A Language of Their Own

The plaintive mewling from under my window was so gut-wrenching that I got out of bed to investigate. My cat sat right up to the edge of the window screen, not moving a muscle, tail hanging straight down, as we listened to the soft, almost human sobs coming up from the bushes. I bent over and rested my cheek on my own furry friend as we kept watch together with the sad little fellow far below.

I recalled earlier that evening watching one of our residents lead her elderly Puerto Rican dog out for his usual walk. He was a typical apartment sized dog, a bit larger than a Chihuahua but smaller than a beagle. He was never aware of his dimunitive stature and carried his curled tail like a banner. In spite of arthritis, he never walked, he pranced.

Sometime during his evening strolls, he had acquired a buddy, a stray cat from one of the parking lots, who took a shine to him. We were never able to explain it. It was extraordinary to see how these normally antagonistic species became such fast friends.

The black cat was shiny sleek and must have been a pretty good hunter because he was well filled out in spite of sleeping in culverts. He lurked under the bushes at the entrance of our building, waiting for the first sight or sound of his little black and white canine pal, then he would spring out to play.

They were more than casual aquaintances. Picture the dog on his leash, preoccupied with finding a place to take a leak or pooh, and the black cat pouncing and dancing in front of him. There were lots of kisses on the greying muzzle from the frisky feline, but no nonsense, and without breaking stride the unlikely pair would continue their way to grass, or mulch, or tree. Every so often they touched noses, but just kept going until out of sight.

Once I tried to get a picture with my cell phone. I had the feeling that this was a minor miracle and wanted to document it for skeptics. The cat was so shy that his instincts did not trust me to get close enough for a photo and, as it turns out, I missed my chance.

Thursday night, the little Puerto Rican dog had a stroke. We heard him crying during his trip up the elevator. When he came back down for the last time,we did not need to be told they were taking him for that final awful trip to the vet. His mistress was weeping, her daughter was crying, and soon we all were in tears watching them carry the little fellow out to the car, swaddled in his quilt. The vet did have to put him to sleep.

His mistress was known for her wonderful way with animals and some of her gentleness no doubt gave this unlikely pair the environment to become friends and blossom. Who could have guessed that this bright little spotted dog, who only understood Spanish, could have fallen in love with such a dashing streetwise feral feline? Their simple delight in each other was special and precious.

Now the desolate cat lingers by our front door, waiting for his friend who isn't there.