Let Sleeping Cats Lie

The arched back and the long upright tail held an intriguing beckon. Following curiously, I journeyed forward not knowing why or where I was headed. Now and again, the creature would pause and wait for me to catch up, its face askance, as if to say, “could you just keep up?”

Curiosity had gotten the better of me. My body could stop and turn back or refrain from going on. From following. But my spirit’s strong urges gave my feet flight, and my body responded to the injection of adrenaline accordingly. 

On reaching the edge of the woods, my eyes rested on a small clearing beyond some oak trees, a hammock stretched across two of them; and a lean-to, jutting out of place almost obscured between the bushes, added to the mysteriousness of the place.

I stood there for a moment, taking it all in. My eyes made four with the creature who led me here. I wondered why. It was me who would be killed by the curiosity!

They say cats have an uncanny ability to sense energy shifts in people. They also have a sense of mystery about them. What energy shift did I exude? What mystery lay before me. Our eyes made four again. This time I was a bit annoyed at myself for allowing this creature to take such advantage of me all for the sake of satisfying my curiosity. My time certainly was much more than lazing around or wandering through woods aimlessly. I had much to do.

The bastard had died and since I was his only heir, had left me this piece of wilderness and a house I had no recollection of ever visiting. I didn’t even know him. He never made himself known to me while he was in his prime. My mother wasn’t much help either. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” she often said. “Our dreams were lightyears from each other, so we didn’t work out. He went on his way, and I mine.”

Living in the middle of nowhere was not my mother’s cup of tea. She packed me up, found a job as a secretary in a law firm and my father was semi-history.

I saw him a few times in those formative years, and even then, he was a stranger to me. I don’t know how his shy naiveté and my mother’s brash boldness meshed with his resulted in me being born. But here I was being entrusted with a property that was all mine to do whatever I wanted or nothing at all; introduced by a cat that I equally didn’t know. Was this his way of showing me what I had missed all these years? Was this his way of assuring me that he wanted me in his life and thought of me, if not at the beginning of mine, at least towards the end of his?

I have no recollection of him being in my early life, but when I was a teenager, he showed up at one of my tennis tournaments and awkwardly said I “was a force.” I never quite knew what he meant by that, but I was slightly grateful that he made the effort, no matter how slight, to come and cheer me on. It was extremely memorable to me, for he was the only one, loudly and lovingly cheering me on, since my mother did not bother to show up. She always told me of the sacrifices she had to make, so I accepted my place as the sacrifice she made to clothe and bestow what accoutrements she could champion for me.

Through the years, keeping in touch with my father got sparse and I became infinitesimal in his eyes. So, imagine my surprise when the document came in the mail requesting my appearance at the law firm of Snub, Snub and Snub. In his will, I was bequeathed all his possessions for my “enjoyment, use and benefit absolutely.”

I secretly laughed at the name Snub but was gratified that I had had the last laugh.

Was his conscience on display? Why did he think I would want anything that he had owned, and me wanting something that I did not think I deserved? And, why in God’s name did this cat lead me here? Was he part of a quiet conspiracy to lure me into the world of my deceased father?

“Let sleeping dogs lie” my mother’s voice echoed over and over in my head. Only in this case the creature was a cat!

My eyes made four with the creature again. He sat on hind legs and searched my face. He cocked his head this way and that, his tail whipping from side to side, then, decidedly walked on leading the way.                                                        

Coming out on the other side of the property revealed several neighbors’ houses. So, I had come through the back of the property!

The entrance to the house seemed very foreboding, however, I felt a sense of curiosity which propelled me to continue my quest.

The cat bounded up the steps of the old structure. There he was again, taking charge. The door, which did not need to be unlocked, swung open easily. I looked about the living room. It didn’t boast much, but it was cozy and inviting. I looked around, nervously, desperately trying to find a connection between us. Something. Anything that would tell me this stranger thought of me in his peculiar existence.

My feet took on a life of their own, drawing me up the stairs, which surprisingly was in good condition, despite their creaking. My eyes rested on an Armoire in the far corner of the room. I was drawn to it. Nervously, I pulled open one drawer after another. They yielded nothing. In the middle drawer, however, was a folder which held evidence of every tournament I had ever participated in. There was a faded picture of a cat that I had drawn and colored when I was in kindergarten and another picture of a house with a rose garden that I had drawn when I was in second grade. There were a few other pictures of me in middle school and one when I was in High school. Another envelope held pictures of my grandmother and my mother, an Asian woman, and my father in uniform. A soldier’s uniform. 

So, this was all coming together in my mind. My father was a military guy. That accounted for all the absences and the illnesses he had suffered. He wasn’t good for himself never mind anyone else. He did a couple of tours while I was in Junior and High school. After the last tour to Vietnam, he was wounded in a helicopter crash. Captured and given up for dead, he had survived behind enemy lines for twelve years. An old Vietnamese woman had taken care of him, nursing him back to health. He was accidentally found by an American sailor one day while walking on a beach in Hanoi City. Disillusioned and apathetic, he was brought back to the United States. The soldiers wanted to celebrate his return, but he chose to skip the fanfare, retire quietly, and live the rest of his life in obscurity.    

  Why hadn’t my mother share this information with me then. Now it all made sense. I felt guilty for judging him all those years. For being angry at my mother for not telling me about him. For being unforgiving at my parents for making me feel all alone, unprotected, and unloved in a big cruel world. Heart-broken, for I would never get the chance to listen to his stories. To ask questions. To understand why he wasn’t a part of my life in the way that I wanted him to be.

I collapsed in the rocker and sobbed softly. Twelve years of my life had mattered the most to me. Now I knew why. I had buried these feelings deep within my soul, and now that the surface had been scratched by some turn of events, they had floated to the forefront of my miserable, but suddenly rich life. This was his last, sane effort to leave a part of himself; his story, something to connect our spirits in the most unusual of ways. Here I was enveloped in my father’s legacy, learning, being entrusted with the utmost care and love - the part of him that would live on in me.

Cat kept watch all the while, turning his head this way and that, looking at me as if to say, “I’m here for you. Life is not so bad after all. Look what he left you.”

“Come here Cat,” I said hopefully. “I’m glad you are here with me”.