The wedding was over, the guests had left, and our daughter moved in with her husband. Our flat fell silent. After a week of quiet, my wife and I decided to get a pet, hoping it would fill the space left by our daughter and keep our parental instinctsfeeding, training, walking, and cleaning up after someonealive. I also wanted a creature that wouldnt snap at me, steal my cigarettes, or rustle around the fridge at night like my daughter did. We hadnt decided what to buy yet and planned to choose at the market.
On Sunday we headed to the Bird Market. Cute guinea pigs were displayed by the entrance, and I asked my wife, Those are for land, not water, right? The fish were mute, and the parrots, bright and chatty, triggered my wifes allergy to bird feathers. A monkey caught my eye; its jerky movements reminded me of my daughter in puberty, but my wife promised to lie down between us like a corpse, so I gave up. After only five minutes with that monkey, I was already accustomed to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs need constant walks; cats bring their own set of hassles, and I cant picture myself selling kittens at a metro station. So, a cat.
We recognized our cat immediately. He lounged in a plexiglass aquarium surrounded by helpless kittens. The kittens nudged his fluffy belly with wet noses and pawed lazily. The adult cat was asleep. A placard on the tank read Kuzya. The seller told a touching story about a hard kitty childhoodhow a dog that grew up with him almost mauled him and left no room for the poor cat in the apartment.
Our chosen one turned out to be a pedigree Persian with beautiful gray fur, though no papers proved that his flat nose was a breed trait rather than an injury. Because the documents were missing, the shop called him Kaiser, but he responded easily to Kuzya, and we bought him.
We got home without incident; Kuzya whispered under the car seat the whole way. In the hallway, aware of my stance on selfharm, my wife teased, Are you sure he isnt neutered? I tensednot because I dislike sexual minorities, but because a neutered cat reminds me of a deformed Quasimodo. I placed Kuzya on the stair landing and gave a quick urological check. In the dim stairwell, his furcovered genitals were invisible; his plump belly was a tangled mound of hair. I tried to summon any zoophilic feelings and brushed his perineum. The cat yowled, but the household seemed otherwise intact.
That day my daughter dropped by for a fridge inventory. She saw Kuzya, ignored a halfgnawed cake, and lunged at the cat. Together with Mom she shoved him into the bathtub, washed him with baby shampoo, wrapped him in a towel, and dried him with a hairdryer, using my towel for some reason.
Once Kuzya looked presentable, my wife began combing out the clumped fur. The cat squirmed disgustedly. I left him to his grooming and fetched a beer from the kitchen.
The calm shattered with a piercing meow and a crash. Glass splintered, a howl rang out. I set the bottle down and went toward the sound. My wife sat on the couch, swaying with her whines, arms stretched on her knees, bloodsoaked scratches visible. Scissors and strips of cat hair lay nearby. My daughter and I crowded around her.
What happened? I asked.
She looked at us with sorrowful eyes and wailed again, He killed me! He killed and ate me!
My daughter darted into the hallway; I followed. On the floor, in a puddle of broken perfume bottle, lay Kuzya. His eyes were wide, ears flattened, tail curled like a pipe. In his jaws he held a cut tuft of his own fur, like a trophy. Spotting us, he proudly placed the prey at his paws and meowed loudly, Mia! as if to say, Take that, you terrorists!
It turned out that just as my wifes scissors reached a particularly tangled spot under his armpit, Kuzya thought he was about to be turned into a hat. With a single leap he escaped, leaving a decent tuft of fur and skin (thankfully only the outer layer) in my wifes hand. Then, in panic, he bolted across the room, knocked a bottle of perfume off a table, slammed into a mirror (miraculously surviving), and hid behind a curtain, striking a pose that read, Ill tear you all apartjust come closer.
My daughter laughed until she hiccuped. I tried to stay serious, but when Kuzya emerged from behind the curtain, looking like a victorious general, and strutted around licking himself, I burst out laughing too.
My wife, holding her scratches, glared at us, Are you insane? You almost killed me, and youre laughing!
Mom, he was defending himself! You should have seen his face when he broke freelike a horror movie! my daughter protested.
Yes, Cat Psychosis, part one, I muttered, wiping tears.
We treated the wounds with iodine (my wife hissed louder than the cat), untangled the fur together, holding Kuzya by all four paws as if he were a dangerous criminal. He endured it with such dignity that it became clear the house now belonged to him, and we were merely temporary caretakers.
From that moment a genuine life with the cat began.
He proved to be more than a mere felinehe had character, principles, and, as we later learned, a sense of humor.
First, he chose his owner. That turned out to be me, not because I fed him (my wife did), not because I brushed him (my daughter did), but because I was the only one who never tried to bathe, trim, or cram him into a carrier. I simply opened the fridge when he stared at me with that hypnotic you wont let an old sick cat starve gaze. And I didnt.
Second, he set the rules. He slept only on my pillow, head exactly on the pillow, while I curled up at the edge. He demanded to be woken at precisely 6:47a.m.no earlier, no laterwith a light bite on my toe. If I pretended to be asleep, the bite grew harder; if I got up immediately, he rewarded me with premium purring.
Third, he waged a guerrilla war against my wife. While she cooked, he perched nearby, staring as if she personally caused the famine in Somalia. When she passed, he pretended to stumble over her leg and collapsed with a tragic meow. His deadliest weapon, however, was leaping onto her chest at threeinthemorning, eightkilogram body and loudly purring right in her face. She would wake screaming, Get that monster out! while Kuzya calmly slipped back to my feet as if that were the proper place.
With my daughter there was a lovehate dynamic. She visited, brought toys, and he hid them in my slippers. She tried to pick him uphe would wriggle free and flee. Yet when she left, he would sit by the door for hours, meowing sorrowfully, later revengefully toppling her forgotten items from shelves.
Five years passed.
Kuzya is now thirteen. His coat isnt as thick, his face even flatter, his eyes wiser and a little tired. He runs less, spends most of his time napping on the radiator wrapped in my old sweater. Occasionally his joints ache, and I carry him to the vet, where he behaves like an emperor, allowing blood to be drawn only after personally smelling the doctor and approving the needle.
My daughter lives apart, has her own family and a mischievous Siamese (another story). She visits rarely, but each time Kuzya recognizes her, rubs against her legs, and purrs for a long time as if forgiving all past grievances.
My wife has come to terms. She now pours cream for him first thing in the morning, and he lets her groom himfor ten minutes, then wanders off with a enough, woman look. Sometimes I catch them together on the couch: she reading, him sleeping on her lap, both acting as if this has always been the norm.
I still wake to a gentle bite on my toe at 6:47a.m. Now I dont spring up immediately; I lie there, stroke his head, and whisper, Alright, old bandit, calling the troops again? He purrs softly but clearly, and I know everything is right. We wanted someone to keep our parental feelings from dying out, and he didnt let them.
He taught us to care, to forgive, to laugh at ourselves, and to cherish each day. He never became a replacement for our daughter, but something largera family member who chose us.
Sometimes I watch him sleeping on the windowsill in the sunlight and think, If only everyone were like thatproud, honest, lovingnot for show, but because its simply right. When hes gone (a thought I try not to entertain), Ill tell my grandchildren, We had a cat named Kuzya. He was the best of us. Until then he lives, commands, purrs, and every morning at exactly 6:47a.m. reminds us its time to get uplife goes on.
And we get up. Because hes right.
