The Day She Became a Cat
This is a story about when a girl I was dating turned into a cat.
I knew early on that she liked cats. She told me. On that first date, we walked quiet streets to busy city centers, and I heard about the five cats at her parents’ house — their names, ages, colors, personalities. She swooned before photographs of them as we wandered a wildlife photography gallery, then deliberated between the cat calendar and the postcard collection when we arrived at the gift shop.
I didn’t think much of it at the time — perhaps the way you might not notice a slow dripping faucet until you find your house flooded.
I have to admit, though — it was nice to feel comfortable talking to someone for a change. It was nice to ask simple questions and get whole stories in return. To listen to a life that was not my own was entirely refreshing. And to be clear, it wasn’t all cats — there were her brothers, her friends, growing up in a small town, moving to the big city, regrets, hopes, dreams — though a feline presence always felt somewhere around the corner.
It was the beginnings of romance — where what will surely annoy you later is what you convince yourself will remain forever charming.
Never one for bravado, the first kiss took a long time to get to, which meant I knew more about her than I should have by the time we got there — I filled the gaps in which I was supposed to kiss her with questions, and in turn, nerves caused her to answer in too much detail.
But if a girl likes you enough, and you show a complete, honest interest in her before that first kiss, she will sometimes, if given the opportunity, throw herself at you like a raging hurricane.
It was there, in that aftermath of strewn clothes, entangled body parts, and slightly labored breathing, that she became a cat.
I feel as though the spectre of sex — of potential sex — sometimes casts a long, dark shadow upon people when they date. Having sex for the first time is a little like flicking on a light switch — “Well now that we have that out of the way, this is who I really am. Surprise!” — at which point we realize we’ve been getting to know each other in the dark the whole time.
Alternatively, when the lights come on, you might find yourself kissing a cat.
The word strange doesn’t quite fit. Perplexing, too, doesn’t really cover it. The sensation was one I knew, one I’d experienced, but it felt awkward, old, and nostalgic — like putting on a winter jacket I’d forgotten I owned.
That day in bed brought with it some gentle purring — vocal hums as she buried her nose into my neck; a set of sounds instead of words I sensed she expected me to understand.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
I briefly contemplated mentioning the cat noises.
“I’m thinking we probably should have closed those curtains,” I said.
“I was thinking about animals.”
Clearly the curtains only bothered one of us.
“Oh?”
“If you were an animal, you’d be an alpaca,” she said.
“I what?”
“You remind me of one.”
I failed to see the comparison. Ridiculous. Unfathomable. And yet, delightfully lost in the midst of post-coital bliss — it seemed not to matter in the slightest.
A week later she invited me to her apartment — a tiny place with an aura of warmth and a homely touch. We sat on a little sofa, sipping at tea, and looking through a photo album… of cats.
It was not unlike learning about someone’s family — this is my brother, this is our old house, this is a family portrait with an almost funny story behind it — except that it was all cats.
Well, all a cat. At times seated, at times in play, at times sleeping — I turned pages and watched a striped orange tabby grow up before my eyes.
“Isn’t he just the cutest?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Among cats, he is likely number one.”
“I used to work here when I was at university, and surprisingly there were a lot of stray cats. This one was a little different from the others, quieter. I think in that way we were similar…”
So she talked, and I listened, and I got the strangest sensation that I was listening to a story about a distant cousin — one who lived in a cage, was fiercely loyal to her university, and occasionally liked to lick people unexpectedly.
Which in Tokyo, perhaps, is not such an unlikely lifestyle.
One morning, as I brewed coffee in the kitchen, I wondered about my predicament. I felt that all brave men should at some point traverse unknown territory, and find growth in new experiences. For some, this meant journeys to danger-filled environments. For others, it meant risking life for what they loved.
I wondered if for me it meant understanding the inner workings of cat-woman hybrids.
I meditated over the brewing coffee, and brought the pot to the bedroom, where I found her hunched over the remains of a just-finished bowl of cereal. She licked at it gently, gingerly — an act that might have appalled me had it not been somehow unbearably endearing.
It was a warning bell, that moment, though I wasn’t sure exactly what for.
And for a time we watched each other, the air a mix of cereal, milk, and coffee.
“What?” she said.
I blinked once. I blinked twice. I told myself to smile. I held down a feeling I didn’t know how to express appropriately.
“No, it’s nothing,” I said, holding up the pot. “Coffee?”
On Valentine’s Day, I felt worry set in, all bundled up in a simply decorated, cat-embossed bag filled with coffee beans. A gift. She knew I loved coffee, and the cats, I suppose, she simply couldn’t resist.
That she had even found a cat-themed coffee was, to be sure, equal parts impressive and terrifying.
I opened the bag, and inhaled deep of the aroma. In it, my worst fears were realized — dark roasted beans, and a deep, smoky scent. It was the aroma of old kissaten and noir detectives. Of rainy days and… cats for company.
This was a coffee she’d painstakingly researched for its feline qualities, a gift she’d wrapped with a letter and given to me as a token of love and affection.
It was a gift I was certain would taste terrible. There was a feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminded me of dread, but of a vastly different hue. Brighter, somehow. I still couldn’t place it.
The following morning, before the sun had fully risen, I found myself pouring twelve grams of those dark roasted beans into the grinder, inhaling sadly of the burnt wooden scent, and setting it in a filter cone while I boiled some water. I brewed in silence.
I sat at my desk, watching the sun rise and the salary-men make the slow crawl for the train, and I looked into the mug of dark black coffee. I wondered if answers lay there, deep in its murky depths.
I brought the mug to my lips.
“And this,” I thought, “is where it ends.”
I took a sip. Then paused. Then took another. And paused again.
My worst fear, I realized, was never really about cats, or kissing them, or dating them. It was right here in this cup of coffee, which had come to mean more than it was.
My worst fear was that this thoughtful gift, and the feelings behind it, were things I desperately wanted to accept. To enjoy. And to return.
This coffee, despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise, was good.
I found myself at something of a loss.
Mug in hand, I looked at my reflection in the mirror in the corner.
“I’m not,” I said, lifting my chin a touch higher, “I’m not really falling in love, am I?”
And in that moment — in the reflection that stared back at me, I saw a face of both fierce pride, and profound ridiculousness. A question and an answer both, in the eyes and the eyebrows that seemed to each express something different.
It was an expression that brought to mind, of all things, an indignant, proud, and ultimately stupid, alpaca.
An alpaca that had — however unintentionally — fallen in love with a cat.
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