Death of Angst

When my eyes have the ember slits of a viper, some humans think I must be plotting death and murder. Although it happens, most of the time, out of necessity, I am merely researching, scrutinizing, and processing feline perfection, because I was found as an orphan under a box. I know now that I must have been in severe pain from having survived an attack by a thug, a ruffian tomcat that wanted to breed with my mother. I remember the sharp claws digging into my fur, the putrid breath hot on my neck. So, no wonder I am skittish; it just does not leave you. The trauma, I mean. My brothers and sisters dead and gone. But, more to the point, leaving me with no one to emulate.

But I was certainly lucky to be found by Adele Petrini outside the building where I now live on the third floor. I think Adele was around five years old back then. Human years, I'm talking about. Just a muddy tiny thing, with messy braids and curious eyes. She wanted to name me “Anxiety,” but it got shortened to “Angst.” I don’t mind; I am certainly happy with the name. I find it important that it's easy for humans to call my name when it’s time to eat.

But by giving me that name, I think it illustrates that Adele is not a normal human. She told me once she was diagnosed with a version of Asperger syndrome. Whatever that means, it has somehow made it so that she and I can talk with each other. She says she talks to me more than anyone else.

Our conversations are stilted at times, full of long pauses, but there's an understanding between us; that is to say, as far as that is possible. Even though she is my adopted mother, she realizes, I’m sure, that I sense things that she doesn’t, and vice versa. The world…heck, the universe…is made up of information, and my information is not the same as hers. Nonetheless, she seems to be obsessed with me, which I certainly don’t mind.

For all the years I have lived in the apartment, it has never been a peaceful haven. Adele’s parents, Tony “Baloney’’ and Mother Stella, create a constant barrage of screaming and shouting. The only interruption of these ear-piercing daily routines is when some strange human comes uninvited into the place. Uninvited by me, that is. I mean, I don’t know how invited these aliens are, or are not invited, by Adele’s parents, but I don’t think the intruders were ever invited by Adele. She goes to school and meets lots of humans her age, but she never asks them over like her mother wants her to do. Adele says that, other than me, she has no friends.

The intruders who do come in our place might say something to Adele, but she, even now at age seventeen, never talks much to any of them. I don’t remember exactly how old she was when she began speaking to humans, but, at that young age, adult humans seemed amused by what she said and how she said it. But, not as she got older.

She began complaining at age twelve or thirteen, up to present day. And arguing. As I see it, emulating her parents. Complaining about all humans, including her parents. Or I should say, she complains to me mostly, and I have heard her complain to Mother Stella. But, then I am usually either on or under Adele’s bed in those cases, trying to avoid their horrible yelling.

It isn’t that I am afraid of the yelling, but, then, cats hear better than humans. My instincts tell me to run and hide when the noise level becomes…disruptive, shall we say. It’s close to impossible to control one’s instincts, you know. The hair on my back stands up, my tail puffs out, and I seek out the furthest dark corner if I can't get to her bed or a drawer in Adele's room.

Then, strangely, as often as not, right after the yelling, Mother Stella begs me to sit on her lap. And she, muttering to herself, strokes me for hours, it seems. It certainly makes me feel better after one of their snits. Out of necessity, she is a sufficient substitute for Adele. In fact, she did that just yesterday. I remember feeling great warmth toward Mother Stella.

But instincts are one thing. My hyperphantasia is another. It is a mental picture, the extreme of visual imagery vividness that can be so overwhelming that I sort of go into a trance. Adele calls it “catalepsy,” which I think sounds highly appropriate. She tells me that she recognizes when I am in that cataleptic domain when she sees me staring off into space with my tail twitching, or when, in my youth, I used to hunch my back and tiptoe sideways.

I have learned pretty much all my human knowledge from Adele, but I had no elders to teach me how to be myself. Therefore, the cataleptic visions. The visions come unbidden - endless fractal patterns, alien landscapes, colors not found in this world. But what is superbly clear is that I see feline perfection. Or I used to. In old age my catalepsy is getting rusty, so sometimes this results in preposterously embarrassing things.

When I was young and my catalepsy was at its imaginary best, Christmas time was loose strings to chase, whacking irresistible dangling things, crashing into the inviting paper bags, and boxes, boxes, and more lovely boxes to leap into. Not so much anymore, at my age.

But after Christmas, for some mysterious reason, Adele’s parents, Mother Stella and Tony “Baloney” always invite Uncle Frank “Ironsides” and Aunt Agnes over for New Years Eve. And they bring along Cousin Henry, the goon, who, Adele has told me, is her same age, which is hard to believe since he is so childlike.

I had yet to understand this invitation really, until, when Adele was thirteen, she explained to me those human oddities the best she could, and she and I began to have some real conversations. Adele told me that Frank “Ironsides” and Mother Stella are brother and sister. And when I asked what that has to do with the New Years Eve invasion, Adele told me that humans have something called family obligation, which means Mother Stella finds it is necessary to invite her brother to the apartment on New Years Eve, whether she wants to or not. Luckily, Adele says, at Christmas they are not invited.

And, venting her frustration, Adele told me what a vomited-hairball cousin Henry is. Her eyes narrowed. Her words curled out of her mouth in a low hiss as she leaned in close. I smelled the disdain in her breath. She complained that she had never been able to play with him. She described how Henry ignored all her attempts to engage him in a game. He just sat there staring, lost in his own little world with a scowl on his face. And he even called her a “weirdo,” and on every visit since. And, engineering a kick, I think he messes up the bathroom floor with my toilet sand, for which I get the blame.

I admit, this invitation on New Years Eve is a concept that is difficult for me to comprehend, but then, Adele thinks the same thing. So, anyway, every year, New Years Eve is a symphony conducted by a drunk woodpecker. It’s not just yelling. It’s glasses broken. All of them talking very strangely and staggering around. It is stinky food. The scent of booze and sweaty human odor permeates the air, mixing with burnt ham and stale crackers. It is the screech of moving furniture, the unified vibration of stomping feet, and the loud TV with horrible music...the same music every year. I can hear them shouting over "Auld Lang Syne" blaring for the third time, while Cousin Henry squeezes in an indistinguishable whiny grievance. And then more yelling and general noise.

I, of course, feel I can do nothing but hide under Adele’s bed until she arrives in the bedroom to talk. Her quiet presence is solace from the chaos. Since Adele and I have really begun to talk, the conversation has been most tense on New Years Eve each year. And the conversation runs about the same each time. She cries and complains and then I say something like “reality may not be reality.”

I know it sounds stupid and pompous, but that embarrassing statement is some of what I was talking about earlier, just popping out of the hyperphantasia or catalepsy or whatever it is. And that's the type of discussions Adele and I have had every time. Every year, like clockwork.

So now this present year…today exactly, as Adele starts up with her usual litany of complaints, I sigh and try to show my annoyance, my twitching tail sweeping the floor. I have to resist the powerful urge to roll my eyes, even if cats can't do that. She grumbles about having to see her constantly bickering parents battling with her loud, drunken aunt and uncle over the holiday dinner.

Normally, Adele hardly speaks, but tonight she continues venting, her words spilling out in an emotional rush. And then she cries and uses enough Kleenex to damage the environment.

I wrack my brain for something, anything, to say that could be helpful advice. Like maybe, a seventeen-year-old shouldn’t be crying? But I don’t say that, because just then Cousin Henry opens the bedroom door and says, “Weirdo!” and shuts it again. Sympathizing, I pad over and rub against Adele’s legs. My loud purring doesn't seem to help soothe her this time. I don't have any easy answers or solutions.

As a cat…a single one at that, how can I grasp these types of complicated human relationships and problems? Feline relationships have to be as different from human relationships as two planets orbiting the same sun but with wildly different atmospheres. Adele talks about loving me; I think that is a human concept far from my comprehension. Trust, yes. Love? Doesn’t compute.

So sometimes you just have to sit with the discomfort and try to get through stressful situations as best you can. I jump up on the windowsill. All I can really do is listen and be here for emotional support.

But, wait. Really? Is that all I can do? The paralysis of my mind is being jostled, replaced by a glacial chill that creeps in from the periphery.

Cats can have a certain train of thought that stems from our more feral instincts. It involves aggression and violence. Yes, if I could just make the aunt and uncle and whiney cousin permanently disappear, problem solved. But even if it's an extremely tempting thought, I realize acting on those primal urges could be impossible. Could be? Well, okay. In my case, utterly impossible. But still, a cat can dream about simply eliminating the source of strife with no moral qualms. But alas, such straightforward solutions aren't so simple in human affairs, it seems. So, I have to think in another direction.

The evening wears on. Adele has cried herself to sleep. The household remains unsettled, and I along with it. I really could use a spot to concentrate, an open drawer or certainly a box; I don’t care which. And I’m getting mighty hungry. No one has fed me. Talk about getting ignored! I feel like biting someone. Looking out the window, I see only the past, because I am old.

Unexpectedly, my whole body convulses. I am certain there is no future. I see only death. It is my age and the result of the damage that monster did to me, way back when. As much as I don’t want to admit it to myself, I am fairly certain my life is about to end. We cats just know these things instinctively. Our time draws near and our bodies tell us so.

Luckily, the last images are still blazing, refusing to be swallowed by the darkness, and, in order to execute my plan, I must tell Adele as quickly as possible. Painfully, I jump off the windowsill and up on the bed. I rub my head along Adele's arm and purr as loudly as I can muster, hoping to wake her. I even whisper in her ear.

Groggy, she raises her head and says, "Oh, Angst, I bet you’re hungry."

I say, "It doesn’t matter; it's much more serious than that."

She sits up, suddenly awake. “What do you mean?”

As she gazes down at me with red-rimmed eyes, I see the fear in her expression as she realizes now that my purring is pain purring, not happy purring, and she senses its importance.

"Adele," I say, my voice barely a whisper, "maybe I do know. Maybe I have ultimately understood what love is.”

Do cats shed tears? I only know that my eyes are blurry and wet.

I say, “I am so lucky that you found me under that box and thank you for our time together. In just a few minutes…well…you see, I am about to succumb to the inevitable. It’s old age. It’s old damage. I will miss you. There is nothing you can do, except….”

I pause trying to gather my thoughts.

“What? Except what?” she asks. Her voice trembles.

I feel so weak. “As a last request….”

She says, “Go on! Go on!” I hear distress in her voice.

I say, "As a last request, when I have stopped breathing, I want you to carry my dead body into the room where the others are. Don't say anything to them, not a word. I hardly need to mention that. Knowing you, you won't utter a peep. Just let them think whatever morbid thoughts cross their simple human minds when you walk in with my lifeless form in your arms. If Mother Stella is standing, make her sit, even if you must force her down into a chair. Then place my dead body gently on her lap. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, of course," Adele replies softly.

But, before I can explain anything more about my plan, or protest, she tenderly picks up my aching body and carries me into the living room, now with all the furniture pushed haphazardly against the walls. I don’t know if it is my dying body or the look on Adele's face, but all five humans, who had been chattering so loudly and raucously dancing just moments before, suddenly fall silent as Adele enters with me cradled in her arms. The television continues to blast at full volume, a jarring contrast to the heavy silence enveloping the room.

Adele looks down at her mother’s feet and, louder than the TV music, yells, “Mother, sit down!”

Mother Stella raises her penciled eyebrows in surprise, her smeared pink-glossed mouth hanging open wordlessly. No one speaks a word as Mother Stella walks hesitantly over to the faded floral armchair next to the hissing radiator. As soon as she sits, the cracked vinyl cushion sighing under her substantial weight, Adele gently lays my shivering body on Stella's expansive lap. Despite the searing pain wracking my feline frame, I still relish the warmth emanating from her thick, pillowy thighs. I curl up into a tight ball, seeking comfort as my life force ebbs…but watching every detail.

I expect Adele to ask someone to mute the blaring TV, to allow silence for my final moments. But instead, she leans in close to her mother's ear, her wispy hair brushing Stella's cheek, and says, "Angst is dying. His last request was to be on your lap."

Mother Stella places her meaty hands gently on my fur, but doesn't move them. Nor does she speak, her eyes wide and lips still parted in surprise. She seems frozen, except for the black tears sliding down her cheeks.

Then I hear Adele say, “I am losing my best…no, my only friend. I will now be completely alone. I am tired of your noise and yelling…you and Papa yelling…everyone screaming and yelling. I think that’s what killed Angst and I know it is killing me, because that is exactly what I am going to do. Kill myself. Happy New Year. I doubt you will notice that I am gone.”

Adele stands up, turns and, does something I have never seen her do; she glares directly at each of the three marauders in the room. Directly into their eyes, one after the other. She has just never done that before. I mean, look anyone in the eye; it’s not in her nature. Ignoring Tony “Baloney,” and without a word, she strides out of the room.

I don’t think Aunt Agnes, Uncle Frank, or Cousin Henry could hear what Adele has said to her mother, but they must have understood something because they are now so quiet. Not speaking to each other. Not asking what Adele said. Not calling Adele a weirdo.

Tony “Baloney” has shut off the TV. Mother Stella begins stroking me ever so slowly. The visitors come over to Mother Stella and say in whispers that they should go, and goodbye. Except for Cousin Henry, but he follows them to the door. Tony “Baloney” acknowledges their leaving; Mother Stella doesn’t.

Once they are gone, Tony “Baloney” says, “I’m going to check on her.”

Mother Stella doesn’t answer. Her eyes staring at nothing. Just like my catalepsy when I am somewhere else.

The room is perfectly silent, except for the thumping of Tony’s receding footsteps. I hear him knocking on Adele’s door and calling her name over and over.

I can no longer feel Mother Stella’s warm hands. Or her warm legs. I sense nothing any longer. Except death spreading its cold blanket.