A Cat Named Darwin Read Online Free

into one long ululation that penetrated ceilings, walls, and floors and seeped into the rooms. The siege continued for at least half an hour; then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Nothing was ever stiller or deeper than the silence that followed. What was going on? Was he merely taking time to breathe? That question was answered with a strange scraping sound, as if someone was rubbing a piece of sandpaper against the surface. Again the sound came. And again. Then the pace picked up and I realized that the cat was pawing at the door, perhaps clawing. This went on for minutes before it stopped. No sooner had it stopped than the loud, caustic meowing started up. All through the night it continued, periods of billowing wails washing over my walls followed by bouts of small paws pummeling the door until finally, needing to sleep, I resorted to earplugs, which dampened the sound but did not eliminate it.
    ***
    When I awoke the next morning the siege seemed to have ended. Light streamed through the windows and cast the shadows of leaves and branches against the walls, where they slipped silently this way and that across the whiteness. It was as if a spirit had departed. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. No cat. I opened the door farther. Still no cat. I opened it all the way and stepped onto the threshold, and just as I did, the cat slipped through my legs so quickly that I couldn't focus my eyes. I stood there with what must have been a lobotomized look on my face as it slowly occurred to me that I had been set up, the cat pressed like a commando against the wall next to the door, and when my guard relaxed he made his move with such perfect timing that it could not be blocked.
    Into the kitchen strode the big orange cat, exuding confidence, expecting—knowing—it was time for breakfast.
    Not that this changed the rules; cats still belonged outdoors, and one never budged on basic principles. Steel fist, velvet glove. That night the siege resumed, if anything with more determination on both sides. I inserted my earplugs and went to bed. The next morning the same vacant silence. This time I knew what to expect, but as I slowly extended my head to check behind the door, I saw a yellow Post-it, obviously from my neighbor across the landing. The cat's wailing, of course, would have been as audible to her as it was to me.
Bill—
I think there's a brain-damaged cat in the neighborhood.
It yowled all night in front of your door for the second night in a row. Finally I threw a shoe at it.
Diane
    The cat was nowhere to be seen, and suddenly I felt a twinge of anxiety. Had he been driven away forever? A small chill of loneliness. He had spent so much energy in his campaign with such unwavering focus that he must be ... and it occurred to me how desperate this little creature must be for the companionship of a human being, with its shelter from the real world. Then a strange feeling welled up in me and suddenly I wanted to call him, invite him in. But I had no name to call, so I simply whistled—a thin, quavering note from behind my teeth. About fifteen seconds later the cat appeared at the foot of the stairs.
    ***
    Some context is in order here, because I grew up in a family of dog advocates who disliked cats and calculated their value against the gold standard of canine bonding and canine utility. We didn't dwell on the issue of cat versus dog, but if you added up the details over the years, the list would be downright damning. For example, with respect to that peculiar emotional subservience known as affection, which distinguishes dogs, cats seemed little better than reptiles. As domestic servants they were useless. At best they helped in rodent control, because they were unrepentant killers. They scratched furniture and urinated on rugs and wailed in the night. They neither guarded the house nor protected you from violent crime. They would not retrieve game or herd sheep or lead the blind. You couldn't train