A Cat Named Darwin Read Online Free Page A

them—you couldn't dominate them and force them to your will—and therefore they were stupid. They were completely self-centered and did nothing for anyone but themselves; they were takers, not givers, thus they stood for bad values. Aside from the killing of rodents, their only benefit to man was in scientific experimentation. How anyone could bond with a cat was beyond comprehension; those who liked cats, let alone loved them, were probably limited in their emotional capacities.
    So there I stood, unrepentant dogist and member in full standing of the Canine Nation, looking down without malice, experiencing the first tingling of a feeling I quickly suppressed, for I had no intention of assuming a long-term relationship with such a creature. In fact, I had no intentions of any sort. I was simply proceeding from moment to moment at the beck and call of impulses I had never before obeyed.

2. A Dog's Meow
    T HE CAT WALKED OVER and rubbed against my leg, meowing to be fed, and it struck me just how thin, gaunt, and dirty he had become since we met a year earlier. His fur had lost its sheen and was matted on his back with crankcase oil. My German ancestry, however, ran deeper than my family values, and worthless though this little creature was, his unhygienic plight triggered a cleaning response. He would have to be bathed.
    Practicality then reared its flat, scaly head. How to bathe a cat? Having had no experience in dealing with angry teeth and claws, I decided to ask the advice of friends who loved cats and owned many. Robyn, who lived around the block with three cats, referred me to a veterinarian who specialized in cats and ran a bathing and grooming service.
    But how to get a cat from here to there? I did not own a transport cage, and purchasing one was out of the question for what was going to be a short-term relationship.
    I called the vet, and the thin shaky voice of an old woman answered the phone, advising me to bring the cat in an old pillowcase. However, I soon discovered that evolution had designed cats to resist transportation in sacks. The cat and I negotiated the matter with some passion, but I cannot remember precisely how I convinced him to agree. All that remains are vague fragments of memory with images of claws hooking in cloth and wails of anger and desperation, of a cat held out at arm's length by the tip of its tail, where it cannot get you, of a cat rolled up in a towel. I recall a strong urinary odor as I drove. Later that afternoon, as I drove the cat home, the fur on his stomach and throat gleaming white, his markings a deep rich orange, a different odor began to waft from the sack, and my subsequent memories are very clear of washing the cat's rear quarters to remove the soil he had produced in sheer terror. Clearly, this creature had a deep-seated fear of veterinarians and automotive transportation.
    The cat quickly recovered from the trauma, and that night, with a full belly, he curled up at my feet while I read the paper and watched TV. His warm, clean fur felt so comforting against my ankles. Later, when I put him out, he didn't cry and he didn't pummel and scratch the door. As I look back it is patently obvious that my life had taken a fundamental turn, and I hadn't a clue. The cat had abandoned his crusade for reasons known only to him, comprehending somehow that he had breached the walls to my soul, knowing in the reptilian roots of his brain that he had passed his trial by fire and found a home. The last person to understand this was me, of course, because as a human being I had the capacity—the glorious, essential capacity—to deny, without which life as we know it would cease to exist.
    Over the next several weeks a pattern of existence began to emerge. Every morning I would open the door and find the cat sitting there, awaiting his food. I would feed him on the landing just outside my front door and, after eating, the cat would spend the day patrolling his territory and