"I'm not that kind of cat"

Sunday I drove the beautiful new Chevrolet to my friend’s shop. I met him there around eleven in the morning, then left at eight-thirty that evening. I helped him first with a short project he needed to accomplish, then wheeled out my classic 1972 Honda motorcycle to see what could be done. It was waiting in the back room, a project that I’d bought some years back, had never quite gotten around to. Now it was time.

I should mention something about this friend, who has helped me with mechanical projects and mishaps in the past. His knowledge and authority about all things mechanical is nearly unrivalled in its depth and breadth. Trusting a vehicle to him—anything from a 1910 Ford to a current model luxury car—is like having a world-renowned authority undertaking repairs on the thing. His knowledge is that extensive. Knowing that my old bike was in his hands was a source of indescribable comfort—entirely out of all bounds with the simple matter in question: The fixing up of a historic and not very valuable motorcycle. No, this was something much more. It was as if suddenly I were transported back to childhood, where the decisions of life were made for me. Now here was my mama, comforting me, telling me that everything would be all right, tucking me into my warm bed, turning out the lights and softly closing the door. The next morning was Christmas, and beautiful things awaited me: The excitement of the day, the presents in their gleaming wrappers, the simplicity of childish thoughts and preoccupations that dwelt primarily on having fun and indulging in the new wonders that made up a young life. It was like that.

We worked together, he telling me what needed to be done, trusting me with the simple things that he felt I could handle—like changing the oil and getting some different parts reattached. He handled the bulk of the repairs—taking apart the fuel system, cleaning it out and reassembling it. Mostly I stood by, eating my salted peanuts in the shell, making a mess of his shop, munching away as he blew solvents and compressed air through the clogged fuel passages. He checked the bike over thoroughly, took off the metal plate that covered the ignition system, found the hardened mud of some stinging insects that had made their home in there at one time, and got the dirt cleaned out. Then he checked to see that things were working the way they should, and we started the bike. A miracle moment, that; for years it had sat dormant, no one paying any attention to the old Japanese motorcycle from the early 1970s. Now it was time to fire it up and hit the roads again—a nostalgic journey back to the days when motorcycling was catching on in a big way, with small bikes like this appealing to a young crowd that suddenly could afford a gleaming, chromed offering from the Japanese. They were so simple, so inexpensive, and so beautiful to behold. The soft California colors promised fun in the sun, with a laughing girlfriend holding on tight, her hair in a band, the small machine effortlessly pulling them towards a sunset and bonfire on the beach. I could cry.

I insisted on riding it just one time before leaving. I fired it up, rode it to the garage door and back, refusing his offer to open the door and allow me access to the freezing evening outside. This wasn’t California; there was no warm sunset or bonfire by the beach beyond the cold garage door. There was ice left over from the recent snow, frozen—concrete-like—against the cold and unforgiving pavement. God it was cold outside. Inside the garage all was well; the old bike was back in its special room with the other projects. I would go home, pull the covers up, roll over to a peaceful slumber, dream of warmth and youth and the days of spring that could not arrive soon enough, would welcome me with my new toy, would look on from singing trees, from green new pastures, from suddenly warm breezes and understand my quest to recapture something that was lost.

I’d left the house that morning, delayed by my uncooperative cat. My rendezvous was to be at eleven, but I was now running late. I’d let her out to romp and play in the cold January air. Now she knew I was looking for her, but would not exhibit herself. Her coloring is that of the fall and winter—her varied coat blending in perfectly with the dead leaves that I never rake up, or the wilted weeds that tilt this way and that in the unkempt yard. She was invisible. I would call and call, knowing that she was nearby, observing me. If by chance I should discern her outline against the perfectly-designed landscape, her immobile frame at ease in the wild disarray, she would consider me impassively, her eyes showing an expression of neither surprise or wonder. She might have some slight interest in why I persisted in this activity—this going forth in the cold to try to root her out. If she had a thought at all, it might be this:
“I never come. Why do you try to get me to? I’m not that kind of cat.” Then, continuing on in that vein:
“I’ve been here—what, three or four years? Have I ever ONCE come running when you called?” I would have to admit that she hadn’t—that the only times she’d come was when I’d tricked her into thinking that I WASN’T looking for her, that I just happened to be out in the yard for a walk. She had a point.
“That other one,” she might add, “That big grey cat, she might come. But I don’t. I never do.” It’s true: The big grey cat comes when I call her—sometimes. In any case, I’ve never discovered her trying NOT to be found, just watching me. Usually she comes out in the open, just to see what’s happening. So, with the cold winter morning making me shiver, and the small cat undoubtedly watching me from close by, I went back inside. I’d made up my mind to leave her some food and get going, so I took the bag of cat food out on the back deck, got ready to pour some into her bowl, and watched as she ran up the steps, wanting to be fed. This was unexpected, but I didn’t waste any time: I grabbed the energetic little frisker and hauled her inside, where she would be warm and comfortable. Then I barred the way with my foot as the big grey cat tried to escape. They were both safely inside, and I could now leave.

Saturday’s market was a chilly event, a frosty morning that was mostly overcast, with temperatures that didn’t rise much out of the thirties. For a little while the sun came out, then went back behind the clouds. I turned off my portable heater, then watched as the temperature dropped again. I had on about five layers of clothes, was not really cold—just the occasional chilly fingers that asked for a little warmth from the propane burner. My neighbor at the market spoke of a day about six years ago that stuck in his memory: He said that the wind chill on that market day made it feel about twenty degrees below zero. I’m glad I was not there.