by Tony Robles
I’m a catfather, been one for seven months. My cat is female. I got her fixed a few months ago in Asheville, one of those dog and cat snip operations where you drop off your pet and leave it in the care of the good surgeons while you think of the vasectomy you never had. My cat is a wonderful pet. In fact, I don’t consider her a pet, really, but a roommate, a companion. When she came back from being fixed she moved about in a drunken feline stupor—bumping into furniture and hitting the armrest of the couch head-first at mid-leap. It was as if I’d spiked her water bowl with Kentucky bourbon right here in a mobile home park in Western North Carolina. But despite her uncharacteristic display of intemperance, she was fixed which meant no kittens, no furry adorable four-legged creatures with thimbles to spike with bourbon or anything else.
I named my cat Francesca. Actually, I didn’t name her. That name came via a coworker from a warehouse I work at in Hendersonville. It was one Robert Boucher (aka Bobby Booshay) who bestowed the name upon the gray tabby that now occupies my living area as a companion, rent-free tenant. The cat showed up unannounced at the warehouse sometime in October. I was struck by how petite she was; a small head and svelte body; gray with black stripes, and a patch of white on her neck. The cat was skittish. We tried petting her but she would bolt away in the other direction. We left her food in a bowl. Slowly she began trusting us to where she’d let us pet her—from a distance.
But it was Robert, or Rob, that said, what should we name her? Our warehouse is a facility that assembles and sells small motorized wheelchairs and scooters. One of the technicians, an individual with a thick beard and eclectic musical tastes suggested we name the cat scooter. What Bobby Booshay or my other warehouse brethren didn’t realize was the significance of the name Francesca. I am essentially a poet working in a warehouse—a published poet with a track record of publications—a track record that far exceeds my working/employee record, a record rife with firings and misunderstandings. Poetry has provided comfort, an outlet for my thoughts which often go unsaid in the workplace environment. I have three published collections of poetry. The editor of my first two books was the late writer Francesca Rosa. I owe the success of these books to her keen editorial eye and unmatched sensitivity. When the name Francesca was uttered by the esteemed Bobby Booshay, I thought, this is more than a coincidence.
Soon everyone in the warehouse fell in love with Francesca. Well, not quite everyone. The business owner wasn’t a cat person but rather a dog person. I would sometimes check in deliveries of gourmet dog food sent to the warehouse—packets of nutrient-dense dog food sent in boxes insulated with dry ice. The food is packaged in plastic and looked edible for humans—no kibble for the company boss’ dog. The boss didn’t care for cats and it seemed every time the boss would walk the warehouse, Francesca would appear. She would look on as Francesca leaped onto the warehouse shelves and lounge without a care in the world. One day the boss said, we’re gonna have to call animal control. Francesca slowly became more comfortable around us and soon she was spending time at my desk. She’d rub her head over my leg and on various parts of my desk. Who’s gonna take her home my coworkers asked. Most had no room or had pets already. It appeared that a silent agreement had been made among us that I’d be the one to take Francesca from the warehouse to my house. Beautiful but skittish, how would I do it?
I went to a hardware store and purchased a raccoon trap. I bought a small bowl from the local dollar store. I would set a trap and take Francesca home. I put the trap along the side of the warehouse on a Saturday afternoon with the bowl of cat food as bait. I arrived an hour later. The cat was captured, confined, and very angry—its liberty stolen at the hands of a lowly warehouse tech on his day off. She was silent as I drove her home, about five minutes away. I carried the raccoon trap and the cat inside it to my porch. I opened the trap door and the cat bolted away, toward some box piled towards the rear of the porch. About 30-40 minutes later she crossed the threshold of my mobile home but not before making cat noises I’d never heard before—distressful noises, perhaps the cat equivalent of profanity. She finally settled down—at a distance.
Francesca explored her new surroundings, leaving small to mid-sized gifts—namely cat shit and cat piss on my bedding. I chalked it up to nervousness, noting that my own bed-wetting episodes as a child germinated from an abrupt change in my living environment when I’d moved from my grandmother’s house to my father’s house when I was a child. I dutifully cleaned the cat droppings and wished the urine-soaked bedding was christened by Francesca. However, a vague scent of cat shit lingered—vague at first then more pronounced. Where the hell is that smell coming from? I asked. I finally located it—under my bed—a small pile resembling a scaled-down replica of a Hawaiian or Philippine volcano. I cleared what was under the bed but I began smelling cat shit in multiple places—my car, at the supermarket. I was falling under the power of feline fecal matter suggestion. Francesca, however, became more at home in my, or now our house. She began using the litter box with regularity.
One evening Francesca and I were watching The Godfather Part 1—one of my favorites. Francesca leaped on the couch next to me. She watched the images on the screen, the gunfights, and the iconic scene when movie producer Jack Woltz wakes up to find a decapitated horse head on his silk sheet-covered bed. In one of the greatest performances in cinematic history, Woltz (played by actor Jack Marley) cries out in horror. As I recall, it went like this:
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
It was a scream that could curdle anything into cottage cheese. Francesca sat next to me and began to purr.
I remembered Francesca shortly after catching 3 mice in one week; one of which dangled from her jaws as she leapt onto my bed at 3 am. Cats are predators, a friend told me. Fleas are assholes, another told me. I turned to Francesca. “Hey, you’ve been living here for a couple of months,” I said, “How you liking it?” “It’s fine,” she replied, watching Marlon Brando ambushed at a fruit stand on the screen. “Anyway,” I said, “maybe we should have a written agreement.” Francesca moved away slightly. “What kind of agreement? She asked.” I rubbed my chin. “An agreement that says you’ll be a good cat. That you won’t crap on the floor; that you’ll…” “Did you forget about those three mice I killed?” She said. “I’m more than earning my keep.” It was true, she eliminated the mouse problem. I began playing with her, friendly (not decapitated) horseplay when she swiped at me. Her claw hit my upper lip. A drop of blood formed—just enough ink for a cat roommate contract—or a short story—this one. We continued watching The Godfather until the end.
It has been wonderful being a catfather. I brought two of my patio screens doors to a repair shop since Francesca slashed through them. I am keeping her in the house but she manages to escape and return. She’s a sweet cat, the sweetest. For the last several months she’s been the best roommate, keeping the mice away and, through her melodious purring, has kept my blood pressure down.
However, I know I live with a predator. I had been sleeping, a restful sleep. I awoke expecting to find Francesca sleeping nearby. She wasn’t there. I looked up at the ceiling before rising to a sitting position. I saw something at the foot of my bed—an odd shape. I couldn’t make out what it was. I got closer and saw two small eyes. It was the head of a mouse. For some reason, I became frightened of the way Jack Woltz was in The Godfather when he awoke to find a horse head in his bed. I looked towards the door. Francesca was looking at me. She flicked her tongue over her whiskers. I looked at the mouse’s head. One of its eyes winked. I let out a scream worthy of an Academy Award:
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Jack Woltz would have been proud. My cat Francesca–a predator but a sweet one. And fleas are assholes.
The End.