The lazy orange cat before me hardly resembles the stray we brought home in December. I picture a blizzard, white on white, and recall his plaintive cries coming from underneath a beat- up Chevy. A thin creature, snow covered, he wrapped himself around me like an orange leg warmer.
"Should we take him?" I asked my husband. But of course I already knew the answer. We had come, Fancy Feast in hand, and he would be ours.
The car ride to his new home was not pleasant. His protests filled my small Honda. It was an ugly sound, long wails ending in a guttural rasp. It was the sound of one who expects the trip to end at the cat guillotine. We consoled him, talking of food, cat beds, mouse toys. Yet his eyes continued to scan the road while his body pressed tightly against me.
My husband laughed at the two of us, a bewildered cat held by an equally distressed new owner.
"Relax," he said to both of us. "Everything will be fine."
The new cat, who we named Whiskers, hid behind our washing machine for two days. Somehow I had pictured a different homecoming, one where he readily accepts our warm sanctuary with joy, reclining on my lap in a deep state of purr.
"He has a cat brain," my husband explained. "Give it time."
On the third day, Whiskers rose from the cellar to greet his brave new world. On the fourth day he graciously accepted contraband bits of chicken smuggled to him under the table by my father. By the fifth day, Christmas, he slept soundly on my mother's lap after a long day of batting Baby Jesus under the hassock and chasing tinsel. He had officially accepted us into his home.
"I knew he would come around," my husband said, munching on his eighth chunk of Christmas stocking pepperoni roll. "Who wouldn't like it here? This is cat heaven."
We decided to keep the cat inside the house, at least for a while. He would be a pampered yuppie house cat now. No more long nights of foraging for food. No more whiskers drooping with rain. No more lumps of tar embedded in fur. Only comfort.
Now, seven months later, Whiskers wouldn't bat my Baby Jesus statue, much less chase tinsel, without much encouragement. Fat and lazy, he has become a house cat whose happiest moments are suppertime and bedtime. Falling into heaven has made him well-nourished, worm-free and safe. But is comfort the only thing that matters in a cat's life?
I used to love watching Whiskers from the window of my apartment. Racing across an ice-covered yard, hind quarters flipping out from under him, he would flip through the air in a ballet of energy, chasing the last leaves of fall. His whiskers were perpetually covered with cobwebs from long days spent poking under porches. In one of his more adventurous moods, he climbed through a neighbor's second story-window and reclined in their empty bathtub for hours, enjoying the cool feel of porcelain on that 90-degree day.
He hunted, he slept, he crawled, he played, he rolled, he leaped, he sought, he found -- and sometimes didn't find. He lived to chase and chase again. He lived.
Perhaps comfort is not always the best destination. The chase provides a purpose, a goal. It keeps the chaser lean, hungry, focused, and provides a sense of satisfaction after a good day's hunt. I recall a poem called "Ithaka," that my mother gave me, which describes the importance of adventure with no end. The narrator advises a sailor, bound for Ithaka, that the journey could take years. In the end, it is not Ithaka, but rather the rich voyage along the way, that yields the greatest treasure:
If you visit today, you will find us trail blazing in the back yard, Whiskers and me. There will be tree trunks to scratch and porches to defend and yards to conquer. The rainwater under the planter, the pan of birdseed on the deck railing, the gray potato bugs hiding beneath the gravel, all beckon to us. We have decided to venture outside; not for the snowy days, but for the sun-kissed ones. Not because our bellies are empty and we must forage for food, but because a fresh dandelion now and then has a fine flavor. Not because we are uncomfortable, but because too much comfort tames the tiger in us all.