June 25, 2006 at 10:25 pm (General)


By jaracama@gmail.com

I was eleven the first and only time I saw Jean-Jacques Annaud’s film “The Bear”. And that is eighteen years ago. For those who haven’t seen it, it’s like a coming-alive version of Walt Disney’s Bambi, although, it is a bear instead of a deer. I remember myself crying and feeling, for about two hours, as orphan as the bear cub; and finally with the lights on, my mother next to me, grabbing my hand, with a smile in her face that created a whole land of security with no hunters, just for me. She was next to me, looking at me; she was real, what could go wrong? Despite the sadness and beauty of the story, there is an unforgettable seen in which the director recreates the bear’s dream, as if he was filming insight of the cub’s head. At that point, the movie goes all dreamy, as a foggy vision, with a toad jumping in it.

Do you dream about me, Winston, as I do about you? Do you remember my face, the touch of my hand, as a do remember how tickling your whiskers are? That same evening, you looked like a sphinx to me, in the middle of the living room, understanding everything, knowing my feeling all along. You were the strength I didn‘t have. I felt desperate insight, knowing then as I know now, that I would hardly see you again. I was moving out of the country, out of that life, out of the snow, and I couldn’t take you with me. It would have been insane. Besides, you could survive loosing your group, your partner and your offspring, so I believed you could deal with the fact that I would no longer spend my days, and nights, with you. If you could make it out there, winter after winter, for five years – by examining your teeth the vet thought that that was your age -, you would be able to overcome my leaving. Because, you know, they have to wait for you to be almost fatally injured to rescue you without being wounded by your “super-paws.” “He has more scars than hair in his body”, the vet told us during the first visit.

One fine midnight, after knowing how the sound of a dying mouse is like, I’d decided it was simply impossible for me to keep either killing mice with brie cheese and traps, or shearing the apartment with them. I’d tried all the technology available: from sticky traps, that kill them softly, to supersonic repellent, a stupid plug supposed to create supersonic sound supposed to scare mice, cockroach, and all domestic plague away. It was time for a cat. My fantasy was that the only smell of a feline will scare the mice out of my place. So, I contacted a protectionist and made an appointment with her. “Next Sunday, we will be showing the cats we have in some pet store, uptown, shall I give you the address?”.

It was a snowing Sunday. I just had gone out of the theatre, after making one of my childhood dream come true: to watch The Nutcracker on stage. I was in ecstasy, so I walked more than fifthteen blocks out in the snow, wearing my king size Diane-Keaton-kind-of-overcoat. There were kittens all around you. There were playful and noisy. Meowing all together one difficult song. But you, Winston, you were above the other four cages, by your self. The only “lost case” for adoption purposes. Your front paws were, unlike any other cat I’ve ever seen, in a perfect mudra, instead one on top of the other. A Hemingway cat, meaning polydactyl, with a two nails in both “thumbs”. Deep yellow eyes as a new dimension entrance doors. And that look, Winston, as if your soul was already out of there, as if, by capturing you, they unintentionally killed you.

The protectionist told me that you were an old buddy with a story. “We barely ever get to know where the cats come from. But this one was taken out of an alley. We first rescued his family, a female and four kittens, but he would never let us touched him. Until one day he was very much wounded after a cat fight, so we could catch him. We never gave up on him because we knew him. We were moved by his stubbornness and because he kept looking for his family once we took it away. They are all adopted now. But he would come back every day to the same place and meow for his family to return. He is one tough guy.”

After filling application, next Friday you were hiding under my bed. I’d bought you lots of tricks and toys. After I’d spend two hours talking you out of your hiding place, you finally show up and for that moment on we became inseparable. But, yes Winston, I had to leave. And I miss you. I even try to bring you here, but they say you can not resist ten hours flight and, even if you can, it will be terrible for you. You belong there. You belong to him and to that city as I never did, as I never could. But for the time I stayed there, you rescued me as nobody ever could do with you, simply because you never seem to need it. I just can imagine your face looking at your new electronic water fountain. I got a picture of it. How fancy!

Winston, I’ve been dreaming about you, and every time, I see you lying next to the bedroom’s window, taking a sun bath, as you love, and falling asleep and dreaming; only that in your dreams there are no jumping toads.


1 Comment

  1. verodriano said,

    How beautiful !!!! I can only relate to what it’s like to lose a pet that more than a pet is a friend, if not the best of them all.

    I have lost one of my dearest friends in the world this last Wednesday, my 10 year-old siamese cat, Twister due to a kidney infection, he was the one that was always with me, even when I was sick, and if he was sick, I was the one he sought for, to take care of him.

    I’ll never forget him.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: