Short stories

Summers in Athens, besides being a scorching torture, are also boring. It was one of those afternoons you don’t miss that I went downstairs to buy cigarettes from the corner store. It didn’t take more than a few minutes, but when I came back, a little kitten was sitting in front of my doorstep. It seemed like one of those who lose their mother; it was covered in dirt and meowful.

I love animals and that’s why I don’t have a pet. I am of the opinion that it’s a big shame locking up an animal in an apartment and force it follow your needs. It seems more anthropocentric than I can take. After all, I believe that apartments are people’s least preferred option, a compromise; let alone being an animal, where it wasn’t even a choice for you in the first place. And in the end, being one who can barely provide for his own self, having a pet would be a completely irresponsible thing for me to do.

However, that time my judgment was influenced by some extra factors, like the close to zero surviving chances of an orphaned kitten. Especially in the case of cats, young ones not only depend a lot on their mothers -like all mammals-, but they also need to survive the adult male cats attacks, which kill the little ones to lessen the chances of unwanted pretenders to their realm. Totally fucked up.

With these things in mind, I decided to let the kitten in. It was a baby kitten; its eyes had probably just popped open. I could barely see its colors, orange and white, well-covered by urban muck, along with fleas that had thrown a party down there. The kitty was very scared. I gave it milk and took it to the bathroom to sleep. It disappeared inside the undone laundry pile until next morning.

The first thing I did next day was to take it to the vet. They said it was healthy. They gave me a prescription for a counter-parasites pill and an anti-flea oil. They told me it was a one-month old female and instructed me to do compressions on its belly with a wet sponge to help its digestive system work properly. They also gave me a prescription for powdered cat mother’s milk.

The last one had never occurred to me. Cat mother’s milk substitute. Powdered. Knowing about that alone was worth the money I paid to the vet.

And this is about how I found myself feeding a cat with a milk bottle, while thinking about starving children in Africa with tympanites. The kitten was lucky enough to be born in Victoria sq., Athens.

The days were passing jauntily - for the cat. She quickly adapted to the safety of her new environment, eating a lot, growing fast, and being full of energy. She’d never go unnoticed by anyone visiting the house - she’d take good care of that. She was always the center of attention. Any friend stepping over would spend a significant amount of time with her. We named her Gisele. It wasn’t a name from some romantic opera or by some world-famous model. Rather, it was the name of a transvestite bartender, who worked at a well-known club in Athens. It was a name that fitted well. Gisele would leave no one in peace - and when there weren’t any guests in the house that no one was me.

She’d wake up early each morning (I’m not sure she even slept at night) and hop over my bed. She stylishly ignored the cursestorm I’d throw on her and she wouldn’t stop biting my legs until my shoes were on. The bright side was that this was a way for me to get up early, which is something I generally despise. I can say that I mainly followed the cat’s schedule: we ate from the same dish, we watched TV together, she’d sit on my lap when I was on my computer, she lied on my belly when I was stretched out on the sofa reading, and when I’d fall asleep, she’d stealthily join in. She enjoyed total freedom in the house and total love from me.

To be frank, I never had any particular affection for cats. I once had a conversation about that with my friend Jason. Jason loves cats, whereas I am more a dog person.

’Why don’t you like cats?’ he asked. ‘I don’t like them because they’re devious’, I said. ‘You’re wrong’, he said, ‘cats are devious according to human logic; according to the feline one, they’re simply cats’. This seemed to me very right. We use to judge others according to our own logic, our own values, and this is too egocentric a thing to start with. I recalled many times this dialogue during those shared accommodation times with the cat. Her presence in my house was a good reason for me to get along with the idea. After all, I had already began getting used to it.

However, Gisele didn’t stay with me for a long. Soon, she was old enough to be able to easily jump to the next, under-construction building. One morning I woke up, but she wasn’t there. No matter how much I looked, she wasn’t anywhere to be found. Her plate was crammed with food, yet it looked intact. I looked for her around the neighborhood, but fruitlessly; I’d ask the neighborhood cats to tell me what happened, but I didn’t know how. I never got to find her.

A couple of weeks later, Christine announced me her intention to meet me to her new boyfriend.

I never reconciled with cats. I still keep appreciating dogs more. Offer the world to a cat and it won’t be enough; offer a piece of old bread to a dog and it will never forget it. look in the eyes. Giving the proper credit to the contributor can never be mandatory, especially if the contribution comes with no self-interest; however, it can make a difference.

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