Frankie has been depressed.
Frankie is the neighbors’ huge Maine coon cat, easily 20 pounds. He is a very social cat who enjoys my covered porch (his humans' porch is really nothing more than a concrete step), and he loved hanging out with Harlequin.
Harlequin didn't really love him back, but she accepted him, which is to say she hissed if he got too close, but didn't object if he maintained polite distance. And he helped keep other cats at bay, which meshed well with Harlequin's priorities.
That included him eating food I put out for Lagertha, a feral tabby that Hank and I encouraged to take up residence last year. We had a growing rat problem as Harlequin's prowess waned, and Frankie was no help - I've watched him hunt; he's comically bad at it.
Despite Frankie’s best efforts to bigfoot Lagertha, the plan was working: Last year, rats ravaged easily half the fruit on our Meyer lemon/orange tree; this year, the fruit was untouched.
With Harlequin gone now, I thought Lagertha would inherit the yard. Instead, a completely different drama has been playing out.
As best I can tell, Lagertha is part of a clan of ferals in the neighborhood that I suspect have been TNR'ed - trapped, neutered/spayed, and released. When Harlequin died, basically the whole clan moved in.
A thick-tailed Russian blue tom that used to come through occasionally - Feline Grayjoy - now became a fixture. I'm pretty sure he's Lagertha's littermate, because they're the same size, appeared in the neighborhood at the same time, and have the same close-set eyes that make them look perpetually nervous.
Another cat I had seen on the fringes in Harlequin's waning days was now making bold forays onto the porch. I think it's a female, a black and white long-hair who's very tall and lanky. I named her Sophie Lennon, after a character in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.
And lately I've seen two new shorthairs that look like they were born this year, one black and white like Sophie, one orange and white. They're inquisitive, but lack the boldness that would earn them names.
I love them all.
I have always had the makings of a crazy cat lady, and without Hank around to restrain that ill-advised impulse, this is my big chance.
But earning the trust of ferals is a VERY slow process. Even when they know I'm putting out food just for them, they still run when I open the door. Tactile affection is, at best, a fantasy for now.
Frankie, who welcomes my touch, is pissed.
Not only is he sad that Harlequin is gone, but now he has to contend with invaders that I have the nerve to encourage.
The other day, I saw him make his stand with Grayjoy:
Frankie, whose full name is Frankenstein, is easily twice Grayjoy's size, but Grayjoy's look-big move at the end of that skirmish was pretty impressive. Frankie walked away first.
Then, hilariously, he walked a big loop through the yard to try to sneak up on Grayjoy from behind. Stealth isn't Frankie's thing, though, so Grayjoy saw him in plenty of time.
For a couple days, I didn't see Frankie. One day, after Grayjoy ate some food I put out for him, he kicked back in kingly fashion on Harlequin's lounge and allowed Sophie to eat what he'd left in the bowl.
So Wild Kingdom of him!
I thought he had won. Then I noticed he was limping, and I caught sight of a gash on his front right leg. If you re-watch that video, you can see that leg whipping back after one of Frankie's swipes.
Makes sense. When all other things are equal between two fighters, size wins. At least in terms of physical damage; Grayjoy scored dominance points, apparently.
But after a couple days, Frankie returned. There has been no more fighting, but Frankie is insisting that he has a place on this porch. Grayjoy, still recovering from his wound, isn't contesting that right.
I don't know where this is going. But the drama has been a welcome respite from the loneliness of becoming a one-human household.
You'd think it would be enough for me to have two fat gatitas who crave my affection as much as I crave theirs.
But apparently, it’s not. I don't just need love; I need a story. Lots of stories. Frankie, Grayjoy, Lagertha and Sophie are writing those stories for me.
This is what I have learned this year: Identity is not just fixed traits, but a set of interlacing, ever-evolving stories. I am the sum of all my stories, which are not just me, but also the people and animals and places that intersect with my life.
I have lost a lot of story lines this year: Hank. My food photography. A job that's rooted in hunting, fishing and foraging. Harlequin.
A week after Harlequin died, my favorite uncle died, something so crushing I can hardly speak of it. He was 89. He lived a good and long life. But he was a deeply rooted part of my story, a familiar comfort. Gone.
And more losses are looming.
This year is about watching one story after another disappear from my bookshelf, and writing new stories as fast as I can to patch the gaping wounds in my identity.
So the story of these cats has taken on outsized importance. They think I'm just feeding their hungry little asses. What I'm really doing is frantically weaving their lives - their stories - into mine.
Great read....when my 14 year old son shot his first deer with a bow we had to track it into the night. I was literally on my hands and knees in a thick field trying to track it when I looked up with my flashlight only to be scared shitless by the face of a cat 6 inches from my face. Can you believe this feral cat followed us to the downed deer, then all the way back to my house, and stayed in my barn for 11 years?!?!? This cat named "kitty", loved the fall when we would process deer in the barn.....this article really resonates with me, thanks for sharing.
Oh Holly, what a beautiful piece. "Identity is not just fixed traits, but a set of interlacing, ever-evolving stories. I am the sum of all my stories, which are not just me, but also the people and animals and places that intersect with my life" -- these are words to live by.
And I'm so sorry for the loss of your uncle. Grief on grief on grief is crushing. Sending big, big hugs.