You Were Made to Go Out and Get Her
In cat we trust.
The human was shocked when she saw me.
I couldn’t understand why. I trotted over her as I do every time we see each other. I was at my home near the garbage bins eating breakfast, and there she was, all smiling and happy to see me, with her grey canine friend, whom I tolerate even though he tries to eat my kibbles.
I rubbed myself up against her legs.
“Hello!” she said, and then gasped. “What happened to you?”
Unimportant, I replied, leaning in for an ear scratch.
She leaned down and examined the wound on my side. I tried to tell her what happened, but, like all bipeds, she is unintelligent and does not understand even the simplest words in my language.
“I can see… your insides,” she said, her face pale. “This is not okay.”
Honestly. Humans make such a fuss.
She stroked me for a while and then walked off with her canine, looking worried.
I returned to my can of tuna.
Later, she told me she didn’t want to deal with me.
“I’m ashamed to admit it,” she said.
She had come to see me one more time, and took some photos of my face and my side. She tapped on her phone a little bit, then left.
But she said she couldn’t stop thinking about me. She said, “You’ve brought me so much joy. I couldn’t not give something back.”
So she shoved me into a small box.
I was eating my dinner in peace.
I ran up to her as usual. What a surprise! I thought, to have another visit, so soon! She gave me a cat treat, which I ignored—I have standards. She even picked me up and held me.
This should have aroused my suspicions.
Trusting fool that I am, I purred in her arms. Then she opened her car door, and before I knew what was happening, I was halfway inside a plastic box.
I yowled, grabbing the sides of the gate with my claws, and quickly escaped her clutches. What a traitor!
Like any sane being would do, I ran for my life into the woods.
I could hear her hovering around the bins for a while, speaking in broken Turkish to some other human, trying to entice me with more disgusting cat treats. I stayed hidden.
Honestly. Who put them at the top of the food chain?
The next day, two more humans came. The man-human somehow lured me into a different plastic box, and shut me in.
I fought for my life, but it was no use. I was trapped. Doomed. My life was finished.
I yowled at the top of my lungs. They waited with me for a while. What was to become of me?
She came again in her car, and they all stuffed me into it, still in the box.
It was even darker in here, and poorly ventilated. I’ve never been inside of anything before, much less something that moved over bumps, starting and stopping. Humans are not only stupid, but insane. Why would anyone not choose to live freely under the trees?
She started playing what she called “relaxing Christmas music”.
It did not work for either of us.
“I know you’re scared,” she said. “I know you don’t know what’s going on, and I’m sorry. But I promise, this is for the best.”
I assured that it was most certainly not, but she kept talking, ignoring me as we bumped and rattled away.
“Sometimes,” she said, “things happen that seem like they are bad. We are scared. We don’t like thinking we are not in control. But a lot of the time, those things turn out to be good things.”
I stopped talking for a moment. This was the first interesting thing she’d said since this all began.
She said, “I’m scared, too. I don’t know what’s happening, either.”
I stayed silent. She did sound a bit scared.
She said, “The world is full of terrible things.”
Codswallop, I informed her, and started yowling again.
She said, “I am scared for my friends. I am scared people I don’t know. I am scared for myself, too.”
She said, “So many of our hearts are hurting right now.”
She paused.
I paused.
She said, “You need a name.”
A name? Goodness, they need something better to do with their time.
She thought for a while. She told me that she was reading a book, about another human—someone who had been through some terrible hardships, but was loved. This character’s name was Jude, and they had inspired her, she said. In fact, the book was one of the best she’d ever read.
She said. “I’ll call you Jude.”
I lay down in my prison, feeling somewhat mollified.
She told me that she’s been stuck in a box many times in her life (not as small as this one, I replied).
“I always fight and scratch and yell,” she said. “But I learned, in recovery” (whatever that is) “that sometimes the universe, or god, if you believe in god, Jude, has to shove you in a box to transport you—kicking and screaming!—to a better place, one you wouldn’t have been able to get to on your own. Just like you wouldn’t go to the vet on your own.”
What the hell was a vet?
This could not be good.
I started crying even more loudly.
“We’re almost there, Jude! It sucks! I know, but it’ll be over soon!”
The car stopped. It was quiet for a minute. I felt my prison get lifted and carried inside a cold place. A human wearing huge thick gloves lifted me out, and, with She Who Calls Me Jude and yet a third human, they all pinned me down. The One Who Calls Me Jude held my legs.
THIS was supposed to be a better place?
I screamed to the heavens.
The one with the gloves stuck me with a sharp thing. There was a whirring sound. My wound became cooler. The One Who Named Me Jude kept shuddering and looking away. Later, she said, “That was some Grey’s Anatomy shit. It looked like you’d been shot.”
Whatever that meant.
Then everything hurt like hell.
God, it was awful. I struggled. I tried to bite, scratch, run. But they held me in place.
Then it hurt a bit less. Was it over now?
Then put a large cold object on me and STAPLED ME TOGETHER.
Jesus Christ on a motorbike.
The one with the gloves stuck a long object down my throat and deposited a disgusting pill so far inside me I had to swallow it. They all cheered a bit. At last! I thought. It’s over!
Then they stuffed me back into the box.
Back in the car, oh god, did I yell.
“I’m so sorry,” she kept saying. “It’s almost over.”
Obviously, I did not trust her any longer.
We bumped along. She sang me a song that had the word “Jude” in it. I cannot describe how torturous this was.
Then she told me another story.
She said that with all the terrible things supposedly happening in this world—which I can assure you was caused by humans— she felt helpless.
“But helping you,” she said, “even though you’re just one little cat—no offence” (too late) “… it feels like something. When I asked for help with you, lots of other humans wanted to help you, too. We are strangers, but we worked together. Everyone was so kind.”
She paused. “You’ve reminded me to believe that the world is a good place.”
The bumping stopped again.
I heard a sound.
Suddenly, there was light. My prison door was open. I stared at her in disbelief.
Then I ran for my fucking life.
A whole team of humans have made it their business to make my life miserable.
One—the woman whose man-friend stuffed me into the box—came the next day.
I remained hidden.
The One Who Calls Me Jude came the day after that. I was so happy to see her again that I forgot everything and hurled myself against her legs, purring. She held out a can of tuna—not my favourite brand, but still— and tried to ferry me away from my friends so that I could have it all to myself.
I tried to tell her I just wanted cuddles. She sprinkled some stuff on the tuna and put it on the ground and again I forgot everything and ate some. It tasted horrific, but kept shrieking on about what a good cat I am.
Really. They are so clueless.
The next day, another lady came again. Having learned my lesson, I refused all her food, even her homemade gravy. I saw her pick up the phone and heard another human’s voice.
They conferred on how to force feed me.
I made sure they did not succeed.
I suspect they will try again.
But.
My wound does feel better.
Now that they’ve closed it up and have given me these pills, as foul as they are, I know I won’t get an illness.
One of my friends from the bins said that my staples look “badass”.
I think about what The One Who Calls Me Jude said.
Sometimes, maybe, you do have to trust in what’s happening to you. Even if it hurts and feels scary, because it’s taking you somewhere you couldn’t have gotten to on your own.
Obviously, she herself will forget this the instant she’s in a similar situation.
When she returns to see me, I will remind her.
Wonderful story, you did the right thing! And a marvelous purrspective, thanks!!!
What's the title of the book!