The Postscript
'He's on vigil,' my husband, Peter, said, watching our cat, Felix.
Peter, who never had a cat before Felix, has become the resident cat expert. Of course, he has a sample size of one, so all his generalizations about cats are based on Felix.
I had quite a few cats before Felix, so I feel in a better position to say what kind of cat Felix is. Felix is a lively cat -- he is the most playful adult cat I've ever had. He is not a lap cat and does not like to be carried around.
And he is a fussy eater. The first two make sense, since he spent his early life on the streets. The fussy eating is just Felix. He seems to think that, since he was scooped up off the streets into the lap of luxury (not the literal lap, you understand, because laps are much too confining), he de serves nothing but the best.
Felix is not crazy about his dry food -- which is a very good brand and is nutritionally com- plete. He will not eat leftover fish skin or cheese. He'll eat the occasional garbanzo bean, but it must be warm. I don't know how a cat with such particular tastes survived on the streets. But the one thing Felix likes is tuna, and he gets tuna every day. He gets tuna at promptly 8:30 p.m. because that has been declared by Peter as Tuna Time.
So Felix is on vigil every night from around a quarter to 8 until exactly 8:30. The anticipation before Tuna Time is the high point of his day. (I meant the high point of Felix's day, but it may well be the high point of Peter's day as well.)
Shortly before 8, Felix finds a spot where he can watch Peter -- a place where Peter could not possibly escape without passing him. He stares at Peter. As the hour approaches, Felix slowly inches closer to Peter. He watches more and more intently. Every time Peter glances up, there are a pair of golden green eyes fixated on him. Peter is master of Tuna Time, and every move he makes is observed by Felix.
I'm not sure how our lives became so ruled by this ritual that did not exist before we adopted Felix. Ignoring Tuna Time would be like skipping a sunrise or forgetting my birthday or putting on my shoes before my socks. It's a thing that can't even be imagined. When we go out to eat, Peter looks at his watch, '45 minutes until Tuna Time!' he says, and we know we better be heading home. At about 8:27, Peter takes a deep breath. Felix hears the sharp intake of breath and freezes.
'And ...' Peter's voice rises to a crescendo, '... it's TUNA TIME!'
Felix races to the kitchen so fast his paws spin in place for a moment before he gains traction. He purrs so loudly I can hear him from the next room, as Peter assures him this is the most tuna he has ever received. (It is exactly the same amount every night.)
Felix eats the tuna in an instant. And then he relaxes for the evening. The main event is over. When he was younger, he would wail in apparent grief that the best moment of the day was over so soon. But he has come to understand that, like every good thing, Tuna Time must come to an end. And when it does, all there is to do is wait for another day when Tuna Time will come again.
Till next time, Carrie
