Month: January 2024

By James Gonda.

At six months old, the little tabby lived in a sun-drenched cardboard box in an alley in Schenectady’s Stockade. Her father, a sleek Siamese named Zen, paid her scant attention, and her mother, a wise Persian, had traversed the Rainbow Bridge to the other side.

Zen spent his waking hours yowling about his disbelief in a feline deity. So absorbed in this philosophy, he failed to notice the divine spark in his kitten who roamed the neighborhood, sustained by the generosity of her departed mother’s relatives.

One day, a curious stray with a shaggy, ginger coat wandered into town. He was a lean tomcat, always inebriated on a mix of fermented catnip and cream. Often found lazing on a windowsill near Zen’s abode, he listened to Zen’s meowing about the non-existence of divine cat beings, exchanging glances with feline onlookers from time to time.

The vagabond kitty was on a quest to rid himself of his crème de la catnip addiction. Seeking refuge from the alleyways of the Big Apple, he believed a smaller community might offer a better chance to overcome his vice.

But his stay in the Stockade went astray. The lethargy of the passing hours led him to indulge in even more creamy concoctions. Despite his failure to break free from his habit, he did manage to bestow upon Zen’s daughter a name resonant with feline significance.

One twilight, recovering from a long catnip-infused stupor, the tomcat staggered along Cucumber Lane. Zen sat like the Great Sphinx of Giza on a flattened cardboard box, with his kitten-daughter at his side. The ginger flopped into a nearby box; he twitched, and when he tried to meow, his voice quivered.

As darkness encroached, a distant yowl echoed from the west—an eerie serenade from a fellow alley cat. A dog, awakened from its slumber, barked in response. The stranger started to ramble, making a prophecy about the tiny feline in the shadow of her skeptical Siamese father.

“I came here to kick the catnip habit,” he mewed. He leaned forward, fixating on the night as if glimpsing a revelation. “I fled to the countryside, seeking a cure, but alas, I remain ensnared. There’s a reason for this.” He turned to Zen. “Catnip isn’t my only vice,” he confessed. “There’s something more profound. I am a lover, yet I’ve not found my thing to love. That’s a crucial point if you catch my drift. It seals my fate, you see. Few felines can comprehend this.”

The stranger fell silent, overwhelmed by melancholy. Another distant yowl stirred him from his thoughts. “I haven’t lost hope. I want that made clear. I’m at the point where I know my yearnings may not be fulfilled.” Glaring at the kitten, he addressed her, disregarding the father. “There’s a she-cat approaching,” he predicted, his voice now sharp and urgent. “I’ve missed her, you see. She didn’t appear in my time. You might be the she-cat. It would be like fate to let me stand in her presence, when I’ve drowned myself in catnip and she is yet a kitten.”

His shoulders convulsed. Growing frustrated, he scolded, “They think being a she-cat, being loved, is easy, but I know better.” He turned again to the kitten. “I understand,” he cried. “Perhaps, of all felines, I alone understand.” 

His gaze wandered once more to the darkened alley. “I’ve heard tales of her, though our paths have never crossed,” he purred. “I know of her battles and her setbacks. It’s because of her letdowns that she appears so enchanting. From those defeats, a new feline quality has emerged. I’ve given it a name: Tandy. I coined the term during my days as a true cat dreamer, before my body succumbed to the vileness of life. Tandy is a strength to be adored, a quality that men seek from queens, but rarely receive.”

The stranger arose, positioning himself before Zen. His body swayed as if he might topple. Instead, he dropped to the alley’s gravel with true finesse. Then he lifted the kitten’s paws to his whiskers and pressed kisses onto them. “Be Tandy, little one,” he implored. “Dare to be strong and fearless. That’s the path. Take risks. Be bold enough to dare to be loved. Transcend the limits of being a tom or a queen. Be Tandy.” Then with a stagger, he stood and weaved his way down the alley. A day or two later, he leapt aboard the Express and rode the rails back to New York City.   

The next evening, Zen was escorting the kitten to a relative’s den where she had been invited to spend the night. Walking beneath the shadows of the trees, he had forgotten the slurred words of the meowing stranger. His thoughts returned to formulating arguments to shatter faith in a mystical feline deity. He spoke his daughter’s given name, and she burst into tears.

“I don’t want to be called that,” she declared. “I want to be called Tandy.” The kitten wept so deeply that her father was moved to comfort her. Underneath a tree, he cradled her in his paws, caressing her fur. “Behave now,” he admonished, but she refused to be hushed. With abandon, she surrendered herself to grief, her cries breaking the evening silence. “I want to be Tandy!” she wailed, shaking her head, and hoping her fortitude would sustain the vision conjured by the tipsy ginger.