World War C

Girbaud, my half-Persian half-something kitten-turned-cat.

I FREED GIRBAUD OUT of his cage today. He’s my sweet-looking little cat who used to be a kitten until this June, his first adoption month anniversary, which for me is his birth month. I have always looked forward to freeing him because he’s a cat. He should be free to stroll and sprint and play. And mate. To my delight, the moment I freed him, he was so calm and quiet. Simply lurching around in our backyard, sometimes moving to our terrace, taking naps, and that was it. Gone are the days when he would dash from one place to another, which made me anxious that he’d try to escape and find his mother cat and his siblings and then, instead, end up finding another home.

Moments later he crept across the lawn, chasing after a white cat. I am certain that it was not about mating because that white cat, as far as I know, is male. And Girbaud, I believe, is not gay. There’s no homosexuality in the cat kingdom, I suppose, unless I am mistaken. Then they pounced, stumbled, scared themselves, and flashed lightning-quick into another yard. In the neighborhood―which happened to be a den of dogs.

I heard the dogs started barking so I checked immediately. They were howling at something that was stashed behind a water tank. I could hear a cat’s mild hissing from there, but I couldn’t see it. I was hoping it was the white cat. That Girbaud managed to flee into a safer place. The cat’s tail was edging around the water tank. That thick, orange tail that reminds of two things: fire and Garfield. It was my cat, Girbaud. And the dogs were barking at him. One white, the other one brown. Luckily the white dog was calmer. Maybe because it was chained that it would rather keep quiet. But that brown feisty dog, it was free and fierce, prepared to attack and bite.

I tried to hail Girbaud. But my stubborn cat wouldn’t listen to me, as usual. At the same time, maybe he was afraid, that if he let the guard off for a moment, he’s dead or injured, bitten, and wounded. It’s his instinct as an animal. Survival.

He was barreling away from the tank, away from the gates. Okay my cat is a little stupid, I realized. He was moving away from his only chance of escape. I was seeing his head and his face now. I didn’t know that his ears would fold so flat onto his head. His fighting stance. And his tail, looking fatter than ever, all fur standing out, revealing its true length, a proof of his half-Persian breed.

I had several attempts of getting Girbaud out of our neighbor’s yard. I even took a plate and a spoon, ceramic plus stainless steel, a combination that would certainly produce loud noise whenever I hit the plate with the spoon. I do this thing whenever I try to summon other cats to make them think I have some food for them. It was effective enough until now because after some thumping three other cats had already made their way to me. But not enough that it didn’t get Girbaud’s attention. I went back to our terrace, thinking of another plan. But I couldn’t think of any other plan than calling our neighbor’s attention. What would I say? Hey, open your gates and let me in. I need to fetch the chaos-causing intruder who happens to be my pet? No, I couldn’t do that.

My pride got the better of me. It was Girbaud’s fault. He should learn his lesson. Some dog bites won’t kill him anyway. But a lot of dog bites would rush him to the veterinary clinic for some serious operation and healing and grooming. Oh my God! I stood up again and peeked through our neighbor’s gates. Still trying to meow and summon Girbaud but to no avail.

He was moving faster now, hissing louder and louder, jumping lightning-quick, pawing and scratching and clawing, like a tiger fighting. The fearless-sounding barks from our neighbor’s dog, the brown one, turned out to be cries of pain as Girbaud scratched its eyes. He scurried up and landed beside the chained dog, the white one. Now it was this dog’s turn to attack. It scooted in panic, going after Girbaud, but a steel bar placed nearby was struck by the chain that locked it, losing balance that the bar fell on the cement, clunking, frightening the dog. Its chain got all knotted, the white dog’s arm somewhat locked in the knots, it ended up begging for help.

One of our neighbor’s maids went out, and I asked her to open the gates. When she did I had conjured up something that made me think twice: I am afraid of dogs myself! How can I get pass through that brown dog? Girbaud was far-flung from the gates, and I couldn’t prepare myself for dog bites in any case. Because two weeks from now I am about to take on a new undertaking, a new job somewhere near my current company’s building. On my first day, what would I say to my new boss? I just got bitten by a dog so I am filing a sick leave on my first day? I can’t. I cannot even afford to file a leave in my present office, during my remaining days, because I am finishing a project manual that will be the thing that can keep the project going when I’m gone. My editorial knowledge and problem-solving intuition compiled in a guide. The information I am accused to have monopolized since the pilot stage to become the project lead I once dreamed to be. And I didn’t fully become one. Just maybe… half-lead? Team lead, well, yes―during the successful pilot stage. But the client’s contact person, L, he made feel I am one all along, made me feel that I am great, something I appreciate and will always remember. Now that I am leaving, several leads are taking my place. 1 is to 3? 4? Or 1 is to 5? That’s the ratio. My deemed equivalence. What would I tell to the colleagues I am leaving if I get bitten by dogs? I am dying because of rabies so I couldn’t help you guys and I couldn’t pass on my knowledge because the rabies had caused me amnesia? Too far-fetched. Impossible. I can’t. I cannot believe that I am being replaced by several people, a couple of them are a lot better than me, but are dividing my tasks by around 30 to 33 percent each, the roles I once-upon-a-time assumed alone. One of them is the editor I would trust to edit my future novels because of her unparalleled expertise. But I guess she’s about to leave as well. What would happen to the project if she’s gone? She had been there mentoring me at times when I found it difficult to communicate, and at times I needed to be guided in my harsh editorial judgment. I leave the project, with the manual authored, the team would be fine. If she leaves the project, if she leaves the team... what? I'd prefer not to describe a catastrophe. If there’s someone whom I believe deserves to be the project lead, then that would be her. On a different note, another one of them is a traitor. A player with a sinister agenda concealed in benevolence. And in friendship.

 

Abruptly I saw Girbaud fleeing up toward a column, but his claws didn’t bury into the concrete surface so he fell onto the ground, vulnerable for an attack. Before I knew, I caught Girbaud in my arms and we were going out through the gates. Girbaud was still hissing as though he wanted to settle the score between him and those dogs. It was then that I realized I should be more worried about those dogs’ safety than Girbaud’s. My cat is a born fighter. And a sadist. If I free him, I end up paying for my neighbor’s veterinary expenses. Can I afford that? This is a decision I am not yet ready to make. I’d have to consider carefully, like how I considered moving on and let a deserter enjoy a make-believe glory. The deserter better be careful. There are lots of players left in the battlefield, players of the same kind.