Tampabay: Emily's legacy, an adventure on little cat feet

A man in my position is not wise to discuss cats in print too often. No matter how well received the topic may be, it brings scorn from tougher colleagues, and sneers from my friends at the Weekly Planet. Nonetheless, it has been two years since the topic was attacked in any detail, and enough has transpired to justify the enterprise anew.

In October 1998 the adopted-while-pregnant cat Emily generated a number of kittens, seven in all, although one did not survive. In proper time, four were parceled out to good homes and received names: Simone, Scottie, Sinbad and Erin. (All cats in this narrative subsequently underwent alterations to prevent the production of future cats.)

As for myself, I retained the companionship of two. The first of these was a white, gray and butterscotch male named Clarence, after a brief confused period in which he was named Chloe. These things happen.

The second was a male marked most dramatically in black and white, his face divided like a Phantom of the Opera mask. His long, black tail ended with a tiny white ring around the tip; his feet all were white except for a single black toe on the left rear. This cat was named Abou, from the poem by Leigh Hunt:

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream

of peace

In the poem Abou sees an angel, who shows him a book filled with the names of those "who love the Lord." When Abou hears that his name is not listed, he asks to be written down as one "who loves his fellow men." The next night, the angel wakes Abou again ...

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

... although I should add here, Abou got his name mostly because he looked like an Abou.

In the ensuing two years, we merged our lives with a second human and a large dog named Harry. This has exceeded expectations on all fronts.

In fact, what tension that did arise was intra-species; the mother was increasingly irritated at her layabout sons. She found an escape from our fence (the cats, in an act of collective bargaining, rejected the indoor-only option) and began to frequent a neighboring retirement hotel, where the occupants doted upon her exclusively. This suited Emily, and her trips home became less and less frequent, and finally ceased altogether.

The remaining cats could not be less alike, despite a common mother, environment and diet. The cat Clarence grows in volume and now hunts by lying all day beneath a tropical plant and swatting any small reptiles that pass near. When he climbs onto our bed at night, the covers sink around him and expose human shoulders to the cool air.

The lithe Abou, like his mother, sometimes escapes the courtyard and brings back prey: birds, frogs, a squirrel, even a large live black snake deposited on the porch ("Abou," I told him respectfully, "you are the man.")

Earlier this year he shed his collar and disappeared for a full month, and we found him living with a neighbor under an assumed name. More recently he disappeared for two full nights and finally staggered home limping.

Only at the vet did we learn the full extent of his injury, the giant bite marks from a foreign dog that had ripped into his belly and flank. Now he heals. The dog Harry waits outside the room where Abou is shut in to recuperate and wags his tail in happy greeting when his friend is allowed out for brief sojourns in the house. Clarence, in contrast, hisses his disapproval, perhaps at the medicinal odor, or perhaps grasping, on some non-verbal feline level, that Abou has spoiled the deal, and that no one will ever have quite the same leeway again.

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