14 - 20 June 2001
Issue No.538
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 14 - 20 June 2001 Issue No.538 |
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Born free
The first time I saw him, he was limping across our street on three legs. His left hind paw had been cut clean off at the joint. I never understood how this could have happened and how he had survived the injury. I followed him and at one point he felt my presence and stopped as if listening, then looked back at me for a while, gazing at me with eyes that I can only describe as fierce, yet sad.
A few nights later, I found him crouched on our doormat. He leapt out of the way at the sound of our steps but did not go far. Hiding behind the banister on the landing below, he was observing us. I put out food for him, but he did not move until I had shut the apartment door. Only then did I hear vigorous gulping sounds. From then on, I found him waiting for me every evening. On the rare occasions when he did not show up, I worried that he had been run over but he eventually returned, exhausted, bringing one and then two girlfriends in his wake, who waited respectfully behind him until he allowed them to share in the feast.
I considered taking him in, but he was a grown tom, rather wild, and with eleven cats sharing our apartment, he could have caused serious problems. Besides, he never showed any desire to cross into our territory. He did not seem to pine for the sheltered life. On the contrary, whenever I spoke to him softly, he gave me a contemptuous look that warned me not to think we had become pals just because I was feeding him. I learned to keep my place and our relationship continued on this very simple basis.
I don't remember when it occurred to me that we had never given him a name. I tried to think of one, but he had none of the characteristics of other cats that make a name fit them well. He had a long body, and was rather skinny despite the copious dinners that he gulped down with a hefty appetite. He was a funny, dull beige, with tufts of dirty white here and there. For lack of imagination, we finally referred to him as Legless.
In his youth, Legless had been a valiant tom despite his disability. He usually brought more than his share of lady-cats to dinner. But now I was beginning to notice that he was growing old. Street cats in Egypt are not known for their longevity. Legless was no longer as agile as he had been when I first spotted him and he climbed to our apartment on the third floor with more difficulty. Sometimes I heard him cough behind the door. There was little I could do to help. If I tried to catch him and take him to a vet, he might never return. All I could do was provide him with nourishment as long as he could eat.
One day Legless disappeared. I kept feeding his friends, hoping against hope that he would reappear one day. A month passed and I was convinced that he had died; then one evening, opening the door, I saw him on the doormat in his usual place. He was accompanied by a couple of females, but more importantly, hiding behind him was a miniature replica of him, a tiny kitten with the same dull beige fur and fierce eyes. Legless looked up at me, and I could tell that he was proud of his son. I never saw him again.
From then on, the son replaced the father, soon bringing two females with him, the same every night. Obviously he was less of a philanderer than Legless, and remained faithful to his women. I was very tempted to adopt him but I soon had to give up courting him, since he did not seem to appreciate familiarity or home comforts any more than his father had.
Extremely protective of his prerogatives at our doorstep, and considering our landing as his own terrain, I was surprised to see him look indifferently, almost kindly, upon a mangy white cat who had followed him one evening, dragging himself up the steps, coughing and spluttering. The poor creature was obviously very ill but fortunately not as proudly independent as Legless. I mixed antibiotics in his food and when he came back the following evening he looked a little better. Then he disappeared. Only Legless Jr and his harem awaited us when we came home from work. I was convinced that the medicine had killed Whitey, and I blamed myself for having hastened his demise. Yesterday, however, as I opened the door to feed my feline guests, I saw a lively white cat bounding up the steps to claim his share vocally. "Oh no," I told him; "you wait for your antibiotics." When I opened the door again with his mixture, he was waiting quietly, watching the others fighting over the best morsels. Having finished his own meal, he joined the satisfied horde as they slipped into the night.
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