By James Gonda.

AMONG OTHER THINGS, I have a knack for poetry. The humans have labeled me a stray, but that’s another way of saying I’m a discoverer. Yet, throughout my nine lives, I have never scratched a single line of verse into the dirt. If I had, my specialty would have been sonnets to cities. I have studied cities the way cats scrutinize their reflections or kittens disassemble a ball of yarn. For me, a metropolis is more than towering walls and endless alleys filled with four-legged creatures. It’s a living entity with its own unique scent and character.

Chicago, for example, descended upon me with the brashness of a Persian, promising a feast of fish heads and cream. But I would awaken to the cold reality of empty cans and stale bread crusts.

Cleveland struck me like a performance of “Cats” meowed in Hungarian at a fish market by scruffy felines. Yet, this city was generous, unpretentious, and warm-hearted.

Savannah glanced down at me from a balcony, her whiskers twitching in the moonlight. I could see her thoughtful, starry eyes and catch a glimpse of her flicking tail, and that was all.


ONE DAY, I DECIDED TO CONQUER MANHATTAN. She was the grandest city of them all, and I desired to understand her place in the world; to taste her essence, evaluate her rhythm, classify her moods, and comprehend her, as I had done with other places.    

I disembarked from a ferry and padded into Midtown with the grace of a feline who had seen it all. I played the part of an “unidentified tom.” No territory, breed, litter, or circle of alley cats could claim me. Then with the fervor of a cat searching for a cache of treats, I ventured forth. My tail twitched as I strolled down the sidewalks; my ears perked to catch every whisper of the bustling concrete jungle.

By late afternoon, I emerged from the grid with a look of dumbfounded terror in my eyes. I was defeated, perplexed, disconcerted, and frightened. Other cities had been easy prey, like catching barn mice. But here was a metropolis as unattainable as a silver fish in a tank. Despite my poetic nature, I found it impossible to encapsulate this vibrant mega city into the purrs and meows of my thoughts. Its buildings loomed like endless fortresses, guarded and impenetrable. And what troubled my poetic imagination the most was the overwhelming sense of egotism that permeated its populace. Each human I observed had lost their warmth. Frozen, cruel, unyielding, they moved like motionless figures brought to life. A feline poet is a delicate soul; I soon wilted under the icy indifference of this mysterious place. Its chilly and unnatural demeanor left me despondent and confused. Did it lack a heart? I longed for the comfort of a sunlit patch on a wooden fence, the scolding of mature tabbies, and the playful confrontations with neighborhood dogs. Anything but this lack of interest. Summoning my courage, I meowed for attention. The crowd passed without a glimmer of acknowledgment. It was then I concluded that Manhattan was devoid of a soul.

I stepped into the street, trembling. Without warning, there was a deafening explosion, followed by a roar, a hiss, and a crash as something slammed into me and sent me tumbling six yards from where I stood. The world around me blurred into fragments of a dream. When I finally opened my eyes, I was greeted by the scent of spring blossoms. Then a paw brushed against my fur; leaning over me was a molly, her eyes moist with feline compassion. Beneath my head lay the softest of silks. From a nearby café rushed a burly Maine Coon with a saucer of cream. “Sip this, buddy,” he said. He tilted the little plate to my lips with the steadiness of a seasoned mouser.

Within moments, a crowd of cats had gathered. Their whiskers twitched with concern. Two imposing gingers pushed through to create space. An old Siamese yowled about the benefits of catnip. A brisk young cat was interviewing witnesses, his tail twitching with the thrill of a story. Then a bell rang, and an ambulance carved a path through the clowder. A dignified Russian Blue—a feline physician—joined the scene, his eyes sharp and focused. “How are you feeling?” he asked.  

“I feel great,” I said. 

I had finally stumbled upon the heart of this city, the pulse beneath its cold exterior.


THREE DAYS LATER, I was permitted to leave my nook in the hospital’s convalescent ward. But within an hour, there was a scuffle. Upon investigation, they found me engaged in a heated altercation with another patient: a disgruntled tom patched up after a run-in with a train in Grand Central.

“What’s going on here?” the head nurse wanted to know.

“He’s disrespecting my city,” I said. I motioned to the offender with a bend of my tail.

“Which city?” she asked.

Bristling with pride, I said, “New York.”