Yesterday gave every indication of being an ordinary Tuesday, until, after going down to pick up a bag of milk from the corner store for morning coffee, I spotted Cat, cleaning herself, a wound on her stomach.
With a little help from the man downstairs, I got her in a basket and headed off to the vet.
“What’s her name?” the vet asked, quite sensibly, when I got there.
“She’s not my cat… the people that look after her… they just call her Cat.”
He looked at me, hard. “Just give me something you’ll remember,” he said, hovering over the computer keys, waiting to enter something in the file.
I’m a firm believer in not naming animals if they are not yours for keeps, and in fact that naming them has a way of making them yours, but he kept staring at me and there was no way I could explain that I didn’t want to name the cat.
“Tulip,” I said.
“Spelling?” he asked.
All I can say is that tulips were an answer to a quiz question the previous evening, because I have no idea where else it could have come from; that is not what I would name a cat, and somehow that felt appropriate.
**
Cat took up residence downstairs a few months ago. She appeared out of seemingly nowhere, a small brown-grey tabby whose defining characteristic (aside from her kittenly cuteness) is her total fearlessness. She has no fear of people, but stands her ground—or rather, sits her ground—and shouts meows at anyone who crosses her path.
After marching shoutily around outside the nearby houses for a few days, she was taken in by the downstairs lunch-catering business, who, while conscientiously not letting her into the food prep area, provide her with protection from neigbourhood dogs, a cozy sleeping box in a nook outside their door, and as much food as she can eat.
Marv was initially less than thrilled with the idea of another feline in the building, especially since she’d march right into our place and make herself at home whenever I left the door open, which was often, then. Once I put a stop to that, and he knew his spaces were still his own, he began to get used to her. The hissing stopped, there were occasional sniffs and nose-bumps, and finally a little play.
I’d begun explaining about the need for spaying, but apparently not in time; I came down one day to her nursing three impossibly tiny kittens. One didn’t survive the day—Cat’s scarcely more than a kitten herself, and they were small—but she doted on the other two, moving them around the building, into a cleaning supply cupboard, and finally somewhere outside. We don’t know if they have survived and if so where they are, but Cat still comes back for food, and can be seen lounging in the sun outside the front door.
Only yesterday she didn’t seem to want to move, and I saw the injury on her belly.
**
It wasn’t a serious wound, and, after a shot of painkillers and some antiseptic powder and making plans to return for a follow up and her spaying, we left to look for a pharmacy. Cat was pretty mellow, unlike Marv is when out in his carrier, and I was just relieved that it hadn’t been anything worse. If she’d needed to stay overnight, I’d worry about the (possible) kittens.
Cat was in a small carrying basket, and I was looking for a taxi, when I spotted a little eatery, open to the road, ceiling festooned with prayer flags, walls a bright yellow-green and pleasantly dingy. The area, not far from Boudha, isn’t one I visit that often, but whenever I do, I always make a point to arrive hungry. There are little eateries everywhere—mostly Tibetan, but there’s so much variety and I always eat well when I’m here.
I can’t stop this time, I thought, and walked on, then looked at the calm cat in her basket, retraced my steps, and ordered a quick plate of buff keema noodles. Just in time I saw the option on the one-page wall menu for a “half” portion, a good thing considering how big it ended up being.
Within minutes I was feasting on fat, chewy noodles and a smattering of bok choy topped with spiced, flavourful minced buffalo meat and fresh spring onions and danya (cilantro), all brought together by a slightly thickened soy-based sauce. The staff were quite delighted to see Cat in her basket, but even so I ate as quick as I could. Warming, gently spicy (I didn’t mix in all the chilli sauce provided on the side), it was the perfectly satisfying pick-me-up I didn’t know I needed.
We got home just before the rain began.
**
Cat’s person was waiting at the front door, and I explained the powder she needed applied several times a day. Before long I was happy to hear calls of “Cat, cat!” from downstairs again—I wasn’t kidding: it really is the name she answers to.
She’s not Tulip, or in fact mine, but I’m familiar with the veterinarians, am happy to help, and especially glad that I have gotten somewhat better over the years at helping animals without losing my heart to them.
A heartwarming encounter.