Why do they call me the Crazy Cat Lady? I'm not crazy. If you want crazy, I can introduce you to Lili!
Okay, I do have upwards of a dozen cats in my home. Or their home. Sometimes it seems I'm lodging with them, not the other way round. And let me be clear: they are just lodgers here. I don't own them. They come and go as they please and they don't stay forever. One morning I might wake up with ten cats or twelve or sometimes only three. Of course, Nature has been known to take Her course and a litter of the little darlings suddenly appears.
So, yes. I like cats. Love them to bits, really, even when they leave bits of mice or birds all over the living room floor. But does that make me crazy? I think not.
They speak to me, you see. Every purr, meow, hiss. Every ear-twitch or tail-flick, I can understand. Each disdainful look through slit-pupilled eyes, each lascivious roll-over for a tummy tickle, means something and I know what they are saying.
Before you think I'm mad, just remember that you were young once and couldn't pronounce a single word, let alone string together a sentence. You made your feelings known by crying, gurgling, vomitting or pooing. You made grasping gestures with chubby fingers, struggled to crawl when you wanted something just out of reach and cried more when you couldn't move. Now you take language and movement for granted to get what you want.
Cats have their own language and I understand it. I can't quite read catspeak yet, but I'm working on it. It's something to do with paw prints and how their claws make marks. What they're scratching also means something. The door, obviously, means they want out, or food, if it's a cupboard door. The curtains mean they want to climb. And if they shred the carpet, it means they need the litter tray and, more to the point, why hasn't the litter tray been cleaned? I know these things.
Now I'm sitting in the middle of the garden, surrounded by cats, watching intently as they prowl around, sun themselves, walk along the fence, or sit and wash, looking like furry pretzels. I wish I was that flexible. Some simply watch the world go by with that infinite patience that makes them look like they're planning world domination.
School kids walk past the garden, laughing and joking when they see the "crazy cat lady". Let them laugh. I don't care.
Until one of the little thugs throws a pebble at one of my darlings. Then I get crazy. As the grey and black feline jumps down from the fence, the pebble soaring over its head, I spring into action. I leap from the lawn, hissing, yowling and screaming at the little brat. He and his friends blanche at my fury. My words aren't clear to them, but to the cats it's perfect sense: "Get out of here you little bastards!"
I can feel the perfect "cat-ness" of the moment. I am transformed, not into a cuddly, soft, furry moggy, but into the fierce warrior lioness of ancient times. I roar, bare my claws and let the light gleam from my fangs. The kids flee, calling me names as they run. Their insults patter off my fur like raindrops; sticks and stones and all that. I watch until they have run out of sight but I can still smell them, and their fear, on the breeze.
My darlings come to me. I comfort them, tell them the nasty humans have gone, that they have nothing to fear. They cuddle up against my belly or climb along my back. Their purrs comfort me after that unseemly outburst. I will protect them.
Am I crazy? Perhaps. Am I a cat? Most certainly. Am I a lady? Only when the mood takes me. My name is Bast, warrior and protector through the Ages.
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