Illustration by Victoria Ayala Gladys Lou

In Love with a Cat

Gladys Lou Edited by Antara Gupta

I wake up on my bed to find Nico asleep in my arms. Her silver- fur shimmers under the morning sunlight that peeks through the window. I watch the mount of her abdomen rise and fall in the rhythm of tidal waves. Pressing my ear gently against her soft coat, I listen to her heartbeat. Palpable, soothing, and calm. What is she dreaming of ? As if she can hear my thoughts, Nico pokes her moist little nose against mine. She tosses over with her stomach facing skyward, her fluffy ears wriggling against my cheeks. A smile creeps onto my face and I hide it behind my pillow. I cover Nico’s belly with my lavender blanket and slip out of bed, trying not to disturb the silence. How long will mornings like this last? As I slide into my - slippers, a mellow meow follows behind me. I turn back and a pair of galactic eyes pierce through mine. They are like gemstones, their ethereal amber shade and glassy surface shrouding a universe of

60 In Love with a Cat wonder and curiosity. When I look into them, I see my soul staring back at me. “Good meowing,” I greet Nico with a jolly stroke of her head. She was originally named Nichole after her owner’s partner, Nicholas. I despised that name and gave her a new one upon her arrival to my home. It marked a new beginning in her life, a life between me and Nico. Nico rubs her face against my palm and meows. She stretches her limbs, arches her back, and saunters out of the bedroom behind me. Nico sends me off to the bathroom and accompanies me to the kitchen for breakfast. She follows me like my miniature shadow with two pointed ears. Gripping a cinnamon toast in my mouth, I proceed to my desk to do my reading. Nico lies in front of me on the tabletop, watching me affectionately with her clear, innocent eyes. She remains in the same position for an entire hour, as if she wants to say something but is unable to articulate it through feline language. Nico is a nine-month-old kitten. Within the short span of her infancy, her owner left her with three caretakers. She has only been with me for four months, but I believe I am the human she has formed the most intimate bond with since her birth. When Nico first arrived, she hid under the bed for two nights. She was afraid to get close to strangers, to get used to their scent, feel comfortable in their presence, then suddenly lose them without any warning. “I am here. I won’t leave you alone,” I calm her with a kiss on her forehead. Sweet like all unloved creatures, Nico is all I have in the midst of this indifferent world. She reminds me of myself, a shy little girl abandoned by the constantly changing

61 Gladys Lou world. An independent woman whose strength mantles a profound loneliness. Am I the only one living in forgotten times, reluctant to leave? I am a prisoner during the pandemic, forgotten by the world, spending my days admiring the clouds and the crowd from afar. My instructor posts her asynchronous lecture on Ancient Egyptian Art and Architecture at 11:00 AM sharp. I glance at the old photographs on my walls, and open Microsoft Stream on my laptop. Nico curls into a ball on my lap. She purrs loudly, expressing her fondness. Her tiny paws clutch my shirt like a newborn baby holding onto her mother in a warm embrace. My professor presents to us the wall paintings in ancient Egyptian tombs and shows us images of mummified cats buried alongside the bodies of pharaohs. Infuriated by the mistreatment of her ancestors, Nico screeches and leaps ferociously onto my keyboard. She blocks my view and fixes her gaze onto the screen. Her claws sharpen. I shove her away, but she returns to the same position in a split second. She hisses callously at the images. Is she worried that I will treat her the same way? She shuts my laptop with her wiggling paws. She should not be afraid. Even if I die, she will go on flourishing. My ghost will follow her, protect her, haunt her, love her. “Don’t worry,” I reassure her with a pat on the neck. “You are safe in my arms.” I take a sip of warm milk from my cup. Nico’s yowl softens to a trill. She always drinks from my cup when I am not watching. She sleeps on my pillow when I am not resting, and sits on my chair when I am not working. She wants to be

62 In Love with a Cat the same as me. I look for a glass cup with amber dots on the table. It is the same colour as her eyes. I fill it up with exactly half the milk from my cup. Nico refuses to drink from a water bowl; this cup is the only drinking vessel she approves of. “Breakfast is ready!” I place her cup alongside mine. Nico leans over, bends her pliable front legs, and tastes the milk cautiously with the tip of her tongue. She meows in appreciation, then pokes her snout into the cup and licks the surface in a succession of prompt, elegant twitches of her tongue. When she withdraws her head from the empty cup, I see drops of milk dangling from her whiskers. I smile at her with pure affection. This moment will be perfect with some soft music. I turn on the retro radio on my desk. As I switch to the jazz channel, my phone vibrates. Nico twitches and snaps her head at the sound’s source, her fur puffed up in alert. A message from Nico’s owner pops up on my screen.

Amy: Hey, how’s everything?

I smirk at her interest in my wellbeing. She has not replied to any of my messages ever since I got Nico. Before I can send a cordial yet vaguely spiteful response, my phone pings with another text from her.

Amy: How is Nichole doing?

I freeze. My fingers tremble under the weight of my phone. What is she trying to say? Is she asking for Nico back? I turn off my phone and hurl it into my drawer. I do not mind

63 Gladys Lou if a sudden misfortune descends upon her. I will not stir if she suffers from an accident that prevents her from returning and reclaiming her cat. I do not care. It is as if the sheer act of disregarding judgement day can eliminate death itself. No matter what happens, no one can take Nico away from me. Nico swishes her tail, curls it into a question mark, and jumps to her spot on the windowsill. She often lays there for days, observing the changing of the sky. I approach the window and circle my arms around her. I follow her gaze through the transparent, impenetrable glass. Painted in shades of , the sky is ineffably clear and distant. maple trees rattle in the breeze and golden leaves shiver down to the earth. Even the leaves that reach the clouds abdicate. Must all things in nature return to their origin? “I hope the world will stay like this forever,” the disembodied voice of a woman hums through the radio and fills the room. A wall covered with photographs of smiling faces, a cup of milk at perfect temperature, a loving creature in my arms. All my treasures gathered in one room. Everything seems peaceful and pristine, like a dream. Yet something is missing. Something vital that I cannot quite name. Something that suggests a certain hollowness, a lack of substance. Why is this painting incomplete? What else can I possibly add? The first day Nico arrived at my flat, my friend said she was worried that I would not be able to leave her when the time comes. I thought she was overthinking it, but now I appreciate her foresight. I place my hand under Nico’s front legs, lift her up, and support her hind quarters in the crook of my arm. I try to reassure myself that everything is alright

64 In Love with a Cat with a cuddle. “But I need to know,” the woman’s voice crackles. It metamorphoses into a staticy, mechanical sound, almost inhuman. Nico growls, using all her effort to squirm out of my grasp. Her claws scratch in thin air, her body twists and flounders in futile resistance. She bites me, slips away, and disguises herself in the shadow beneath my bed. “Do you love me, or you just pretend that you do?” the woman blares and the sound blasts into a vertiginous, metallic squeal. Does a person who loves someone care about whether they love her back? Imposing as it may seem, love is also the most perishable of entities. An incurable, irreversible condition, it is especially infectious among those entangled between solitude and desolation, unable to judge which side of the balance they tip toward: to love alone, or to love being alone. Nico’s devilish eyes glow in the darkness, the unfamiliar and treacherous spark within them drowns me in fear. Is this really Nico, the pawing, purring creature that yearns for my care? I reach for her, but she withdraws further into the shadows. Unable to decipher her feline mystique, I begin to doubt Nico’s appreciation for me. Can a cat resonate with human feelings, or is the relationship between us just my imagination? Before Nico can make her next move, I grasp the half opened door at the end of the room and slam it shut in one single motion. Does what she thinks really matter? You belong here with me. Nico stares at me with her cosmic eyes.

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