This weekend, I am once more house-sitting my friends Margaux and Michael’s cat. Not Alexander: he’s moved on to a higher plane. The current incumbent is a rescue-kitty, who used to live in New York City, on the 12th floor of an apartment building. When his owner died, he entered the shelter system and eventually came to his new “Forever Home” in Elsewhere.
He’s a handsome fellow, with a white face and socks, grey body, grey tail and pink nose. Unusual characteristic? No teeth! If I’d not met him, I’d have sworn it wasn’t possible for a ferocious little carnivore to survive without teeth. But Rasta proves conclusively that I’m wrong. He’s got an excellent appetite and seems to eat both hard and soft cat food.
My duty starts on Friday night. I get to the house at 5.30 pm, feed Rasta and settle in for the night in the guest room. No troubles. In the morning, Rasta knocks on my door promptly at 5.30 am demanding to be fed. I’ve been told he’ll do this, so I’m up and ready to do my duty. At 10, after chatting with Rasta and brushing him so that he purrs and wriggles, I go back to my house. I spend the day there and return to Rasta at 5.30 pm. All goes well. On Sunday, everything’s set for a repeat of the previous two nights, until nine o’clock. As I step into the guest bathroom, from directly overhead I hear ... Footsteps.
Okay. So. I’m alone, in a big old house, with a cat. I back out of the bathroom moving slowly. I stand completely still. Silence. “Oh! It’s just Rasta,” I tell myself. “He must have gone upstairs for a change of scene.” Then I look out into the front room, where I last saw him and there he is. Lying on his side, thinking deep thoughts, in exactly the same position he’d been in 10 minutes ago. Righteeyo! It wasn’t Rasta.
“Oh! It must be just nothing, in that case,” I tell myself. “I heard NOTHING.” Even though, of course, I DID. Once you hear something, you can’t possibly un-hear it. The sounds continue to rattle inside your mind’s ear like kettle drums. I am not the least bit brave. If I were a film heroine I certainly wouldn’t be the kind who runs around checking every cellar and attic holding a bright torch while you, the audience, can clearly see the grinning maniac walking right behind me, holding a silently vibrating chain-saw.
So I do the opposite of running upstairs to check on the maniac who may or may not be trotting about the upper floor. I stand at the foot of the stairs and look up at the first floor landing. No maniac in sight. Then I turn on all the lights on the ground floor, do two full loads of laundry and binge-watch three whole seasons of Scandal on my iPad. By 4 am, I and the maniac are fast asleep. At seven o’clock Rasta breaks down my door and drags me with his claws to his empty food bowl. “Feed me NOW!” he mews. So I do that, smiling at my foolish fears.
Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere in this weekly column
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