My life with a supervillain

The day that Vanda left, I noticed some strange patterns that made it seem like an odd sort of departure; a departure from the usual ways of her departing, if you will.

On most days, she would finish her food, especially when the meat was cooked to her liking, before she left to survey the neighbourhood. On most days, Vanda’s eyes were big and cute-sy as if widening in preparation for an exciting adventure. That day, her green eyes seemed to narrow as if in cunning; as if she were on the prowl for revenge. That day, in my heart, I felt an unusual swell of anxiety, even more than usual.

After the first 24 hours, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Not as if to tell me that something had happened to her, but as if she had changed. Little did I know that she would be driving the imdoor people deeper underground, running for cover, cowering in her very presence. They were forced to cram into small spaces, picking up diseases that they were themselves immune to, but transmitted to others when they moved around to gather food. The imdoor people were seen as burden on the society, a community that the architects of modern day civilisation (or what was often touted as the modern day civilisation) sought to eliminate. It wasn’t uncommon for their sources of water to be poisoned, and sometimes they would be brutally beaten with force so heavy that many succumbed to their injuries and died. This usually happened as an indication that they had stumbled into an area where they were not welcome into, but some days it seemed like that was everywhere.

To imagine my sweet Vanda, upon whom I had showered so much love and affection, launch such a scathing attack on the already oppressed, shocked me when I learnt the truth. I had expected to uncover strange stories, but this was heartbreaking on so many levels. No matter what methods I tried to change her ways, I suppose I was never truly able to tame her primal ways of resorting to violence against the imdoor people, against whom her kind were often pitted in TV shows, folklore, textbooks, and everywhere else that young ‘uns looked to for facts. 

After the following 24 hours too had passed on, the bad news seemed fallible in contrast to my memories of her. Images of her soft body curled up next to mine and her golden curls – there were always a few strands that shed onto our pillow – flashed in front of my eyes as I just opened them in the morning. The strands sometimes made me sneeze, but finding them while cleaning the linen always made me gloriously happy as it was evidence of her presence in the house.

My friends invited me out for a beer that evening. They expected me to be heartbroken, as I was. They shot me advice, they wrung their hands in helplessness, they talked to me about topics besides it to help me take my mind off it, but they wouldn’t have to return to house without Vanda. I tried to tell myself jokes about how I wouldn’t have to clean up after her anymore or that nobody would topple anything over anymore as they clumsily hurried about the house as a way to release nervous energy. But wherever I looked, I saw markers of the home I built for and with Vanda.

It was certainly a bit of a shock to realize that there was another side to a being that I thought I knew so well. I had never questioned the intimacy; it was just assumed to exist and it was assumed to be deep. Well, I surely had learnt my lesson to drop the naivete for the next time I got into such a living arrangement – but who am I kidding, I might not either. It was too early to decide how things would go. Right now, I was still discomforted to know that she had a long-standing standoff with the kukura people as well. Nobody’s stories really aligned about where the enmity had begun, but everybody certainly agreed upon the violence and gore that was often part of such encounters. The reason I was hesitant to believe in this was because Vanda had met a member of the kukura folks, right in front of my eyes once! And she had interacted with her characteristic gentleness and shy, friendly ways. It had always been such a pleasure to watch her greet others who passed by our window or those who visited our house from time to time. There was hardly anybody who had not been charmed by Vanda, even those who were suspicious of her kind.

And yet, here I stand, discovering for myself that my cat is a supervillain in the streets. At my feet, she has left the innards of an imdoor, or a mouse as we call them in the English language. I was to not toss it away in front of her, lest I appear to be displeased. This would only make her try harder to please me, and I frankly did not what those kind of dynamics in our relationship. My neighbours had told me that they had found her on the branch of a tree outside our compound. She seemed to have climbed it to escape a kukura – that is a dog – and had then forgotten the way back down, while being frozen with fear in response to the rude shock of the loud barks and antagonising approach. How could anybody resist her gentle eyes and respond with anything but adoring curiosity?

In her own head, Vanda must think that she could do no wrong at all. Her offensive, always executed with charm, grace and casual aloofness. No wonder I had always seen her as a harmless kitten and mollycoddled her. While it took me a moment to adjust to this new side of her personality, I had to admit that I was a bit proud. But when it came down to the rudimentary, I was actually just proud of my cat’s primal response to the supposed hierarchy of the food chain.