STAR CAT (hommage to Stan Brackage)

Hurundi was a marmalade cat. On second thought, he had a few white patches, which hardly qualifies him to classify as “marmalade” (cat). He lived for seven glorious years, and then the great beyond made an irrevocable call to his instinct to become “inorganic”. But let’s begin from the beginning…
Back in the 1980s, I was the proud owner of a female cat named Sissy. Sissy the sassy, a beautiful tabby. One cold winter morning, I found myself leaving my apartment, to go buy salami and fish for the sass (don’t ask why her diet was made of salami; my “Tasmanian devil” ate practically everything). Still sleepy, I started whispering some vengeful words to the kitty who was purring in the warmth of my bed, under my duvet, while I was out, “chasing” her food. By the time I was returning home, I was in a better mood. The comment of the owner of the grocery store did the job: “May I have a little salami please? The (very) cheap one.” “Who is it for Ma’ am?” “My cat.” “Why don’t you give her a little ouzo on the side? It compliments the salami well.” I jabbered something, then laughed and this, completely woke me up.
Right at that time, I spotted something orange and dirty, trying to entertain itself by chasing its tail. Pushed by cosmic destiny I approached the dirty “O’ Malley-the alley cat”, wondering naively “will he go away?” Well, he did not. Not only was he very dirty, he was affectionate too. And starving. I thought, “well, he should not eat raw food, but that’s all I got now, and he’s already dirty, one more vermin won’t do him any harm. It’s rather the other way around.” So I took a fish out of the bag and tossed it in front of his nose. He obliged and gulped it. The dice were thrown, and I held another fish in front of his nose as I started walking towards the house. He followed me. He came down the stairs and he stepped into the lift with me. Not a sign of fear. Was he courageous? No, he was exactly what his name indicated: unaware of any signs of reality, clumsy, with a deeply-rooted –God knows where- self-confidence. That’s why I named him “Hurundi”. After Peter Sellers in The Party: Hurundi V. Bakshi. The demolisher. The party-crasher. The one who loses a shoe in the swimming-pool.
Sissy was waiting behind the door ready to play the equation Me Lassie-welcome-home-Jim = give the food baby or I scratch you, when she spotted him. By the time we entered, her fur looked like the fin of a shark: all up and spiky. She had a big smile with all her teeth showing, the Cheshire way, only I think it was not exactly a smile, it was a silent –as she was speechless from surprise- hiss, able to blow Hurundi away. And she huffed and she puffed –boy, how she huffed and puffed- and she slapped Hurundi around. The whole day. And the next. And the very next one.
I took Mr Marmalade to the vet and he was found morbidly healthy. All he needed was an anti-vermin therapy, and a bath, and he would be good as new. He took the syrup and the bath stoically, and he started, equally stoically, to eat both his food and Sissy’s. Plus the “marmalade” was really affectionate. Maybe too affectionate. He wanted a hug, my duvet, Sissy, her food, her toys, love, love, love…Slowly but steadily, he was becoming a Beatles song. Even worse, he was playful, and like Pepe le Pew, considered himself to be a great lover, while Sissy only wanted one thing from him: to be kidnapped, abducted, sent to Timbuktu, disappear! She clearly thought he was ugly, lecherous, clung like a barnacle, had no manners whatsoever, and would make a nice rug to step on in winter mornings, when floor is chilly. Could also be embalmed with mouth open: would make a lovely hoard for toys. At night, hissing and galloping and things breaking (there went a lamp, a vase, two glasses, a plate, the curtains, name it…) became the standard lullaby.
I left for a year and had to find nice homes for both of them. I gave Sissy to my father and Hurundi to the mother of a friend. She was too strict and unimaginative for him. Suddenly, he had to be fed at exact hours, to remain seated when told so, and to retire for the night at eight p.m. in the “cat-guest room” where he was to remain until morning -when permission would be granted to leave the premises and go to the kitchen to have breakfast. The lady, before she became a widow, was married to a military. And it showed. Private Hurundi started to feel depressed. And disobedient. He scratched whatever he had the chance to put his nails on, climbed on the fridge…
He once climbed, like Bill Sikes on the roof, on the balcony rail. He had lost part of his skills? Who knows? He fell. This time on the grass, in front of the building. He got away with a few scratches. Detention was ordered. But private Hurundi escaped. Seven floors costed him all his seven lives in his first attempt. He had nothing left to trade the second time, when he flew and landed on cement. Dry cement. He was taken to the E.R. and then a decent burial followed. With excuses to me, regarding the premature death of the marmalade cat. I was deeply sad. After crying bitterly for days, I started laughing, thinking how unaware of his true identity Hurundi died, and how deadly serious he was about his assumed identity. He had always behaved like a star, although he was an affectionate, clumsy extra. A much-much-loved extra. Not a real star, (only in his mind), but a real cat (to everyone’s mind). He was…Hurundi.