A cat's goodbye

It is a little unfair: you wake up one morning and find no takers for the warm milk.

At the end of a turbulent voyage, the tiger, Richard Parker, in Yann Martel’s book Life of Pi leaps into the jungle without a backward glance at Pi, his sole companion of many days. After a brief encounter, the two magnificent lions in the Gir forest didn’t stop by our open jeep to say goodbye. Though, it would have been awful if they had even acknowledged our presence.

What is it with cats and goodbyes? Cats leave behind empty saucers, unfinished packets of cat food, paper butterflies tied to long strings, cardboard cartons lined with paper, unused litterboxes, immunisation cards the vet provided – all rows beyond the first two unfilled – and baffled humans.

We’ll never know what they were thinking when they fooled us into believing they would grow old with us. Ever since their mother delivered them in my car three months ago, they had learnt to mew their commands, and watch four clueless adults jump into action.

It just seems a little unfair: you wake up one morning and find no takers for the warm milk in the saucer; you walk to the gate and find that for the first time in three months you don’t trip over a ball of fast moving fur; no spectators when you draw a rangoli outside the gate; no zigzag paw prints on the newspaper on the porch; nobody leg cuffs you with figure eight patterns, and no need to constantly worry whether the pendulum of your cuckoo clock and phone chargers are being used for trapeze practice.

There wasn’t much we could do except click our tongues, call out names we were so sure they always answered to, bring out ghastly imitations of mewing cats, and hope alarmed neighbours wouldn’t aim pebbles or rain cold water on our heads.

That’s when we realised that last night’s cuddle was meant to be their last with us. The football game with the ball of newspaper was the final game of the season. The dinner of their favourite cat food was to be their farewell dinner.

Too bad they were never taught to say, “Goodbye, I’ll be back,” the way our parents tutored us when we were small; no goodbye was acceptable unless it was followed by a promise to return.

To be fair, we have gained too. They have taught us the etymology of the wo-rds: catwalk, caterwaul, catcall, catnap, cat’s paw, car fight, and cat’s eye. We are almost tempted to add ‘catastrophe’ to that list. When they hijacked our sanity and leisure, we marvelled the ingenuity of grammarians who coined the collective nouns – clowder, clutter,  pounce, destruction – to describe a group of cats.

Our three month-old kittens were half way into adolescence. Their blue eyes had changed into green-gold, and needle sharp incisors glinted when they yawned. They were ready. But we had failed to recognise it.

An alley cat rules the dark. Legendary cat curiosity will spur them on to newer destinations. It is unlikely our paths will ever cross again. And no, my car is no longer available for cat deliveries.