Lux: Genius Unhinged
Installment Two of a Two-Part Cats Documentary Essay
Every year, around mid-march, Lux disappears into the labyrinthine deeps of suburbia, apparently on some kind of vision quest or sowing of wild oats or something. Rising from the slumber of indoor life her half-feral heart wakes, takes control, and flashes out from behind her eyes like an inmate at the fence. Even before the last of the snow has vanished she begins making forays into the unprotected territories of the neighborhood. So come spring, if you're an American Robin or a newborn Cottontail, or god forbid, a low flying butterfly and you happen to be reading this: fair warning, man.
In summer proper she is seldom seen, appearing only for brief moments, a lightning streak of darkness across the roof of the shed or doing backflips off the telephone poles. She darts in between our feet, wolfs down like a bite and a half of food without swallowing and is spotted again, just seconds later, levitating up to the hood of the neighbors’ car, from which he constantly has to wash her dirty footprints. He’s a nice guy but I still take a certain pride in this. Luxie hunts, she stalks, she tells neighborhood cats to fuck off in very clear, if non-human, language. She paces, patrols, rages, struts, lays squinty-eyed and resplendent in full sunlight. The red highlights in her fur show as it undulates in the gentle, sunny breeze.
Inevitably she returns sometime in November – disheveled, wild-eyed, smelling of wood fires and distant grasses – ready to settle down for the winter. Cabin fever sets in quickly though, and she starts waking up at 4 AM, knocking shit off of shelves and spilling forgotten cups of water, pouncing hither and yon chasing invisible spirits, pacing like a caged lioness.
Restless for the blood of sparrows and green grass between her fuzzy little paws she aches for winter to release her from its icy prison. And so the begging begins. Insisting really. Silently lusting after whatever food she can get, she insinuates herself into the kitchen, the dining room, on the coffee table. Anywhere food is likely to turn up there she is, beseeching, imploring. Needing whatever can get her through the night. Staring. Persistent, incessant staring. If you refuse to offer up a sacrifice from your dinner plate those yellow eyes, half-mad with desire, will haunt you. They follow your fork to and fro and back and forth, until you are burdened with a guilt so great it becomes unbearable. Through it all, though, she remains silent as the grave – she’ll not grovel. But, oh yes, she will demand.
Lux makes the rules and to claim otherwise would only make yourself look a fool. She’s deeply bonded with my wife and daughter but will turn on even them in a heartbeat, purring and nudging with her face one second, all teeth and claws and hissing fury the next. That’s just how she rolls and if you can’t hang – well, too bad. You wanna look Sorcery in the eye, you have to be prepared to get a little hurt, that’s all. She guards her sovereignty like she would an injured rodent; very few get through her defenses. She’s never quite accepted me as part of the Pack. Or Pride, or Clowder, or whatever the official term is. I have been courting her for so long now I think we are finally getting to be friends. One time this winter she even came and sat with me of her own free will. And I wasn’t even eating anything.
