Kitty

A short story.

Kitty on the prowl, getting stroked by a stranger (me).

Once upon a time, there was a man who adopted a stray cat named Kitty. She was skittish at first, but with patient devotion, their affection became mutual. She was gorgeous, of course, and always curious. Fiery. Determined. Previous owners couldn’t handle her spark. Slow to trust, Kitty’s disobedience was instinctual. This man was her final attempt at domesticity. With him, she hoped to find what had so far eluded her, an apparently paradoxical pairing: the freedom to roam and a warm and happy home. If forced to choose, she’d swiftly take the former.

The man keeps Kitty close. For her, indoor life is a prison sentence and her jailer is too busy to play. She feels bored and ignored. Kitty yearns for the thrill of the chase. So, she breaks free. And then, comes back. Intact.

See, she purrs. That wasn’t so bad.

Reluctantly, he trusts her enough to come home. She trusts him enough to return. She is granted her right to walk with the wind.

The man is in love. He likes to pet, she likes to be pet: a mutually beneficial relationship. Still, he hates the idea of anyone else touching his precious Kitty. Her beauty ensnares him like a bear claw. Beholding her is a bliss so hot it burns. To caress his Kitty’s fur and to make his lady purr becomes a reason to live, to work, to strive. And worry.

One day, Kitty is gone for too long. The man panics. He cycles through a series of worst case scenarios. Was she run over by a car? Devoured by a coyote? Captured by a better petter? The horrors don’t end.

And then, just like that, Kitty returns. Happy. Fed. Cared for. Stroked. By strangers, no less. His disgust that others have touched—no, defiled!—his Kitty is an invasive thought impossible to shut out of his mind.

Don’t ever leave me, he begs. You’re an indoor kitty, now. It’s safer for you in here. She looks away, rolls her eyes. Kitty’s not in the mood for a fight. Not now, anyway.

But make no mistake. Kitty is already planning her escape.

Sure, the cost of her freedom is that she might not come home. But the cost of not letting her leave? Fine. She’ll make him the centre of her world, give him her complete attention. Pissing here, shitting there, scratching skin, couch cushions, furniture legs. The man’s warm lap gets a cold shoulder. Kitty marks her territory with resentment, manipulation, and destruction. Don’t say she didn’t warn him.

Kitty finds a way outdoors. She always does. Stalking the streets. Following her nose. Answering the catcall of a stranger’s tsk tsk tsk. If she likes their touch, she’ll arch her back. Face down, ass up: that’s the way she likes to purr. If she really likes their touch, she’ll show them her belly. One wrong move and the claws come out. A hiss and a flip and she’s outta there.

Patrolling the streets in search of his lady, the man sees her: Kitty getting stroked by another man. A furious rage arises in him: that’s MY Kitty! These females felines are all the same! Maybe she belongs to the streets, he thinks. But he dares not interrupt. He watches. Plots revenge. If he can’t lock her up—he will lock her out.

Kitty happily prowls the night until she is face to face with a set of glowing white canine teeth. Scratch! Bite! Blood! Scream! Kitty limps away, deeply scathed. Time to go home.

She finds the door locked. She meows. Yelps. Pleads. The man inside hears his Kitty. But refuses to feel the hot bliss of a look.

Get one of those other men to take care of you, he thinks.

Sullenly, he finds himself alone and replaceable. Ego bruised by her independence. Ego inflated by her righteous punishment. This is how he gets his lick back. Nevertheless, she stays.

Kitty crawls under his car. Licks her wounds. Falls asleep. Meows at dawn. Catches her meal. Time to let her in.

He doesn’t. He still won’t look at her. Fine. She stays. Bleeding and needing his care. He has exiled his own heart. To harm her is to self-maim. He can bear his wounds no longer.

So what if others pet my Kitty? Why deprive her and others of that exquisite luxury?

He feels small now. Petty. Cruel. The snuffer of a warm, generous spirit. For no good reason but to claim: Mine. He calls for her, and the battered beauty steps forward.

He had left her. But she knew he’d return.

Together at last, they make a pact. She can leave when her heart desires, but home must be a place where she feels loved, played with, and entertained. What makes her happy is not going outside—it’s knowing that she can go outside. She likes her indoor life a little more these days. But the winds can always change direction.

When she walks down the street, getting stroked by friends old and new, it’s nothing personal. Being loved by others comes naturally to her. It doesn’t mean she loves her keeper any less. In fact, she comes home craving the warmth of his lap most of all. If she believed in a singular, one true love—she’d only have eyes for him.

I’m not yours because you own me, she tells him: but because I choose you.

Take care of me. And I’ll take care of you.