PROLOGUE
THE CAT WITH NO NAME
I AM A cat. As yet, I have no name. There’s a famous cat in our country who once made this very statement.
I have no clue how great that cat was, but at least when it comes to having a name I got there first. Whether I like my name is another matter, since it glaringly doesn’t fit my gender, me being male and all. I was given it about five years ago – around the time I came of age.
Back then, I used to sleep on the bonnet of a silver van in the parking lot of an apartment building. Why there? Because no one would ever shoo me away. Human beings are basically huge monkeys that walk upright, but they can be pretty full of themselves. They leave their cars exposed to the elements, but a few paw prints on the paintwork and they go ballistic.
At any rate, the bonnet of that silver van was my favourite place to sleep. Even in winter, the sun made it all warm and toasty, the perfect spot for a daytime nap.
I stayed there until spring arrived, which meant I’d survived one whole cycle of seasons. One day, I was lying curled up, having a snooze, when I suddenly sensed a warm, intense gaze upon me. I unglued my eyelids a touch and saw a tall, lanky young man, eyes narrowed, staring down at me as I lay prone.
‘Do you always sleep there?’ he asked.
I suppose so. Do you have a problem with that?
‘You’re really cute, do you know that?’
So they tell me.
‘Is it okay if I stroke you?’
No, thanks. I batted one front paw at him in what I hoped to be a gently threatening way.
‘Aren’t you a stingy one,’ the man said, pulling a face.
Well, how would you like it if you were sleeping and somebody came by and rubbed you all over?
‘I guess you want something in exchange for being stroked?’
Quick on the draw, this one. Quite right. Got to get something in return for having my sleep disturbed. I heard a rustling and popped my head up. The man’s hand had disappeared into a plastic bag.
‘I don’t seem to have bought anything cat-suitable.’
No sweat, mate. Feline beggars can’t be choosers. That scallop jerky looks tasty.
I sniffed at the package sticking out of the plastic bag and the man, smiling wryly, tapped me on the head with his fingers.
Hey there, let’s not jump the gun.
‘That’s not good for you, cat,’ he said. ‘Plus it’s too spicy.’
Too spicy, says you? Do you think a hungry stray like me gives a rat’s about his health? Getting something into my stomach right this minute – that’s my top priority.
At last, the man liberated a slice of fried chicken from a sandwich, stripping off the batter, laying the flesh on his palm and holding it out to me.
You want me to eat right out of your hand? You think you’ll get all friendly with me by doing that? I’m not that easy. Then again, it’s not often I get to indulge in fresh meat – and it looks kind of succulent – so perhaps a little compromise is in order.
As I chomped down on the chicken, I felt a couple of human fingers slide from under my chin to behind my ears. He scratched me softly. I mean, I’ll permit a human who feeds me to touch me for a second, but this guy was pretty clever about it. If he were to give me a couple more titbits, scratching under my chin would be up for grabs, too. I rubbed my cheek against his hand.
The man smiled, pulled the meat from the second half of the sandwich, stripped off the batter, and held it out. I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t say no to the batter, either. It would fill me up even more.
I let him stroke me properly to repay him for the food, but now it was time to close up shop.
Just as I began to raise a front paw and send him on his way, the man said, ‘Okay, see you later.’
He withdrew his hand and walked off, heading up the stairs of the apartment building.
That’s how we first met. It wasn’t until a little later that he finally gave me my name.
From that moment on, I found crunchy cat food underneath the silver van every night. One human fistful – a full meal for a cat – just behind the rear tyre.
If I was around when the man turned up to leave food, he’d wrest some touch-time from me, but when I wasn’t there he’d humbly leave an offering and disappear.
Sometimes, another cat would beat me to it, or the man would be away and I’d wait in vain till morning for my crunchies. But, by and large, I could count on him for one square meal a day. Humans are quite flighty, so I don’t rely on them a hundred per cent. A stray cat’s skill lies in building up a complex web of connections in order to survive on the streets.
Acquaintances who understood each other, that’s what the man and I had become. But when he and I had settled into a comfortable relationship, fate intervened to change everything.
And fate hurt like hell.
I was crossing the road one night when I became suddenly dazzled by a car’s headlights. I was about to dart away when a piercing horn sounded. And that’s when it all went wrong. Startled, I was a split second late in leaping aside, and bang! the car rammed into me and sent me flying.
I wound up in the bushes by the side of the road. The pain that shot through my body was like nothing I’d experienced before. But I was alive.
I cursed as I tried to stand up, and even let out a scream. Oww! Oww! My right hind leg hurt like you wouldn’t believe.
I sank to the ground and twisted my upper half to lick the wound, only to find – good Lord! A bone was sticking out!
Bite wounds and cuts I can mostly look after with my tongue, but this was beyond me. Through the wrenching pain, this bone protruding from my leg was making its presence known in no uncertain terms.
What should I do? What could I do?
Somebody, help me! But that was idiotic. Nobody was going to help a stray.
Then I remembered the man who came every night to leave me crunchies. Maybe he could help.
Why this thought came to me, I don’t know – we’d always kept our distance, with occasional stroking time in thanks for his offerings. But it was worth a try.
I set off along the pavement, dragging my right hind leg with the bone jabbing out. Several times my body gave out, as if to say, I can’t take it, it’s just too painful. Not one. More. Step.
By the time I reached the silver van, dawn was breaking.
I really couldn’t take another step. This is it, I thought.
I cried out at the top of my lungs.
Oww … owwwww!
Again and again I screamed, until my voice finally gave out. It killed me even to call out, to be honest with you.
Just then, I heard someone come down the stairs of the apartment building. When I looked up, I saw it was the man.
‘I thought it was you.’
When he saw me close up, he turned pale.
‘What happened? Were you hit by a car?’
Hate to admit it, but I messed up.
‘Does it hurt? It looks like it.’
Enough of the irritating questions. Have a little pity for a wounded cat, okay?
‘It sounded like you were desperate, the way you were screaming, and it woke me up. You were calling for me, weren’t you, cat?’
Yes, yes, I certainly was! But you took your time getting here.
‘You thought I might be able to help you, didn’t you?’
I guess so, Sherlock. Then the man started sniffing and snuffling. Why was he crying?