cold, in bed. Bereft of fur and tail-less. The loss of cat-freedom is all-consuming to start with, but as I slip into sleep again I curl into his side, seeking heat, hands kneading his torso gently, sub-consciously.

He tells me about this habit of mine sometimes, a faintly puzzled look to his eye as he ponders my story. He doesn’t quite believe me, I know, but he cannot deny it out of hand—too many little things about me disturb his complacency. Like the kneading. Like the scratches he gets down his back at certain intimate times. Like the purring noise I get going deep in my throat when he strokes my stomach in just the right way… And the way I lie watching him, blinking only every so often. This is often after sex, and he has commented a few times on how I look like the proverbial cat that got the cream—funny, that.

Sometimes, curious, he’ll ask what kind of cat I think I am. To be honest, I don’t really know. Sometimes I feel like a ginger moggy in front of the fire, at others like a wildcat out in the hills in the wind and the rain. Never a large cat, though, a tiger or lion for example. While a cat is a cat is a cat, I know I never reached that scale. I know someone who was once a lion though; an old school friend, tawny and powerfully-built in a lean, sinewy way. We had quite a thing going, until his ego—he got the lion’s share of that, certainly—decided I was too independent. Excuse me? What the hell did he expect?

“What’re you smirking at?”

The question snaps me out of my reverie.

“What did you say?” I’m not quite with it yet, and I feel the skin tightening over my skull as my ears twitch slightly.

“Nothing. We’re here, that’s all.” He pulls into the drive and stops the car. “Remember to watch out for Pye.” He kisses me as he undoes the belt and opens the car door.

Pyewacket. From Bell, Book and Candle with Kim Novak. Hell, she’s probably a cat, too. I wonder if this Pye is also a Siamese—I have a weakness for them. I walk to the front door.

As we enter, I feel myself under scrutiny. Unerringly I find Pye, sitting in the hall under a table, a gorgeous blue Burmese.

We regard each other and pace slowly forwards, Slipping down to the floor, not breaking eye-contact, I pause on hands and knees. Pye stops and sits, tail demurely flicked around elegantly-placed paws. She contemplates me, and I her.

At the same moment, we each blink slowly—the cat equivalent of a kiss. She coos, a chirrupy little sound, and my throat gravels back a response. We butt heads gently.

“I don’t believe it!” Comes the astonished remark.

We ignore him. Stupid man.