Anthony

Cats are a pain to take care of.
I have two cats; Giovanni and Campanella.
Well, had, since Campanella died last year.
I can't seem to get rid of him though.

When was the first time I noticed that I had a ghost cat still floating around? Hmm. I can't really put it right, but I think it was last April. Campanella is an orange tabby, while Giovanni is a blue tabby. I got them in a pair from some friend of a friend of my mothers. Don't remember her name. I don't even think I've ever seen the lady. I don't really care to either. My mother graciously accepted the animals, as the lady was moving away, but as soon as no one was looking she dumped them on me.

"You like cats, don't you?" she said on the phone after I called, discovering two holed boxes on my apartment room floor.

This is a fallacy. I don't like cats. However, nor do I viciously hate them. I simply didn't feel like taking care of two other biological members of the animal kingdom, when I can barely take care of myself. The only reason my mother thinks I like cats is because when I was seven, I had a period of where I would point out every cat on the street. They always stalked around, and when I was able to spot one, I felt a childish pride at my observation skills. If you could call them "skills". My feelings towards cats is more around indifference than like. However, even though I have told my mother this on several occasions, her maternal mind forgets and instantly goes back to that time when I pointed out every cat with my grimy index finger. Mothers do that.

"No, I don't," I said, reminding her once again that I was not seven years old.

"Oh," she said, reminded, "Well, I only need you to take care of them for a little while until I find a new job. It won't be hard, you know. Feed them, water them, and they'll be fine."

"They aren't plants."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Negative. Anyways, it'll be good for you."

"Animals that don't bathe?"

"Having company! In that tiny room you never seem to poke your head out of! Quit making this difficult for me! You know I have a hard enough time with the office already, help me out a little! It's not like you have a real job, either! And they're just cats! You don't have to be so uncooperative all the time! Why do you always have to say I'm a bad mother?!"

a beep on the other side told me that she had hung up.

"...I didn't," I said to the yellow plastered wall.

There seems to be a rule in the human psych that when you and your parents argue, the victory immediately goes to the parent. This seems to be true even when you yourself counterattack with logic, and or, reasoning. Sometimes, even when you yourself have thought that you have won a certain battle, it turns out simply to be a prelude to your defeat in the war. Anyone who has the idea of a family as a cuddly group of people who unconditionally love each other are mistaken. A family is another world, where each member is a single nation. There may be treaties, there may be good relations for the sake of economy, however underneath it all is a secret war for power and position. The younger and smaller a country is, the less power it has to reject the larger, older ones. There is quiet blood shed at every turn; when a sibling takes your seat at the dining room table, when someone lies to another, when your mother laughs at something you were serious about, when your father ignores you. It's simply that, sometimes the war becomes uncovered, and the bloodshed is on display for all to see. When this happens, World War can, and easily, ensue. The flag is risen for all of the nations to fight against another. And believe me, they will fight. They enjoy it.

At least. That is what I think.

So when my mother hung up on the phone, I never called her back to argue on the subject again. I had already lost the battle. And I also realized that if I fought anymore, all I would do was lose again. Two years later, my mother had her job changed, but she had forgotten all about taking the cats back. I didn't remind her. I knew how she would react. There would be another battle, I would lose, and it would have to be added to my long list of failures that's written itself in my head. There was no point to reminding her.

Besides. I don't hate cats.

Anyways, Campanella died when he was only about six years old. It was rather sudden, but I noticed one day that he hadn't come inside to eat his meal. I found his rag-tag body lying on it's side in the yard when I went outside to check. I sighed, went back inside to fetch an old shoebox from the closet I had kept, stuffed his limp body inside it, and buried him under the red plum tree outside my window. Giovanni was bummed out for about two days, then puckered up and went back to normal. He's a rather chubby cat, who likes human-based attention, and staying indoors. He likes to sit on my lap when I'm working on my website. The website brings in my only income, which is not very much, but it pays the rent, and I don't have to even take a step outside. Campanella had (has) a completely different personality than Giovanni. He spent almost all his time outdoors, doing whatever knows what, and only came in for food and water. Sometimes....I wonder...is it strange to feel jealous of a cat?

Dead, no less.