Counter Cat

You've heard of counter-espionage. Counterculture. Counter-clockwise. Counterpoint. Counterweight. Counterfeit. Counter-productive. Countermand. Then there's Milo, counter-cat. He's my new, adopted fourteen-month-old Siamese. He resides on counter tops. In the bathroom, when I'm drying my hair, he's right up with me, purring away. And during teeth-brushing, he has two paws in the sink and his head under the tap, drinking. When I'm in the bath, he lies up behind the tub. Sometimes he tightropes his way around the edge of it.

But it's on the kitchen counter he's most at home. If I'm there, he's there. Of course, his food bowl is in a remote corner by the toaster oven, a little used section. (Maggie, our Great Dane or the poodles would get it if it were on the floor.) His favourite place is among the bags of groceries I've put down when I come in from the garage. He weaves in and out of them or else sits yowling expectantly by the one with the meat. Chopping vegetables is a dual act with Milo in curious observation as I wield the knife. He helps my husband toss salad. He's jumped up by the stove and cautiously approached a sizzling pan. He's eagerly by the sink as we scrape and stack the plates after dinner. Doing the dishes fascinates him. Sometimes he thwaps at the water. And he's a frequent pest at this counter where I have my desk. There's a light that gives off warmth. Niger used to like to lie here, too.

All this is very unhygienic, I realize. I know where cats' paws go; what cats' paws do. I should have rules. No cats on the counter. It's disgusting. Hu Jin, the kitten, is too little to get himself up as yet, but I suspect, observing Milo, he'll be there as soon as he can make it.

I guess I like the companionship of having a counter-cat. He could simply be curving himself around my legs. His need to be "up there" speaks of his curiosity, his need for association...closeness, even. A cynic, a cat-critic would say he's only after food. And that's partly true. Cats are opportunists. But I also believe Milo is a natural "interactor", an exceedingly responsive, sociable cat; that if he could talk we'd be having a conversation about the state of things. As it is, he's a silent partner and I welcome him, germs and all.

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I wondered how I'd feel the first time I saw a coyote since I saw one carry off my beloved cat Niger a few weeks ago. Apart from feeling distraught and sick-at-heart, I've felt a certain anger at the number of coyotes there are around and how they impinge on our lifestyle. I resent not being able to let my animals out when I'm surrounded by so much land.

Coyotes have no natural enemies. They simply kill and reproduce. The deer, on the other hand, are equally prolific but they're essentially harmless, except for chomping in the garden and carrying the threat of Lyme Disease. And yet every year, the deer are culled in significant numbers. Why aren't the coyotes culled as well? There are lots of them and they're becoming bolder and more aggressive.

I realize this is an ancient problem. As we encroach on wild creatures' habitats, they encroach on ours. And become a threat. It happens in Africa with lions who kill livestock and elephants who trample crops. It happens in India where Tigers actually attack humans. It happens with wolves and ranches out west. It happens on Vancouver Island where mountain lions drop out of trees on children in playgrounds. It happens with devouring grizzlies in National Parks.

In most cases, I sympathize with the animals. But for some reason, coyotes don't arouse my sympathy. They aren't magnificent or noble. They're not symbols of great strength and courage. They don't appear to have a complex society. They're simply predators, scraggy, wily survivors.

So I expected to want a gun when I saw a coyote after Niger's death. The other day, the dogs were frantic and I saw out the windows that one had appeared. He was tall and golden with dark shadings, like the wildflower meadow out of which he'd slunk. I was surprised at his heft and full coat. He was in fine shape. Except for his skulking carriage, he could have been any number of similar-looking dogs at the park.

And what did I feel? I felt a kind of fascinated horror and some revulsion. But something else wierd struck me. If he was the one who had eaten Niger, then Niger's flesh and blood and bone had contributed to his flesh and blood and bone. Niger was in effect, living on in the body of the coyote, nurturing it. That didn't exactly make me feel great but I imagined having to put Niger down as an old cat. (He had a numer of years left, but he was eleven.) When that happened, we would have taken his body and placed it in a grave on our property, where I would have put some small memorial: a beautiful stone, say. And the grave would have been a constant reminder of how wonderful he'd been; how much we missed him. We have animal graves at every house we've ever lived.

Niger's life force, what made him who he was, remains with us only in our memories. But instead of rotting in the ground his physicality is living on in the physicality of a free creature. I hate that it happened, but there is some awe, some comfort in knowing gorgeous, gregarious Niger is part of an infinite continuance.