NONFICTION: Cradling the Cat, Bernard Grant
Cradling the Cat Bernard Grant In pictures, Marissa is a mass of black fur, no face. Only her eyes appear, big and yellow, though at night her pupils expand and her eyes resemble big black buttons. According to the paper that was taped to her cage, she’s a medium-haired domestic. I’m no expert, but I see her as long-haired, especially when she stands beside the short-haired tabby that lives here, my roommate’s cat, an attention-seeker. Marissa is shy, though not quiet. She squeaks and coos like a baby. She’s a year and a month old, a teenager in cat years. True to teenage nature she finds ways to complicate her caretaker’s life. She sits on my books while I’m reading them, wakes me at odd hours, pawing and meowing, and decides my bed is best to explore while I’ll making it in the mornings. She climbs into crevices—to what end, I’m unsure—and onto bookshelves, knocking pens, paperclips, and other small items to the floor, frightening herself. Sudden sounds and movements send her dashing into the closet. She’s new to this house. I am, too. When my sudden illness—an atrophied cerebellum, ataxia—illuminated the difficulties I was having with my... Read More