Silent Cosmos and the Ways of the World

In August 2002 I had a spontaneous "poetry" inspiration which led to the previous posted poem (The Deja Vu of Home). I hadn't written poetry in many, many years.

That was a Thursday. It was a Friday morning around 10am when I was programming and suddenly looked up from my coding and said to my assistant nearby, "I want to go get a cat. From the animal control guy. Preferably an adult cat, a male."

Now, nobody in their right mind wants an adult male cat when they have a house full of cats, that is asking for big trouble. I prefer females generally and would adopt a kitten if possible. So for me to specifically WANT an adult male cat was very weird and I knew that immediately.

Further, we didn't have an animal shelter then. We had a one-long-room with cages filled with dogs, it's like 180 decibels in there with all the barking echoing off the walls of the thin room, and a few cat cages up top up front. He almost never has any cats, and it's such a horrible environ for them that after a few days waiting to see if anyone calls him about one, he'll take it out to one of the farms. They can, in theory, 'find' food... usually they are coyote food. But like I said, he almost never had cats anyway.

I added, "You know, that is like an overwhelming feeling all the sudden. But I can't imagine why I would want an adult male cat!! But I do, go figure!"

But I was busy working on a deadline and by the time I called, nobody answered; the guy working it is seldom there. (Note: we now have an animal shelter. We didn't back then.) Friday I took off work and went there, but the guy wasn't around, he was out driving. It's closed weekends.

Monday I went back again, and I say to the officer who runs that, "OK this is weird even for me, but I'm looking to adopt an adult male cat. Might you have one?"

The AC officer says to me, "You know, that is amazing! That's so great! YES!!" And he tells me the story of this cat.

The cat was born and lived for about 6-7 years with the family. And then the family up and moved off and just left it like something inconvenient. (That is not uncommon here in the midwest, and there's worse. It is a statement of how unevolved I am that I want to hunt down these people and hurt them. Repeatedly.)

The cat was lost and freaked out, and ran wild trying to find food in an area that is totally city. A man who lived in some apartments across the street had known the cat for many years and sometimes it went to his house and he would pet it. He felt so sorry for how skinny and ragged it got after awhile that he started putting a little food out for it. But then his manager said if he saw the cat again he would evict the guy as no pets were allowed. So the guy had to call animal control. But he told him this story, and emphasized what a great cat it was, and how if there was anything the guy could do to find it a home. . .

The AC officer said that he got the call Thursday and went to get it Friday but it didn't show up for the food, but the guy kept him inside on the weekend so he had just brought him in right before I arrive. He added, "I was really hoping, no matter how almost impossible this was, that someone would actually want to adopt this cat. He is really a great cat, I like him too."

It turned out that the adoption fee was more than I had in my pocket. I hadn't even thought about money. "I have a checkbook," I said, feeling panicky for some reason, and he says, "No, it's ok," and he digs change and loose bills out of his pocket and together we count up enough money for the official checkout. He even gives me a small cage and drives home with me to pick it up.

The cat was maybe 7 years old. He is entirely black except a small starrish area of white on his chest. He has a split ear and notable fangs. And he's very quiet as I bring him in the house. Still, doesn't even squirm.

I put him in the back room where my office is, and I put all the other cats outside so they will not fight the newcomer. When evening comes, I put him in the garage with food and water and a litterbox, and let the other cats back in. They smell each other morning and night but don't see each other.

He is unusual. I've had cats all my life, up to 10 at a time, I know cats pretty well. But he has a calmness, a maturity, that was just very unusual, especially considering the situation he just came out of. Each morning when I go to collect him, he sits calmly and waits for me to pick him up and take him. He never tries to investigate except the room we're in. He never tries to get in or out; I specifically take him.

I bring the other cats in to meet him. I expect them all to freak out and him, battered old Tom, to be mean as hell. He sits quietly, the other 6 sit quietly with a couple pacing, and they all stare at each other in the middle of the living room. 7 cats, 6 their house, 1 stranger old male. And they don't even growl let alone get into it. This just doesn't happen with cats.

He looks over at me and I realize he always looks at me like that. Like he is silently watching me. Like he is way too sentient for a cat, too old and wise for this to be possible.

Because he is all black with one spot of light, I call him Cosmos, like the night sky. I quickly grow to adore him all out of proportion. I am not closest to him physically, not in the petting-him-most category. It's something deeper than that and difficult to explain. So many times I have seriously wondered if he could be, in part, some kind of part of me or guide.

Six days after the previous 'first poem in so many years', I was again inspired to write another poem -- almost as if the first one had in some way "brought him about" and this poem was related -- about Cosmos the cat.

I haven't written another poem since I don't think. Maybe I have and I don't remember. But it's been over seven years since then.


08/28/02 7:07am

Silent Cosmos and the Ways of the World

He was abandoned.
After years, his family
just moved away without him.
His grief was as silent as
his paw-steps, hunting for survival.

He's tough.
A surprisingly heavy bundle
of solid, furry muscled black grace.
His self-restraint over instinct matches
his maturity--; too odd for words.

He's wise.
He watches like a thoughtful human,
his sentience overwhelming form.
He could be one of those enchanted princes
immortal in fur.

He's psychic.
The last human he owned
had him taken to the pound, where
he called for me to come get him.
He'd been just another inconvenience.
Did he find me? Or I him?

He's patient.
He accepts my fawning love,
not trusting a human to loyalty
but, pleased with the small favor
of having us for awhile.

He's the divine cat
A tragi-comic blood sport of grace
I am honored to call my friend.


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