He’s busy licking his balls. He then proceeds to use the same tongue on the rest of his body before ceremoniously biting small invisible ticks with the aplomb of a magician making things disappear. His forelegs flail under him, he teeters then straightens himself for another go at his own furry lodging for bugs.

I’ve had him now for over three months, a rescue at an adoption day at the vet nearby. I wasn’t so sure about him considering he’s a big guy at a whopping 5.5 kilos. But he bear-hugged my son, two paws around the 11 year old’s neck was enough to convince me that it would be ok between them.

Ever since I remember remembering anything, I have adored cats. When I was little I am told I would only eat lunch in my highchair if from that altitude I would spot a neighborhood cat saunter across my parent’s kitchen window. The likelihood of that was often narrow to none, so they’d tip one of the children playing around on the street to gather up a cat or two from the nearby bins, and throw them casually in front of the kitchen. Yes, I was very spoilt.

My parents traveled a lot when I was young. Each journey ended with the opening of a suitcase, and one specific soft toy given to me – always a cat. At times they took liberties –I collected a pink panther, a (now) grey lion and some sort of stripey/spotty concoction between a tiger and a leopard. My bed was covered with cats of all shapes and nationalities, depending on their origin of purchase. My favourite remained British Cuddly – her bulbous raggedy head much too large for her scrawny body, almost detaching itself over the years due to frequent loving hugs or scoldings as her behavior ordained in my imagination.

Wikipedia tells me that there are just under 100 breeds of cats. They come from the tiny (aptly bred and named the Munchkin) to the massive (Maine Coons may be the size of foxes), curly haired (the American Wirehair) to zero haired (like Austin Power’s Dr. Evil’s Sphynx) and quiet (suiting the characteristics of the reticent Nordic people, the Norwegian Forest cat) to very talkative (get a pair of Siamese siblings and they will have a long conversation with you or each other or anyone who will listen).

Being such a feline fan I hear you wonder why my parents didn’t just get me a pet cat? I’m guessing it was because I was raised between two households, and neither had the time or energy to nurture pets. At my grandparents home the regularity of street cats sheltering in their terrace to give birth meant there was enough access to cats, without the maintenance and attention required for them on a daily basis. And perhaps that was enough for my parents too.

When I was adult and responsible enough to let myself into a cat’s life, it was Galaxy. Adopted at 5 months from a litter of nine, she was the one who stayed the longest with the mother. Galaxy had great manners. She didn’t lick or bite or speak unless spoken to. She wouldn’t eat anything except the best quality dry food. She needed three bowls stashed in different corners of the flat with fresh water. She persisted in procuring her treats at 8:30 am every day come hell or high hangover. Quiet, graceful, kind and utterly reckless, she would slip out of the 3 millimetre crack in the window, glide along the 2 centimetre sloping ledge on the exterior of the flat, realise halfway it was probably dangerous, and then do a Jackson moonwalk back. Once I got over not trusting what she was doing, I would with comedic purpose leave the window open when I had guests. Reykjavik has little in the way of things to do on chilly weekend afternoons save be indoors with a few friends watching a movie or enjoying a cat dance on a cold tin ledge.

As a kitten she almost cost me my life when she ventured out into the tree’s hanging branches, and refused to come back down. At the time, the scaffolding around the house, put up for much delayed repairs being done on it, allowed me to climb three floors to rescue her. For all the eighteen deep welts, twenty-two scratches and the danger to my absolute well being, Galaxy showed no gratefulness. A beautiful diva, on the rare occasion she deemed to play with the backyard boy cats, she was always treated like a queen. Save the time one fat rascal bullied her up the tree of her kitten hood.

I left her to the care of tenants and neighbors in Reykjavik when I moved countries, knowing that taking her to hot and humid Mumbai would probably do her more harm than the idea of her being with us. Cats are more territorial, it’s easier for them to adjust to a new caretaker than to a new environment. Would I be taking her to India for myself or for her? Once I knew it was the former, I decided it wasn’t right to drag her across the world from a cold dark corner to a blazing bright one. She was used to her corner and she liked it. Goodbyes are tough, this one broke my heart, but on my last visit to Iceland, the first one in two years, Galaxy did not recognize me, was three kilos heavier, and seemed to be content in her new owner’s company. Cats I tell ya.

Xen is a different basket of runts. Found in a car park abandoned at a few months, Xen is hungry for love. Xen is hungry for anything. He will eat yogurt, corn, cucumbers, apple, boiled chicken, cheese. He’ll eat it with beastly voraciousness. He’ll lick anything – cushion covers, his paws, your face, the piano keys. He comes when called. He bites when excited. He had no mother to teach him manners and now he depends on my growling or human purring to show him the difference between what’s permitted and what’s not.

He chases tiny pieces of thread, he secretly chews the elastic off the toys he pretends to enjoy playing with. He’s friends with the birds on the balcony, who come to visit him at an early morning agreed upon hour, jabbering about the brewing sandstorm or the tasty morsels hidden beneath the newest building rubble. He patiently and attentively listens to them, all the while wishing he could murder them if it weren’t for the damn wire mesh door separating them. He sleeps more than I think he should. He has the largest most expressive eyes after Puss-in-Boots. Xen is so much fun and has become so very dear to us in a short time. Rescued animals are brilliant – there are times I see him and wonder what would have happened to him, hidden beneath the hood of a Honda, warming himself near the engine on chilly Dubai nights. He makes us so happy with his giant gentle presence.

At this point in my adoring essay on all things feline, you may have concluded I’m a crazy cat lady. If having one cat but loving all of them, no matter their size or the strength of their roar, I am indeed a crazy cat lover. I love all animals, but these funny internet meme-ers hold a special place in my heart. A low maintenance, self-cleaning, slant-eyed, yoga-pose striking, humorous purrfect place.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hello! I’m Peri Desai

I’m Peri, welcome to my space. In it you will find stuff that moves me, maddens me, captures my attention, makes me question its truth. You will read what makes me curious, annoyed, energized, joyful, vulnerable.