cat – Clara Hsu

Itsy

Itsy
1993-2013

Baby black cat
came home in a pillow case.
Issy, Issy, is it a he?
Shiny fur
big round eyes
we named him Itsy
Itsy because he was tiny.

Itsy slept on the top of my head.
Itsy bit Julia’s hair.
Itsy roamed around the foothill
of Mount Diablo
chased and killed birds.
Itsy scorched his paws
on the hot asphalt.
Itsy invited a big orange cat
into the house in a stormy night.

Itsy watched the children grow.
Itsy saw the family changed.
Itsy hunted and played hide and seek
even though his whiskers had changed color
and the lush coat was spiked with white.

hot day
black cat
lying on the ground
ears up
eyes closed
not a sound

I look up
from my reading

he’s gone.

Listen to a reading of the poem:

Image by Susan Hsu.

Mr. Petey Goes To The Doctor

If cats have nine lives, we have seen our orange furry son Petey living through his third. Petey was rescued from the Martinez shelter on the day of his execution. After living with us for a short time, he developed some blockage in his urinary tract and was on the verge of death. We found out just in time to save him. Since then Petey has been the man of the house. With his tail forever up he walks with a sexy strut. Lately we notice he is losing weight and his alluring behind has turned skinny. A visit to the doctor shows that he has irregular heart beat and may have recently suffered a stroke. Now Petey takes three pills a day.

Lucky for Petey he gets special diet for his urinary condition and medications for his heart. He would not survive if he was born in Morocco or Turkey where cats are everywhere and people don’t have the luxury to care for them. The value of a life is dependent on its location. Isn’t it also the case for human beings?

In Silence We Wait

When I was living in the East Bay my house had a backyard with big redwood and eucalyptus trees. It was bird heaven. During mornings and evenings I could hear them socializing, probably gossiping about a day’s work. I had a black cat, Itsy, who was a hunter. Occasionally he brought me feathered gifts, which my husband and I would rush to the animal hospital to see if they could be saved.

One summer day I was enjoying the breeze and the birds in the backyard, when a sudden quiet fell. I looked around in alarm. The afternoon sun, the blue sky, the trees were intact, and the ground was solid. Then I heard the rush. Itsy pounded out from behind the bush. All at once life flooded back. The birds seemed to be shrieking with delight as this time they were the watcher and not the victim.

That moment of silence stayed with me. The moment before something happens—the anticipation—as if the universe is holding its breath. Something is about to change.

A Garden Without Birds

We have a small garden in the back of our house with trees and vines. For a long time our friend Jo has been coming over with her dog and planting a variety of flowers around the borders. Since she moved away a year ago we have not been taking care of the garden. It is weedy and overgrown. But our cats love to play hide and seek among the tall grass, and every morning I wake up to vigorous bird chatter.

Our landlord is not so pleased with the state of the backyard and suggests we hire the guy who does yard work for him. The man comes on a soaking rainy day. He rakes and prunes and hauls and leaves the garden with a brutal crew cut. Our cats stay home a lot more since then, but the birds who have given me so much pleasure every morning, have moved away.

Dore is now a born-again gardener. He waters the yard regularly to revive the trees and plants. Perhaps by next spring the birds will find our garden fitting to be their home again.

Mourny

Never have we heard a cat that mourns. The sound comes from the throat, dry and monotonous, like a little child is about to lose his voice after a long period of crying. In the beginning we suspected the stork might have accidentally dropped a baby in our backyard. But when we went outside to investigate and we couldn’t find anything. Then one morning we looked out the window and saw a big beige and white cat lounging in the bush. It had to be the source of that unusual voice.

Our three cats were protective of their territories. I heard the haunting voice mostly at night, heart-breaking sound of a lonely soul calling out to the universe. We call him back—Mourny, Mourny—.

After many months Mourny no longer ran away at the sight of us and sometimes our cats even shared the sun with him. Mourny came very close to the cat door but failed to have the courage to come inside the house. During the rainy months Dore put a blanket inside a little plastic shelter and we knew he stayed there quite often. The first time Dore put a dish of food outside for Mourny he forgot to take the bowl back. We got raccoons checking into our house instead of our desired guest.

Somehow I don’t hear Mourny’s lament so much anymore. Maybe the occasional feeding, our voices and cat friends are what he needs.

What’s in a Name?

KlimeyYawnwithPetey — Klimey yawning with Petey in the back.

I walked into the gynecologist’s office and gave my name. The receptionist turned to the doctor and said,”Your 9am Pap is here.” Thank you very much. I never went back again.

My friend Bill feeds a lot of cats but he never names them. He says if you give them names they are yours. Naming brings you closer to the being and you get attached to it.

I give my three cats multiple names. They respond to all of them. Sometimes they are just theme and variations, like Cali—Cookie—Wookie—Waiwai—Mooki—Lookie—and so on. When I chant her names I swear I see a big smile on Cookie’s face.

This morning one of the animal magnets fell from the refrigerator.

“Pick up the giraffe.” I said to Dore.

” What’s its name?” He asked as he picked it up. “It has a name. Is your name human?”

“Gigi.” I came up with one.

“I like that,” Dore smiled. “Gigi is a beautiful name.”