Rocko's Sphere

I am not a cat lover. Ever since high school when I babysat a kitten for a friend and awoke to the adorable fuzzball ripping the curlers brutishly from my head, strands of hair included, I kept a respectful distance from the feline species. They are stealth warriors.

But when I moved in with Andy, Rocko was part of the deal. Andy adopted the cat after our friend Sarah found him as a kitten, trapped under boulders outlying a slough. She’d been exercising to a workout tape in her condo, and heard what she believed to be a baby crying outside, louder than the video’s volume; she searched out the cries, reached into the rocks to fetch him, whereupon he hissed and bared his teeth. I think she finally wrapped a sweatshirt around her hands to complete the job, and rushed the emaciated brown kitty to the vet. It turned out Rocko was white with grey patches, and that Sarah’s husband, Manuel, was allergic, but the rescue was so compelling Andy volunteered to keep the intrepid youngster.

He was full-grown by the time I appeared in Rocko’s sphere, and we successfully ignored each other for months. Then one night as I lay reading in bed, the cat hopped up and sidled over, head-butting my hand, demanding, it seemed, that I pet him. I obliged so I could continue my reading, and after a while realized the cat was drooling a lake onto the bedspread. Drooling uncontrollably, and I called downstairs, “Andy, this cat is sick! He’s drooling all over the place.” Andy explained some cats drool as a sign of affection and contentment. From that evening on, Rocko arrived, peering over my book like the head of a snowy owl, a meowing snowy owl, ready for our quality time.

This is not quite a love story. Rocko is not entirely domesticated. His feral youth abides and he won’t ever be a housecat. When the house is sleeping, he leaps out our window to the roof of the neighbor’s garage then down to the alley, and combs the vicinity for vermin. Occasionally, he hauls his prey home, leaving them atop the bedspread he drools on. So far there have been two baby opossums and a smelt probably scavenged from a night fisherman at the bay. One of the opossums was still alive. I am certain he brings the creatures to me as presents, and remind myself he is not unlike some men who, though otherwise faultless in their affections, have lapses in judgment when selecting gifts for their ladies.