A Golden Sphinx
by Jacqueline Johnson
April 3, 2007 — Published in Pithy Tales
He just nuzzled in for his thirtieth nap of the day, right in the middle of my bed where I had planned to rest. His mass of conditioned, orange-blonde fur huddles tightly in rejection of my touch, and his purring motor attempts to block out the noise of my typing. He still doesn’t appear to notice that he took my spot. In fact, he’s blind to any of my needs. Yes, I understand he has the silhouette of an Egyptian Sphinx and the meow of an angel. But what makes him think he is this important?
I don’t spoil him, buy him fancy things, or even let him stay up late. In fact, it’s safe to call him my teddy bear. Except for the fact that he’s breathing, self-cleaning, talkative, and well, not stuffed. He’s full of functioning organs, I presume.
Okay, so maybe he is a little spoiled. He comes and leaves the house as he pleases, and I award him treat bites for being cute, but for the most part he’s just here for me to coo at as if he’s my little eternal child.
I made him wear a stupid, pink bonnet the other day. He responded with a gaze that said, “You humans need a life.” Of course I only laughed at his countenance; after all, I was only imagining meanings behind his expressions, right?
When we’re not in each other’s presence, I tend to wonder if he misses me. Perhaps this thought speaks more about my need to feel needed than how a cat actually processes a human’s presence or absence in its life. He dispels my insecurities though, when he forcibly rubs his body against my hands, as if to request a head massage. We all recognize he would manage to survive without me. He has a secret life in the woods. Surely he hunts; I’ve seen him boast evidence. Technically, he doesn’t need the food bowl I provide and replenish. His survival does not depend on me.
Just imagine his resume. Awards: Champion Sleeper since Birth. First Place Mouse Hunting. Hobbies: Letting her scratch my ears. Sleeping. Standing on hind paws for treats. References: The Oak Tree on the Corner. Human 1. Human 2.
Honestly, what is the point of a cat? Currently, he’s snoozing away — in my spot not to mention — and if I dare pet him, he’ll leap off my bed in a disgruntled haze as though to punish me.
It is obvious in his selfish behavior that he does not live for me. He does not comfort me when I cry. Rather, he crouches on his back legs while his ears twitch at the dissonant sounds of grief. He does not sit on my lap when I coax him there. He comes when his schedule is free. I have yet to see his day planner. He sleeps when I want him to play. Clearly my wants mean nothing to him. He nips my hand when I have rubbed his ears for too long. He cannot stand the extent of affection I want to give.
On the other hand — or paw, depends on who’s analyzing — I don’t live for him. I push him away when I’m too busy to rub his furry forehead, and I don’t work to afford his rain poncho. He has to brave the rain. I do not wait for his bus to come home from school. In fact, I can leave for the grocery store and let him stay outside to play. I don’t cry because he’s gone, and even worse, I never let him hold the string.
Perhaps we are merely companions. I’m never mad at him, and we never spite each other. Yes, he’s in my spot, right where I’ll need to sleep, but truthfully, I am pleased with the spontaneous snores from his pink nostrils that his company provides. I cannot restrain myself from cooing at him with embarrassing amounts of affection as he reveals his white chin and rolls into a different sleeping position.
I am not his mother. I feed him, tell him which couches to respect, bury my face in his fur, but I am neither his disciplinary nor his authority. (As if he’d listen, anyway.)
He’s not my child, either. He does not ask for my permission to leave, he whimpers when he wants to leave and takes a nap on his own prerogative. He is his own cat, and I am my own person.
We’re simply companions in this cruel world.
Coming home to his little voice is witnessing the rainbow at the wane of a rainfall. And his purr, well, whether he means to thank me for stroking his chin, I can’t help but feel valued. Commended even.
We share the view. He’ll stretch across the brick wall as I stretch across the pavement in silence for the sunset. He flicks his tail in tempo with the sun’s gradual descent and my spacey rumination. Our camaraderie brings peace to both of us.
Maybe he forges a link between Nature and Humanity. Each time his curious face peers into my front windowpane, I imagine he wishes he could reach the doorbell. In the same second I open the door; he rushes in, and crosses the barrier from nature into my home. Sometimes I don’t see him in the window; I come to the door because I hear faint meows through the glass. When I finally attend to his presence, I see his mouth pursing to form a small, lipless O to call me to him. I come running of course, because his hungry body brings a joyful interruption to my routine. As we stand in the foyer together looking each other over as if old, reunited friends from 20 years ago, his meow morphs into an appreciative greeting.
On the busy days when work requires my focus, he brings Nature right to my doorstep and into my lap. His buoyant eyes cajole my tense muscles into repose and his prance across the keyboard serves to remind of my work’s triviality.
While his chassé across my desk directly interrupts my work, his stretching catwalk revives my energy to continue the droning statistical analysis before me.
Still he’s nestled in my spot, purring soft lullabies as he sleeps.
Illustration by Anatole Upart.
Jacqueline Johnson
Jacqueline Johnson is a published freelance writer and has been involved in magazine journalism for seven years. She has interned with Smithsonian Magazine and several local newspapers. Jacqueline studied journalism and women's and gender studies at Mercer University.
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