Lucille Dumbrava

Even in repose, cats are unique. I can immediately identify which cat I am seeing when all I can see is a silhouette or a vague outline. I can walk into a poorly lit room and instantly recognize the upside-down table form of Koala, the ball that is Tuffy, the misshapen triangle of Pansy.

Pandora, a young cat who lived with us briefly, was a side-sleeper - head over the edge of the chair or cat tree, paws outstretched as if in supplication. She'd play with seemingly boundless energy, her entire attention focused on a feather or string or catnip toy for amazingly long periods of time, and then would just throw herself down, collapsing completely, and be asleep in seconds.

Tuffy makes herself as tiny as possible, curling into a ball that seems too tiny to be a full grown cat or tucking her paws and tail tightly under her into a small square. If it weren't for her ears still alert and twitching even in her rest, she could be a shoebox.

Koala has two resting poses, both as ungainly and smile-provoking as possible. Her favorite is on her back, head thrown back, legs splayed, long curly stomach fur rising and falling slowly as she sleeps. It is almost impossible to refuse the chance to rub the creamy gray expanse of fur. Her other resting pose is her vulture imitation. Lying atop a shelf or a chair, she allows her head and front paws to dangle daringly over the edge seeming to be held in place only by determination. She sleeps like this, and sometimes, she stays in this position after she wakens, watching things trough half-open eyes.

Pansy is a wedger. She wants the small spaces between things for her slumber spots. Her favorite is on my bed between my pillow and a throw pillow which rests against the wall. She scrunches down in there, packing her fifteen pound body into a space not intended for anything of her size. In my chair, she shoves herself between my hip and the arm of the chair, furry flesh protruding in unflattering ways. On the patio, she chooses a basket, but ignoring most of its cushion, she pushes back into a corner, looking as uncomfortable as possible.

The original Tuffy was a percher. He would assume the Sphinx pose on the backs of chairs, the edge of knees, the arm of the sofa. He was always in imminent danger of falling off, and occasionally did, picking himself up and shaking, then walking away with as much dignity as he could muster.

Just the outline of a cat is instantly recognizable. Kliban likened it to a meatloaf; Klee suggested it with two or three quick lines. I smile when I see the idiosyncratic form of each cat, so much a part of its personality and the whole that makes us treasure each one.

Lucille Dumbrava is a retired Teacher/counselor whose love of cats and love of writing started when she was a child. Many of her stories about the cats in her life have been collected in a book entitled CatHouse, now available from www.bookstandpublishing.com, Amazon, Alibris and local Northern California bookstores. You can also order directly from Lucille. She can be reached at Ldandcats@catsfamily.com