AbsolutionThe notions of sin and redemption have fallen from favor in recent years, but they are nevertheless reflections of reality. I have proof.
I was a senior in high school, and I had never had an alcoholic drink in my life, not even so much as a single glass of beer at one sitting. I was afraid I'd get kicked off the swim team if anyone caught me imbibing. Oh, all my friends did it, or so they boasted, proudly spinning their tales of coma and vomit. But I wanted none of it.
During that year I obtained a black cat from a local woman. She had two healthy, happy kittens, one called Blacky and the other called Stripey. One may gather their physical attributes from these names. I inquired as to how she had managed to conjure up such unique, imaginative names, but she declined to let me in on the secret. I took the black cat and renamed him at once, christening him as I had always thought perfect for a tomcat: Claude. This name had a sinister connotation, as if the creature might suddenly and without reason acquire a hostile spirit and spring for the jugular. It did not take the little ball of fur very long to realize that the sound of this name, properly uttered, had something to do with him. He developed the habit of coming to me and hitting my foot with his paw whenever I called him. And the more I would draw out the sound of his name, the more vigorously Claude would pound on my shoe. This soon evolved into more sophisticated interplay.
I teased the kitten remorselessly, with the conviction that he had to be broken, and that what might seem cruel was actually the programming for a happy and fulfilling feline life. He came to know when I wanted him to flop down and let me pet him. He learned that when I wanted to do this, he had no choice. He was going to be petted, if that was my desire, and he could no more prevent it than he could extinguish the sun. Cats are natural-born logicians, and I trained Claude to be the best. Truths were absolute in the Claudian cosmos. He was to be petted and it was final. There were battles on the road to this Utopia. A few stitches in my neck and a couple of brief fevers were a minimal price for the molding of Claude's character. Finally I needed only to call him and think of what I wanted, and my desire would be encoded into my voice so the little cat would respond in the appointed way. Usually this would mean flopping over onto his side in preparation for a petting session. Or a thumping session, during which I would tap out syncopated rhythms on his rib cage. This would cause him to stretch, close his eyes, and purr until I could actually see his body vibrate. And of course it was far easier for him to flop over voluntarily, rather than to be toppled by force.
Sometimes I would stalk him. This brought us both pleasure of anticipation. I would crouch down and say, "Now, Claude, you are a bird." He would glare at me. I would move toward him at a millimeter per minute. But he could sense the movement, so miniscule that it was hard to believe all the atoms in my body had not come to rest. One or the other of us would ultimately pounce. Then the purring furr-ball would flop over, and I would start to thump on his side in sync with an imaginary drummer, and Claude would revel on the carpet.
Another trick was to sneak up on him, or try to, when I knew where he was. He might, for example, be on the bed in my room. I would know this from having seen him while casually glancing aside on the way, say, from the laundry room to the den. I would ooze down the stairs, taking a half hour to descend fourteen steps, and tiptoe, even though the floor was carpeted and I was barefoot, and arrive behind the door jamb. I would be careful not to breathe too hard, and not to let my clothing rub against itself. I would admonish my heart to soften its beat. Then I would pop my head out around the door jamb, and the fuzz-ball would have its eyes fixed on me. It would be obvious that he had been aware of my presence the whole time! How this creature, with a brain no larger than an apricot, could sense all of this, was beyond my comprehension. Yet, although I did it hundreds of times in every room of the house, over the course of the years Claude did not once fail the test.
One of the earliest experiments that I conducted in feline behavior involved Claude's reaction to spirits of ethanol, more commonly known as booze.
I brought a shot glass of the substance up to the nose of the Little Black Meow, with the familiar incantation, "Claaaude?" He came up to the shot glass, curious, probing. Then as his nose got within range of the vapors, Claude flinched back, every fiber in him opposed to further assault. He shook his head, as would a person after inhaling ammonia fumes. He stared at me, awaiting further instructions. I moved closer to him, the shot glass in my outstretched hand. Claude ran and hid, his claws scratching against the carpet to propel him at maximum speed.
It was hours before I saw him again. By then I had measured out, and consumed, six shot glassesful in the privacy of my parents' house sans parents. It was my first and last drunk: Nine fluid ounces of straight Scotch on an empty stomach. My friends had told me that drinking was fun. But I could not imagine what was pleasant about it. I feared I might fall down the stairs and break my neck. I couldn't tell pleasure from agony. Then I abruptly fell asleep on the floor.
After an indeterminite little while I brought the shot glass out again, filled it, and went looking for Claude. I crooned his name as if I were a Medieval sorcerer. "Claaaaaaaude?"
I found him under one of the beds in my sisters' room. He might have gone unnoticed in the darkness except for two sparkle points, the glimmer of his reproachful eyes! Claude knew I had consumed poison on purpose. He wanted nothing to do with a being of such a nature. But he also knew that when I decided to force myself upon him, he had no escape. I laughed. For a minor eternity I exchanged eye contact with Claude, my eyes never blinking even as they shed tears. Neither did his eyes blink.
With a spasm originating outside my body, I lifted up the bed frame and thrust it against the wall. In the same motion I stood and roared. The furr-ball defied relativistic physics on his way out of the room. The whisky spilled and the shot glass vanished into a space-time singularity. Out of the bedroom I pranced, calling, "Claaaaude?" He was nowhere in sight. How long would it be until Mom, or Dad, or Ann, or Jo arrived? I glanced at my watch. It would be at least an hour. I resolved to make full use of every available moment that Claude and I would be alone in that house. I searched everywhere I had come to know that Claude might hide. I searched under the beds in every bedroom, beneath the sofas in every sofa room. I looked under the easy chairs in the easy-chair rooms, in the closets in the closet rooms, and in the cupboards in the cupboard rooms. I looked in the clothes dryer, and remembered then, with a giggle, a cousin's story of how her cat had gotten into the dryer and been tumbled-dried to death. I checked the dryer and found nothing in it, but I set it to work anyway, for it was a damp day. I found Claude in none of the places he usually frequented.
"Oh, little cat bird, or is it bird cat, where are you?" I called out. To my surprise I heard a reply: "Meow." I called again, and Claude meowed again, and then again, until I found him, hiding in an open, empty box in the store room. He had given himself away, fearing I might not find him just as much as he feared I would, suffering from the same perversion that makes us humans disclose our innermost secrets, even when -- especially when -- the result might be ruin.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Little Black Meow," I drooled in a falsetto voice. "Wilt thou forgive?" He regarded me as some Great Black Father in clerical attire might leer. Then I clearly heard him speak: "Drunkenness is bad because it is contrary to Nature." For how many centuries has humankind had this backwards? Sins are not bad in themselves; they are merely in contradiction with the harmony of the universe. "O wise Claude, Son of Gaia," I cooed, "what wisdom hast thou!" Something rolled underfoot and I slipped on it and fell down.
I crawled toward the box slowly. "You are a bird," I said. Claude, momentarily out of sight in the box, brought his head up over the edge just enough so that I could see his eyes. Not a millimeter further did he rise, and he knew I could feel his disdain. He did not bother to flee, to crouch, or to engage me in any way. He just sat there vibing, "Get a grip, you geek!" I hiccupped, and felt a string of saliva descend out of my mouth. Still, Claude only watched me.
"I know what you're thinking, O fuzz-ball with apricot brain that knows all," I said. "You see what happens when you put poison in your body?" Claude's eyes spoke: "My body? Never!" To clarify his point, he twitched an ear.
"Please forgive a sinful mortal," said I. Then I got him out of the box. He did not fight me. Often he would purr quietly when he let me pick him up. I pressed my ear against his chest, and verified that he was vibrating contentedly.
As living creatures must, Claude eventually passed from this earth. Now when I call his name, there is but the wish for a response. That, and the rememberance of things he taught me in the course of his seventeen-year life: sin is real albeit misunderstood, and absolution can be had even from, and perhaps especially from, animals.
Copyright 1998, 1999 by Francisco Carrera.
