Fucking Daphne (16 page)

All day long her playmates come, day after day, clattering in their heels or clomping in their boots. Some come plotzing in in name-brand sneakers, one came flapping on flip-flops, and one even scraped by in made-in-China imitation Birkenstocks.

Then comes the flirty banter. You know it's about to turn serious when the vowel sounds get longer and the tones deepen. The birdsong of giggles suddenly stops, and that means they are licking and sucking each other's faces. Then there are shoes here and there, and there's clothing there and there and here, and then the two of them will be tussling to climb on top of each other, to be the king of the other's range. Then one of them, or both, will start making a wailing, bleating, god-awful sound, followed by quiet, heavy panting.

And then the ends. Some will end in sleepy conversation and spooning, maybe breakfast. But some end in long apologies and nervous
la-la-las
salted with extravagant promises; some end with yawns and fake ailments that suddenly flare up; some end in long stretches of quietude, silence conversing with silence, until someone leaves, church-mouse quiet; some end with angry bursts of piss and bellowing; a few always end in tears. Some don't even start. These are the shocked and the terrified: at what has been suggested or was pulled out from the box under the futon. They are the ones who turn tail and scurry. Or else there are the ones who stagger in all preening and loud, smelling of their own ferment. Within a blink, they've crashed, turned lummox and useless.

None of this bothers me too much, and I seldom have to intervene. These are the constants. So I sit on my perch and watch the procession and the process. I yawn and watch some more, I lick and groom, and I snooze.

See that gangly one with the ropes of hair? The one who's all legs and arms and lips and smooches? All cunt and boobs and cackle? The one who's all emo and brainfart, all theory queen, all Tuesday refugee and Thursday child? All brain and ass and beef and moral morass? All shameless and pious in imperial, kindness and hussy in metric? All drama and misdeeds, bull and bitter? All faithful and shredded, grace and charity and mercy? All vengeful flames fanned even as she blows forgiving air kisses?

That's the one. That's my human. That's Ms. D.

Ms. D is asleep. She has been sleeping fitfully for some weeks now. And she has been dreaming badly. She is holding her losses and her disappointments too close to her heart, and who can blame her? But blame doesn't burnish the bruising heart. And so this is where I come in; this is my specialty. This is where I work.

When she dreams of all the terrible daggers of her waking life, I waggle my way into her dream and I make it just so; then she dreams of spirals and swells of music instead.

When she dreams of cobbled monsters wooing her, or of eloping with carnival freaks, her welfare taunted and on auction, and vultures straddling her corpse, I wipe it all away, flick it to the ether, and let her dream of her First Love, or her Great Love, weathered in all timelessness.

When she dreams of wastelands ruined by war, postapocalyptic islands, all filled to the brim with cancer, I make for her the dream of the living sea, the eternal garden, the healing stone.

When she dreams of the city made of doors, a place perpetually in autumn, plagued such that all milk within its borders turns to clotted blood, I make her dream that city transformed in light and art by her very presence. There she is her best, her happiest, her most loved. I put in a fabulous apartment, ample parking, good food, loyal friends, good times for her.

When she dreams of suffering fools, I let her dream of Mother.

And on the many nights when her dreams are beige, mundane, and vague, clawing to assume form, I brush it all to scratch; I'm steadfast and dedicated in always making sure she dreams of her inheritances.

This is what we do. What we have done for absolute ages: a destruction of cavecats beating the brontosauri out of caveguys' dreams; a clowder of Abyssinians setting the mise-en-scène for Cleo-P's dreamy wedding. Every single one of us, strays and mutts, pedigreed and show winners, is charged with this daemon work—if we are so fortunate in this life as to find our matching human.

This is what we kitty-cats do. You surely don't think we live to swipe at that anemic piece of shoelace or string or whatever tatty you jangle in front of us, do you?

And what can our humans know of our work? They see us sleeping all day; they want us on their laps; they pamper and baby-talk us; they believe we enjoy all these unbelievably silly toys; they want us to mouse and stalk and pounce. They want purrs and
meow
s.

If they knew what we do, surely their outsize brains would turn to mealymush. Surely many would never sleep easily again. If they really knew, they would be cutting us open by the dozens in their desire to possess, to acquire, the mechanics of our abilities.

So we play our roles with dignity and panache: We are their puss-puss pet,
meow-meow-meeow.
And they are just the schmuck with the opposable thumbs who can work the pop-top of cat food tins, and whom, for their oh-so-special talent, we allow to sleep on our beds with us.

Meow meow.
We must keep up appearances.

This one today reeks of bad news and breakdowns. I don't like this one in the living room, this Barrel-Chested Bulldagger who smells like deceit crawling over.

“Shoo,” the Barrel-Chested Bulldagger says to me. “Shoo,” waving her hands to ward me away. I look at her, ears back.

“Oh, leave Moshpit alone,” Ms. D says. I love the twinge of affection in her voice.

“I don't want him to get fur all over my jacket,” the Barrel-Chested Bulldagger says, hanging her precious jacket on the wall hook. But it's not the jacket that she'll have to worry about.

I know Ms. D doesn't mean to, but I'm constantly bewildered by how she allows such characters through the door to sully her home. A home, such a blessed place, that right now just feels like it's being vandalized.

Every defiling, no matter how slight the tarnish may seem, contributes to the erosion. Every strike a home buttresses itself against does its damage. It would break my heart if Ms. D came home one day, or woke up one afternoon, and found the home around her worn down and rotting to heck so much that she could not live there
anymore. Something in you never recovers every time you leave a home behind, and I want all the bits of my Ms. D.

We must be rid of this chaffing wickedness who's in the next room. From the get-go, I've fluffed and danderized all I can, but damn if the Barrel-Chested Bulldagger is just not allergic.

Plan B: This new maneuver is something that I learned from my pal Lately. Lately's human, J, was out of town, and J's roommate/ boyfriend/whatnot was having all these blokes over. Lately is nothing but loyal. One night he'd had enough, and when the erring humans were deep into playing King of the Range, he sauntered over, all lovely fur and purrs. All feline grace and stealth, he sought out the intruding pair of shoes and positioned himself over them. Then, quickly and efficiently, he pooped a perfectly chastising nugget into the shoe. Oh, the hollering and hawing that ensued!

So I creep in. The Barrel-Chested Bulldagger's boots are in plain view: open invitation. Cherry-red Doc Martens. New, too, from the looks of the soles. I quickly assume the position, straddling the one boot. I squeeze. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I concentrate, focus, and give it another go. It really is difficult trying to poop without the delicious squish of litter between my toes. One more time:
Eyes on the prize!
I tell myself as I steel my nerves.
Rage poop!

Suddenly I hear a screech. The Barrel-Chested Bulldagger has spotted me crouching over her shiny cherry-red boot. I go balls to the wall and squeeze the payback out of me: It's a touch squishy and smears vehemently across the boot leather. I leap up and dash out of the room while the Barrel-Chested Bulldagger is still in shock.

I can hear her screeching like a banshee. And I can hear Ms. D laughing, deep-belly, falling-over laughter. I sneak a peek: The
Barrel-Chested Bulldagger is repeatedly bawling, “It's not funny”; she's grabbing handfuls of paper towels and wet-wipes and not doing a good cleaning, either. They will not start and there will be no end. And all I hear is Ms. D laughing and laughing, as if it is the greatest joke, the highest order of slapstick ever, and it is a lovely sound, that laugh.

Ms. D is asleep but I cannot peek into her dreams. Not tonight, not when she sleeps like this. Not soused in such vapors. Passing out is not sleep, and all the doorways are closed. I wonder what she's dreaming. She whimpers slightly in a minor canine chord. Soon there will be drool, one tendril after another, pooling on the pillow; then there will be the snorting and snoring, and this will surely be followed by her symphony of flailing arms, swatting and clawing, swinging and punching, at whatever imaginary flying bugs are besetting her.

But there is not much I can do for her tonight. So I climb up beside her, put my paws on her belly, and start to knead,
moshmoshmoshmoshmosh.
She stills somewhat. So I climb on top of her, put my paws on her left boobie,
moshmoshmoshmoshmosh.
I knead and I knead, slow, rhythmic, and constant,
moshmoshmoshmoshmosh.
She half-swats at something, then sighs and stills. I keep kneading, now on the right boobie,
moshmoshmoshmoshmosh,
until I'm sure she's still and will be for the night. Then I curl up on her chest, holding her in my purr.

Tomorrow is the night of the big caterwaul. We need this night as much as we need kibble, fresh flowing water, green grass, and catnip. The caterwaul is as essential to us as a scratching place, a string to
pounce on, a ball to chase, or the occasional small reptile or mammal to torment.

To the uninitiated, it all just sounds like cats yowling in heat, or fighting for turf. Oh, if only they knew the complexities involved. If only they knew how much and how profoundly their futures are entangled with our beautiful racket.