ABSTRACT

When I was a child, we almost always had a dog, always a German Shepherd, and each one was called “Wolf.” I liked them all, but in my memory I cannot distinguish one from the other. Later in life, and especially in Hollywood and Connecticut, I always lived with a cat, and I remember each one distinctly. The only trouble is – I’ve almost never had a whole cat. Some of them were just more or less the remnants of what must have been at one time a handsome feline. That almost sounds as if I had been especially looking for some damaged goods. Not at all. I love whole cats. The ones with two eyes and two ears, with unbroken tails and at least some teeth and with voices you can hear and understand. But mine were hardly ever like that. Usually they came from a shelter or they were dumped on my front lawn. Your first mistake is to notice them at all. It becomes worse when you start talking to them, even if you are only saying: “Sorry, I can’t take you.” (Watch the very small tilt of the head, as if they were hard of hearing. All the time looking at you.) But the fatal moment arrives when you use a random name. Let’s say: Pussycat, or Micky, and they react with: “How did you know?” After that everything works according to their scenario. A very soft purr. You stroke that delicious fur. She – or he – is in your arms. You are hooked. And there you are, with a new cat to share your life.