About two months ago, I adopted Nora, a silky black feline, born of a feral mother, destined to live her life mostly outdoors. My neighbors had cared for her these past five years. Then they moved. I felt moved to step in. Nora is adjusting to her new family. She slept with me last night. By morning, she was gone. She has almost mastered the cat door—to exit at will, anyway.
Nora has a boyfriend. I’ll call him Tom. He looks like a bobcat, uglier though, a brute of a cat. Nora doesn’t exactly cat around with him, but Tom hangs around in hopes we’ll throw him a bone. Nora doesn’t seem to mind his presence. It’s hard to know what a cat thinks. Maybe Nora and Tom triggered my dream.
Maybe it was the movie I saw recently: The Electrical Life of Louis Wain. An illustrator and lover of cats, Louis Wain was elected president of the London Cat Club in 1890. He drew millions of cats and popularized them as pets in Victorian England. Louis Wain also had schizophrenia. His illustrations grew increasingly psychedelic. None were copyrighted. His story pulled my heartstrings.
In one corner of our yard, there’s an overgrown flower garden where the cats convene, dozens of them, perfectly posed. Kittens frolick. That is all. Maybe a kind reader interprets dreams.