CATS

Yesterday Martin and I turned our heads away from our steaming tea cups for a moment and caught this impossible vision: down the hill, a veritable convention of seven black and white cats sat in a perfect circle. In the middle of the circle, another cat lay on his back, one paw extended into the air. He luxuriated on the grass and pointed in the air again in provocative way. Another cat took him up on his challenge and--I can't help it--pussyfooted into the ring and pounced on him. They rolled about and the circle dispersed.

We went back to our tea.

About five minutes later, we looked back down the hill and the cats had reconvened, in exactly the same formation, but this time more centrally in our yard. The same thing happened again; the cat-in-the-middle, the playful tussle, the cats scattering. They played follow-the-leader over to the trunk of the Black Walnut, where they watched one scramble up the bark after a bird. They seemed to be having a wonderful time.

Cats rule Wazoo Farm. As many of you know, I can't get anywhere near cats without swelling like a balloon or scratching my own eyes out. But these cats are different than your average house cat. They're like little gods fallen from heaven; they prowl proudly around the garden; they all have their own paths and patterns, and they seem to be utterly careless of our existence, except when we startle them and they streak off into the sky. We don't know where they live. They are great, heavy, sleek beasts with gleaming coats and certain paws.

I watched one pick his way delicately through a foot of snow last winter, finding the prints of a cat-gone-before and fitting his paws precisely into each indentation.

At night they wail like primordial spirits.

This afternoon Martin and I (yes, we were drinking tea again), craned our necks out the window and saw a cat, black as coal, sitting on the edge of our deck, swishing his tail. He was watching something and I heard him mew. But then I realized his mouth was not opening. I did not think he was a ventriloquist. So I stood up with my tea cup and leaned farther toward the window pane. A huge white cat, its fur standing up and its back arched, was facing down a third cat--I know not what he was in face or manner--I was too consumed by the white cat, who was magnificent.

Martin banged on the window. They did not heed him.

I went to the other window, slid it open and chided them: "No fighting, kitties!" The white cat fixed me with a stare that told me she did not care to be condescended to, but they evaporated into the afternoon.

They will be back. It's a jungle out there. And apparently it's all theirs.