While growing up, I wouldn’t describe the feeling as hatred. It was an eerie sort of feeling that always overwhelmed me whenever I saw cats. I always felt they brought messages of doom sent by the devil himself, and that they were going to suck my life out of me and take it with them. Their eyes made me feel they agreed with me in every one of my perceptions about them.
To further freak me out, we were told that witches could transform into cats, hence we shouldn’t attempt to play with even the smallest of them, as we wouldn’t know which was a real cat or a human transformed cat. Can you imagine? This was when I was much younger.
It started slowly, subtly and till this moment, I still do not have a conscious memory of when I began loving them. All I remember is that at some point, rats, the bad guys, were getting more out of my Dad’s farm produce than ourselves. Out of her will, my Mum had to bring in the new cute member of the household to take care of the rats, the bad guys, for us. It was a brownish baby cat, with stripes. You would think it was a baby tiger, the cat had curious sparkling eyes that made me wished I knew what the cat wanted to know in its curiosity. It wasn’t weaned from wants of milk.
Maybe one of the reasons that got me attached to the cat was that, I became the one assigned to its feeding. My Mum would send me to get some milk from the store and have some quantity served on its plate. Yes! The task was as hell as one scared of hell but still got a sentence to hell afterall. I would mix the powdered milk in the room, then bring it out to the place where the cat was kept and run as far away to a safe distance to watch as the supposed “witch” lapped its drink. The feeding process continued like that until one day I was made to face it by my Dad. On this day, I had just bought the milk from the store, then, speedily as usual, I went to pick the plate, but my Dad who had been watching me for a while, instructed me to return the plate and then mix the milk in the presence of the cat. He stood there as well, watching. Life almost flew out of me as the mixing seemed eternal. After that experience, “You weren’t a witch after all,” I thought. The cat cried at nights. This was, of course, instincive. I never had the idea that rats, the bad guys, dreaded even the cry of cats. Their nuisance began to vanish and we began to enjoy the fruits of our farm produce in peace.
However, at times, I also felt that I got drawn to love and admire cats because of how my Mum treated our new inmate. The cat was brought to chase away rats the bad guys, and she made sure it did only that and nothing else. The cat wanted tenderness, wanted to rub its hairy skin on another being that had breath, wanted care and play. How my Mum had reacted to its attempt to make a friend with her got the weakest part of my emotions and I made it my companion. My Mum wanted the cat to understand that, if not for the rats, it wouldn’t be in the house.
The way it blinked with emotion in every part of it, got me. I became a friend to the last born who needed to be pampered at all times. After it had eaten, it always lay beside me with the side of its stomach touching my foot. I couldn’t believe it myself, that I had begun to let the cat go into my room, and to even lie beside me on the bed and sometimes on my chest.
I fell in love with everything about the cat and this was so fast. Its cleanliness awed me, its hunting smartness, patience, and thought process. Already, the rats had taken to their heels when the master of the house came and introduced himself with incessant cries, though we still kept it outside at night except when the rainy days came. When it rained, I took it in.
My dear friend grew, began to eat some solid food and when it playfully bit my hands and legs, the teeth had began to hurt. With this, the master of the house began to hunt and keep late nights as well. Sometimes I served the milk in the plate and went into my room to sleep. When it came back and had drunk the milk, it would cry and scratch my door with its claws, and I’ll wake and open the door. Yes! This was how close we got.
One night, a night that still stir storm and anger in me even as I remember. I came back from work, played with the cat, and we ate my supper together. It always went hunting or went out to look for mates. I had no idea. When it had gone out, I would still serve its milk in the plate and go ahead to my room to sleep. We were now used to our communication pattern when it got back.
That night, the cat went out as usual, I served its milk on the plate, and went to bed. Later at night, I felt pressed, or maybe since I was instinctively expectant of the cat, I had woken up. I opened the door and the milk I had served was still on the plate. It only meant the cat hadn’t come back yet. I couldn’t bring myself to think further than that in my sleepiness. After I had helped myself in the restroom, coming back into the room, I decided to check the time 2:38am. “This is unusual for this cat” I thought. I hated to think about where my mind was attempting to take me. No! It dared not be. Sleep left me, my eyes became as bright as that of the missing master, the cat. I still somehow convinced myself that it would come back. I went to bed, but sleep was gone. Seconds began to move slowly, and night became longer. Every 5 minutes, I would open the door to check, though I knew it would cry and scratch my door if it came back.
When it was dawn, I finally opened the door on hearing the call for prayer from the only mosque in the surroundings in which we lived. The milk I had served the cat was still there. This was when I believed that the cat was gone. Stolen or anything else aside from its presence. Gone!
I became mad, I don’t know if it would have been better if a woman had broken my heart instead. I still went ahead to serve milk on its plate in the subsequent nights. I was still hopeful. I would serve the milk at night, in the morning I would throw the milk away, wash the plate, and serve again at night. I never believed it was gone. On the night I was to serve the remaining last quantity of milk, I couldn’t stop the tears. I CRIED!!!
I missed the way we played, the painful playful bits of bites and scratches the cat planted here and there on my skin, the way it laid on my lap when I sit, and on my chest when I lie down. The way it washed and cleaned its face, the way it rubbed its neck on my hands and feet. Who had done this to me? I thought, I never believed I had deep affection for that cat, until it was gone. STOLEN!
Bio
I. S. Galadima was born on 27th February 1993, he hails from Niger State, shiroro local government area precisely . He holds a bachelor’s degree in mass communication from the prestigious Ahmadu Bello University Zaria, Kaduna State . He is a teacher, a journalist, a story writer and a poet.
