RASCALS
by Claire ReadMoving sucks, she thought and doing it alone is shitty. Sorry Rascal, but you don't count. . , all you do is hog the only seat in this place and purr at me. You'll do as cats go. How did I end up with you. I've always liked dogs better and now I'm stuck with a cat, and one who thinks he's in charge around here at that. You're just like HIM.
Rascal snuggled and continued to purr. Rachel held him tighter "You miss Ron? He's gone and for good too. He wont' be coming back either. At least not if I can help it." She tightened her grip on the cat and started to cry again, sniffing and wiping her eyes with her knuckles.
Rascal squirmed , broke free, and leaped onto the back of the couch where he rubbed back and forth against her shoulders. Then he began to play with a lock her hair which immediately became entwined in his claws.
"Ouch! stop it! that hurts " She reached up and disentangled his paws, pushing him onto the floor. Undaunted, he leaped for her lap again, but she rose and headed toward the kitchen. He reclaimed his spot on the couch, curling into an orange-striped ball, rumbling with satisfaction
The kitchen was scarcely more than an alcove, but she had begun to unpack the boxes stacked there. Food was important. so was sleep. She'd have to make the bed soon.
Oh Lord, but I'm tired. Maybe I won't make it . . . just move the stuff off and . . . Rascal stop that I'm getting it. He'd followed her and was in the way, rubbing up against a stack of boxes and singing his hunger song, a meow, drawn out into a cry.
. She knew he was hungry. It was way past time for dinner, his and hers. She was tired. She wanted to collapse on the unmade bed, close her eyes, let it suddenly be tomorrow, a warm, sunny, golden tomorrow to make up for dank, dismal today.
"Rascal, I'm getting it . . . just wait until I find yours. No you're not getting mine again tonight." she dug into a box labeled "kitchen", looking for a can of cat food for him She'd given him a can of sardines the night before when she couldn't find his tuna. . The electric can opener was there. Digging deeper she found his pan, an old pie tin which rattled as he ate. "You're having chicken and liver tonight Rasc." she said reading the yellow label.
Nothing disrupts his life, she mused, not even moving day He eats better than I do, Canned cat food is expensive, costs a lot more than carrots, brussel sprouts and broccoli. I should have made Ron pay "cat support".
Now where do I plug this thing in? Another of the joys of moving she thought is finding all the electric outlets and switches. I'm going to miss the old place, our place. I knew where everything was and besides it suited me. This dinky white box doesn't have any character at all. Ron would probably like it. He doesn't have any either . . . character that is.
They had rented the apartment together. They decided to share a place because neither had enough space for the other. They answered ads, several of them, looking for something they could afford and on which they could agree.
The one they finally selected was not a compromise between Rachel's love of the old and Ron's desire for simple and practical i.e. new. They were tired of looking so Rachel won. It was her kind of place.
The building was old, the elevator rickety and the halls narrow and dark. Stepping into the apartment was stepping into another time, when ceilings were high, moldings sculpted with flowers and cupids, with ribbons snaking down its walls. The window frames were arched containing fringed yellowed shades, with wrapped string pulls. Rachel loved it. Ron wasn't so sure. But he wanted to please her. At that time they wanted to please each other, giving in often. They moved in together. They thought they were in love. As it
turned out Rachel was in love and Ron, well, again, Ron wasn't so sure.
Ron's cat loved the place though. Rascal played with the shade pulls, making them snap open when he pulled hard. The sudden sound delighted him. He'd leap down from the back of the couch pushed against the wall under the windows. . . run around the room, and leap back up again to pat at the strings now dangling almost out of reach. Rachel ,worried about the condition of the shades, hated it when he did that. They weren't supposed to have a pet. Rascal was an illegal occupant. Ron was consistently entertained by his cats antics. Rachel was not amused. She thought that Rascal must be Ron's alter-ego, getting to do obstreporous things, Ron wouldn't consider doing himself.
Rascal disappeared into one of the boxes and rachel sighed and continued emptying them, stacking their contents into piles, generally where they would eventually be placed. Most of it went into the small kitchen, Rascals litter box went into the bathroom under the window. She wondered if he would use it in the new environment. He’d been fussy at first in the old place. Just to cover her bets she removed the screen and left the ground floor window open, hoping that Rascal would take the hint.
By this time the unmade bed called, insisted. She grabbed a blanket and pillow still covered with it’s old case and gave in to exhaustion, and to sleep.
MOrning sun filtered into the bathroom. . . it was obvious that Rascal had eschewed the box for the open window. The sand lay in it’s pristine state and he no where in sight . . until she lifted a large box destined for the dumpster, It moved by itself . . . . almost soundlessly he emerged pacing in stately fashion and followed by a soft grey shadow. another cat. Both looked at her expectantly rascal calling out with his hunger cry and the other with a gentile complaint, a soft mew.
“Rascal I see you have a friend, a girl friend? Of course you’d never let another male in here. I’ll feed you both, but I have to hurry. . . ‘gonna be late for work” she said. Pouring kibble into a large bowl for them she left them to it and set about a routine already established, shower, jeans, t-top and vest with soft suede boots, hair in a ponytail, to prepare for her job at the design firm where she worked. . . where she spent the day at a keyboard and monitor researching,organizing, and designing digital data, until it became a useful, part of an advertising campaign. Dress was business--casual for which she was grateful, but she was expected to be there on time. The rules meant more than they seemed to mean. It suited her. She was that way too . . . some things were not important and others? well others like Ron’s having lied and cheated and betrayed her trust ? . . . broken all the rules she set for herself? . . , insupportable. These were important enough to make her move out, Ron’s cat was temporary. She’d made that very clear, but maybe that wasn’t so important. He was company, after all.
Rascal made his own rules. There wasn’t anything she could do about that. For the moment he owned the place. Now to work. And later do something about the remaining boxes and that other cat.
Two months later, she’d finally gotten organized. The contents of the boxes all resided where she deemed they should, Rascal had received a reluctant acceptance from John, the young manager of the complex because his cat “Ramona” was illegal too, and very attached to Rascal. She’d given up on the box in the bathroom. Both cats lived outside and ate on the deck outside her door. Rascal let Ramona eat from his dish first, a gentlemanly act which surprised her. Ron was due any moment now having called and asked for a meeting, something important he’d said. She glanced at the mirror..her image glanced back a little fuller than before around the middle, but that was to be expected.
Ron arrived, barely glanced at her and called to rascal who was glad to see him, rubbed his legs and purred vociferously. He wanted Rascal back, he said. Melinda had finely given in, he could have him now. Rascal seemed to be in agreement and the two left. Ramona came around as usual looking for her friend and something to eat. Rachel fed her. After all she deserved something from that ungrateful cad, the one which was probably father to her kittens, the ones she’s just produced, sleeping illegally in their nest at Johns.
John had become a helpful friend. . . He was taking her to the clinic the next day to support and comfort her while she had her abortion. Ron could have his cat back, but not his offspring. When she was ready to start a family She would find someone more suitable . . . possibly John?
©october 1999