The tiger’s cage and a treasure box

I

WHEN I GO OUT, the blue cage is bare. Girbaud must have bolted out of it. And maybe he is now running in the backyard, creeping across the lawn, or pouncing with some other cats somewhere in our house? Of course, he isn’t. It can’t be like that today anymore. It can never be. This is the day we buried his remains.

I gait toward the cage to make some final cleaning. This was Girbaud’s cage. Was, because after all that’s one thing death can change permanently: the shifting of verb tenses from present to past. I pass by our terrace, and just nearby the terrace door sits, motionlessly, the litter box Girbaud had used whenever he had to excrete his solid and liquid wastes alike. The gray mixture of gravel and sand, which Girbaud couldn’t do without whenever he needed to answer to nature’s call. He’d been trained really well in doing this. There were times he would cry aloud just so I would give back this translucent, plastic box inside his cage for him to pee. Or poop.   In the hallway―which serves as my mother’s miniscule garden where she grows her gumbo and eggplants and birds of paradise and orchids and other species of plants unknown to me―assemble in parallel the yellow and blue feeding bowls I bought for Girbaud when he was still young. This pair was maybe his fourth or fifth, because the ones we initially handed him were real human bowls. Which were too big for his taste. And for the size of his cage. The blue bowl is empty, dry as bone; the yellow one is half-filled with water. This might have been the last water he drank before he had succumbed to death. If he ever had the chance to drink.

When I reach the cage, the black tray usually kept safe at the bottom part of it is missing. And then I remember my mother laid it against a dried tree trunk in front of our house. Just beside there, almost near to the spot that serves as Girbaud’s final destination. That spot was where Girbaud usually stayed every once in a while whenever I freed him out. That was the spot that made me anxious because it was past our gates, though still part of our lot. It was the spot where I usually found it real difficult to fetch him back and drag him inside because you would have to pass some layers of stems to get to it. Which I fear would give me some itch. Skin allergies, I mean. It was the location my mother had chosen for my sake. Because when I arrived home last night, I cried so hard, wept even, I made it a condition for my quieting that Girbaud should be buried either in our lot or in the cemetery where my father’s remains have been kept safe. My mother chose the former this morning, and I didn’t question why anymore, because at least the choice was one of the options I requested. Had Girbaud’s remains been thrown away in the middle of nowhere, I would have started a revolution.

II

WHEN GIRBAUD WAS STILL alive, the black tray served two purposes. First, to serve as the basin where any particles such as excessive gravel and sand, or even feces Girbaud occasionally failed to shoot into his litter box, settled. I cleansed this tray once a week. When I’m home. No one initially dared to touch this tray of stench that could assault one’s senses. It was definitely reeking. But when Girbaud got older, the reeking had worsened that if the tray wouldn’t be cleansed regularly, the scent of it could bring tears to the eyes. My mother was forced to act as a caring grandma for my cat. Who was actually like my own kid.

Second―if this tray had been cleansed with water and soap the scent of spring flowers, you wouldn’t think it reeked―to serve as Girbaud’s bath tub. I bathed him once a week. A task I was the only one who dared to do. Girbaud loved bathing. There were occasional times, though, that he acted schizophrenically. He pawed me and tried to bite me whenever I bathed him. There had been several times that he buried his claws into my wrist. I didn’t bother, as a mild staunching on the bleeding part would do for me. And I don’t think cat claws can obtain vermin. If they can, maybe, fortunately, I’ve been immune.

Bathing him, I’d normally fill the tray with fresh water. And then fill another basin, the real kind of basin, heart-shaped, red in color, with cat shampoo and water to create a bubbly mixture of mild soap. I bought this basin when Girbaud was still young as his litter box. But as weeks went by the basin proved to be undersized for his mass. But it made a good place for him to lay on his back, like how Cleopatra would do on her bench.

Then I’d submerged my cat into the fresh water basin, there were times he protested though I needed to take him out, and gently lather the mild shampoo mixture I made, starting with his back, arched, then his tail, and the rest. I usually didn’t do so much for his head because I feared the shampoo might get into his eyes, he might be blinded. I’m not a professional vet, not even tried to be one, and Girbaud was the first cat I bathed. And cared for so much. Well, first kitten. After all he lived a whole year of his life as kitten and around five months as cat. I’d always remember him as the former.

And using a water hose, I’d rinse the bubbling down the drain. Until he was squeaky clean. The final touch was to wrap him in a towel. His first towel was that used towel I found in the closet, the color of yellow that had faded through time. But when this towel turned out to be like a dirty rag, I replaced it with the one I used when I was a kid. It was still a used one, but it looked more decent, still decent, and I was the one who used it years back. It was one of my favorite towels, the color of royal blue, with that finely woven pattern you could usually see in Chinese dresses during special occasions. With the towel wrapped around Girbaud, he would look like a royalty. Blue and orange, the towel and the color of his fur, a good combination based on the color wheel. I’d lift him high up in the air, his whole body dripping with water, his head moist a bit. My little tiger is done bathing, I’d think.

I glance now over my shoulder and see the towel is still there. I reach for it and fold it evenly.

III

I USE THE WATER hose to wash away the dirt from Girbaud’s cage. Some spider webs intercepting across the tiny bars, webs that had caught some of my cat’s fur. Or maybe these webs were, in fact, just his strands yielded into such a form at occasional times that he’d rubbed his body against the bars?

My initial impulse is to keep the fur strands, in addition to the strands I cut from Girbaud before the digger my mother had contracted with finally poured the earth, in which sooner or later Girbaud will be in one with. But I change my mind. I’ll preserve the last strands I got from my cat inside this tiny milk-feeding bottle I bought for such purpose. And I let these strands pass. Then I put the blue towel inside the cage.

I reach for the litter box and empty its content, scattering the gravel and sand over the grasses where Girbaud usually played. And make a clean out of it. I pour a strongly scented detergent and wash away the remaining sand particles. I splash water into it. Until the powder detergent bubbles, until the scent of the detergent conquers the old scent previously there―the scent of Girbaud’s stench down the drain.

I make a sound, somewhere between a sob and a snort. I force myself to laugh, but my vision blurs with tears. I’m at the verge of some kind of a breakdown.

I pace to the gates and get the tray, there motionless nearby his tomb. I stutter the last call. “Girbaud.” But there is no answer. I get back to the house. He can never answer with that soft, arrogant meow again. He will never answer again. Because he’s gone. Down there, he’s sleeping, and he’ll be doing this. Forever.

IV

I SEE THE CATS roaming around, those cats Girbaud used to be with during occasional playtimes. They were half-visitors, half-residents in our house: there most of the time, gone during Christmases and New Years. Maybe our neighbors have more food for them than what we can offer. Girbaud used to play with them. The one is orange with some white parts in his chest; the other one is a tri-colored female cat whom I assume Girbaud wanted to mate with. There were occasional times that he would sniff this female cat’s genital when she passed by, but he didn’t have the chance for he was locked most of the time. I must admit I have some regrets, because it was me who didn’t want this cat for Girbaud. And now, Girbaud’s generation ended with him alone.

My over-protectiveness. I wanted to get him a female Persian cat, one that’s virgin, one that he could have well-deserved for a cat of his looks. Of his kind. He wasn’t pure Persian. His mother was. And still is. His father unknown. I would think, whoever his real cat father was, it was from him that Girbaud got his color. The color of burning coal. And then he might have inherited from his mother cat the other features. Soft, thick but medium-sized coat, the liking of winter jackets. Plump jaws, rounded face, and almost flat mouth. And those bluish-gray eyes. The color of gravel with a tint of the sky. Our neighbors said he’s cute. He was. Like a Mestizo. His combined descents earned him a little more admiration and attention.

It was Girbaud who made me realize why my late father, at occasional times, had scolded me on days I went home so late. When I was a student. Now I know. Only I’m not really a father. But in some ways this cat made me realize that fatherly affection really doesn’t have to take place just between two human beings. There’s this kind of affection when someone cares for an animal so much, it becomes his child rather than a pet. Beyond the boundaries of fatherly affection.

Maybe that explains my behavior when I saw Girbaud. His motionless body. I tried several times to call his name when I arrived, hoping that he was just sleeping, or maybe he was just in a coma, but he was not responding. I lifted his cage, tried to shake him awake. No response.

I tapped his head. That was then that I got the feel of the coldness. The stiffness. He can’t be dead, I thought. My tears began to pour down on my cheeks. A few moments later, I could hear my cry. And I myself was confused if it was a laugh, or scream, or strangle. A sound coming out from me, the voice of my despair. I didn’t care so much what our neighbors would think. Someone feeling a sense of loss knows only a single sensation: sorrow.

I opened his cage, brought him to the terrace, opened the lights, and made some adjustments to make a decent place where I could guard him. Unknowingly I was trying to make him a decent funeral. Or a decent hospital. Whichever was applicable. My mother, though I think she was affectionate to Girbaud, didn’t really allow animals inside our home. It’s the fur. I took my blanket and my pillow and slept beside him. Outside the house, in the terrace, where it was cold. I wanted to be beside his body, whether a corpse or not, at the very last moments, because even if they said he was already dead the moment I arrived, even the moment I was still travelling, it was either I wanted to believe in the power of my faith, in miracles, or that I wanted to pretend he still was alive to lessen the agony. Whichever was my case, it did help me survive the night. Maybe. As far as I know I’m still alive. The pain hadn’t killed me.

V

EVEN ON MY WAY home, I had that same old feeling I felt when my father died a year ago. The moment I saw those colorful, well-lit buildings of shopping malls at the entrance to my hometown, the only hue I saw was the color of agony. If it even had its color. It really didn’t make that much of a difference. Losing a father. Losing a cat. Losing a child. I was too affected Girbaud wasn’t just my pet. Perhaps this thinking can qualify me to the borderline of lunacy. I don’t know.

In the months and years to come, my weekly visit to home may feel a little different. I still have my family, for sure, and I’ll never want to lose them. But a longing cat won’t be there waiting to make some noises the moment he hears the clunking of the gate as I open it. No one will make some noise again, in early Saturday and Sunday mornings, the time he hears my footsteps. Girbaud was something of a whiz with footsteps. He used to recognize the rhythm of my walk, I’m pretty certain. And when he did hear it already, he made some noises. Demanding meows.

It must be a period of adjustment. The fact that his remains will be part of the earth in our lot can be either a pro or a con. Depending on my outlook. He’s just here, and I can pretend he’s still pouncing around, lightning-quick, as he is. As he was.

VI

WITH THIS LOSS, I received a lot of sympathy. Today and last night. Condolences, they say, which I interpret as sympathy. Sometimes, all things people say can be meaningless when you’re in despair, though I really feel and appreciate that they are trying their best to comfort.

One thing that struck me, though, came from someone I didn’t expect would give it. Schuy. She was an officemate before. But we never had the chance to bond. To get to know each other. Except for some occasional times we crossed paths along the hallway. Very rare hi’s and hello’s. Occasional smiling.

She said, “You have moments to cherish in your heart.” She’s right, I realized.

It’s time that I stash Girbaud’s stuff, somewhere safe. The shampoo, the litter box, the towel, the tray, the basin, the feeding bowls. And so on. Maybe in the cage. Someplace where these things can be safe. And everything else will be kept somewhere else. Even memories. Moments. Somewhere in my mind, they will linger. Be protected and be cherished.