# Katze

By [TJ Shumba](https://paragraph.com/@tj-shumba) · 2022-07-06

---

**I sometimes long** for summer, for sunshine to smile on me again. Other times I wish it never returns. I find myself too hot to do anything but evaporate all day. In winter I think better, the midday sun warms me enough to tackle the day head on with no problem. Never a degree to hot, never a degree too cold. Always right. It’s just the punishing mornings. Mornings never below zero, but single digits. Mornings with glistening grass sparkling in the sun rise, beautiful until the cold rushes your body. Frigid to the skin, muscle and bone. Everyone can see their breath plume into smoke, cluster, then vanish like it never happened.

Out the back door of the kitchen there is a porch with a singular chair. A chair that waits for me every winter and abandons me every summer — abandoning me first before I abandon it. I sit down on it at eight, waiting for the sun to peek over the houses and walls to warm me up for the day. Sometimes its early, sometimes late. Sometimes the chair is pre-warmed, sometimes I brave the icy winds. But I always get my twenty or so minutes. Then go back into the kitchen, eat some bread and butter. As I chew I think of the tasks I have to do; who I need to talk to, the e-mails I need to write, the articles I need to write as well. A deep droning anxiety hums in the back of my head, worrying about old and new clients. _Will they like what I have done? Will they pay me? Will they continue to choose me in stead of someone else?_

I walk over icy marble tile of the kitchen, then the even more icy marble of the hallway — all bare foot — to my room. I don’t remember when I started walking bare foot at home but it just stuck. My mother would always tell me to wear shoes, then she asked if my feet were cold, then the topic of my bare feet never rose up again. My dad didn’t mind to much during summer, winter was another thing. As the years strode along I felt weird not wearing shoes, like how some people can’t walk around without socks, I can’t not be bare. In heat or in cold, my feet will be bare. Luckily all the bedrooms are carpeted and I can be free to be bare as I write.

My desk. My work station. My forge. I work — and not work — for hours on end. When my door is closed all is jazz, structured but with space for expression — _ad libitum_. Sometimes I tackle work head on with the ferocity of a lion, resting only when everything is devoured. Other times I slack off — play video games, read novels — then feverishly finish before the deadline. And everything on between. Jazz like all genres of music can sometimes hit and sometimes miss. There is jazz done badly and jazz done beautifully. I make sure that I always finish before the deadline, everything fully edited with a day or two to spare. The hum in the back of my head keeps me on track.

In the evenings dinner is served. Four hot steaming plates for the four of us. Mom. Dad. Brother. Me. Mother next to dad, the children next to each other opposite the parents. We pray, and attack our plates. A topic is thrown on the table; how the day had been, how work is doing and so on. The usual. Something deeper sometimes gets thrown, three attack it but I say on the sidelines, most of the time I have nothing to say about the topic. When the topic has been disgust in its entirety, silence. Each to their own plate, each to their own digestion, each to their own world.

Then the night sets in. I look back at all that I’ve done for the day then workout. In the dead of night I feel the workout more. I feel each muscle burn, the impact with the floor as I run, and my own heavy breath. A light sweat dampens my face. My breathing laboured. My muscles scream. Pain shooting aimless. I feel good. When I go to bed a warm halo-like haze hugs me like it misses me.

Some nights I stare into the void of darkness. My eyes heavy. I yawn. But I never submit to my drowsiness— not until the night ages. One night I was remembering a long lost friend of mine. We last were in contact when we were young, in pre-school. I don’t remember his name. Barely remember his face. I can picture a boy with light brown skin and nothing more… the memory has all gone fuzzy and warped with generation loss. But I can feel what that friendship meant to the three year old version of me. How I wanted every moment with him. How I needed to sit next to him during class, and the total despair when that was impossible. A vague memory plays were we are out in the sun playing football with other kids. As young kids usually do, we were all bunched up together kick the ball and each other. I was next to him. Cut. I was in space near the “goals”, the ball floated in and I tapped it in for a goal. All the other kids were celebrating, but I didn’t truly celebrate until I celebrated with him. The tape plays and replays that same scene. Cut. Tears flow down my cheeks but I don’t feel sad or nostalgic. I don’t feel. I don’t feel anything.

Another night a dark cold consumed me from the inside out. I shivered and shook but I felt no warmer. I got out of my bed, jogged on the spot for a while, put on layers and layers on top, jumped back into bed, but I still shivered. I rubbed my hands together. Leg with leg too. I was still cold. I thought I was having chills, but I didn’t cough or feel sick in general. I got out my bed and jogged again — my legs were burning and I could feel a cramp coming — then jumping-jacks and press ups. I felt fine. I flopped back in my bed. The warm haze missing, replaced by that cold. I balled up in a heap of layers, blankets and covers. Hoping for that hug. Any hug. Anyone to wrap their arms around me.

I wake up.

White shirt, black shorts and a camo hoodie. If the day gets colder I’ll wear one of tracksuit bottoms — either the black one or and grey one. My legs lead me to the porch outside the kitchen. I say lead because my mind is still trying to figure out last night. My dream was so-so. 4/10. A bland unimaginative rework of yesterday’s events. Nothing interesting about the fake events and low in the accuracy score on the true events. The elephant was overkill and cliché. I find my self seated on my seat waiting for the sun. Cracked concrete spawns ants ready for today’s shift. They march past chair, past the concrete, into the dirt. The sun peeks over the horizon. The day begins.

The beams cut through the morning cold. I can feel the blood course through my veins, the first time this morning. Heat runs up my legs, over my knees and to my shorts. The air is dry. My nose runs, I check to see if its mucus or blood with my sleeve. I’m happy to see a clear line on my sleeve…a bush rustles. Stop. Continue. I fail to make its shape, but nothing. It comes closer. My heart thumps my chest. It stops. It moves. I’m nearly off my seat looking for a weapon to hold, anything to level the playing field. The grass shrills. A crunch. Then another fleeting shrill. I look up, the stray cat stares back.

* * *

**At school I** befriended the local cat. SC is was called, School Cat. Like most stray cats, she just wondered in and took care of the local rat population, but SC didn’t leave. Instead she boldly sat in front off the staff room and meowed until someone gave her some food. At first the teachers were annoyed, then they feel for her. There was something about her boldness that melted the hearts of even the heartless. She was given a collar and her own bowl after a month.

She later became fully established at school, regularly walking into class rooms through the door and sitting in the back. She would sleep or sit statue until just before the bell rang when she would leave. SC could also be found among the flowerbeds, keeping her hunting instincts sharp. She would stalk, prowl and pounce on incests. Though she looked like she was having fun, I knew that she it wasn’t all fun and games. It was work. These were the moments of her training montage, what she was training for no one knew. Her face looked worked and tired after those sessions, then off to the sun to sleep.

“SC, here, knows the school timetable better than me!” my English teacher once told the the class. SC strode in, took a quick glance at my English teacher, their eyes meant, they nodded, and SC took her place in the back. During that lesson — literature, Shakespeare — I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. A gnawing sensation coming from the far left, below me. The lesson went on. my ears heard, I faced the front but I couldn’t ignore SC. I could feel her inquisitive gaze ripping through the monotony of the lesson. Perhaps this is what she does, she studies humans to be adopted, I thought. She could be looking at anyone in this room, she is not looking at you.

The bell rang. SC was still in the room. We packed. We left. As I walked out the door, SC gaze followed. I forgot about that lesson, about SC and about that feeling. My mind was fully focused on maths. I entered the room, sat at my seat and gave my Maths teacher my homework. Of course there was drama, someone always forgets their homework and we waist a good 20 minutes. The guys who forgot their homework were out the room doing it on the ground. I tackled my math problems while thinking of something else. From the corner of my eye, SC was sitting tall looking through the class window. I snapped back, I was finding X. After looping through a set of logical obstacles I found X. Next question. SC was still looking through. Find X. I found X. She was still looking.

Throughout the day, I was plagued by thoughts of SC. In some lessons she didn’t appear. In others she did. At break-time she was looking over were the form fours hung out, the second storey above the art pavilion. It was now four p.m.. I was by myself, reading a novel. All my friends were picked up. My age mates too. I finished my homework and now I was waiting. SC walked over. She stood five metres away. She sat and began to study me. I stuffed my nose into my book, shielding my eyes from her. She walk over. Stopped. Sat. Studied. She continued until she was half a metre away from me. She stopped and lied on the ground, her eyes closed. We shared silence with each other.

I found myself possessed by the idea that I should touch her. Goosebumps littered my body and back. SC stood walked closer and fell by my foot. Her eyes closed again, but this time I could see her eyes were only half closed. I understood what she wanted me to do. So I stretched out my hand and stroked her. She let out a soft low purr.

The next day, SC walked in during my English lesson, rubbed past my leg and head to her spot in the back. Then midway through she stood to sit next to me. At the end of that day SC leap onto my lap when everybody left and balled into a cute black fur-ball. Her breathing relaxed and effortless. The same thing happened the next day and the next. Soon I was playing with SC during break-time. Soon the whole school was abuzz with the news.

I will never forget the day she died. It was late. She was balled on my lap purring. My dad pulled over. That was supposed to be the the cue for SC to jump off, but she didn’t, she just looked at me. Her eyes were sad. She never looked sad or worried. She always had sharp eyes, eyes of a hunter. Her body shrivelled up and she meowed. I tried to shoo her off. She meowed. I picked her up and placed her on the ground, SC meowed in protest — soft, hushed — but didn’t fight. I swung my bag or my shoulder. SC sat on the cold evening, meowing softer and softer. I waved goodbye. I got into the car. SC in the rear-view sat in the same spot, then she walked inside the school grounds. Her head low, each step slow.

The next day, my English teacher took me out of the class to tell me that SC was hit by a car. She hugged me and told me to take as much time as I needed. I was in the corridor alone trying to think. I tried and tried but all was blank. I couldn’t string a single clear line of thought in that moment. All I could here was SC’s sad meow.

* * *

**I sat up** , faced the sun and waited. From the corner of my eye I could see the stray eyeing me. His head tilting, ears twitching; seated then standing on all fours. He crept closer, a paw at a time. His eyes locked on a sun spot, a few metres from my leg, a rectangle of early morning sun. Step by step he crept, stalking the spot, a sharp look at me then back to the spot. I sat still, cooling my breath, calming my heartbeat. Every deep breathe brought him closer and closer. Until he balled up in the furthest corner of the rectangle. _It worked!_

I tried to hid my smile, I didn’t want anything to chase him away. So I closed my eyes, letting the sun beam into my closed lids. Then a few hours passed. I woke up to see the stray sound asleep, but I woke him up straight afterwards with the chair scraping the floor. The stray whipped up and ran in one movement. He was now a good ten metres from me dashing into the bushes.

I was behind. All sorts of deadlines were due and other projects needed to be started. My wrists burned after typing so much but I bit down and continued through the pain. Turning up the music to max, the “bangers” playlist roaring in my ears, I typed quicker and wasted no time with useless adverbs. So I thought. With the deadline tailing me, I spent more time editing my haphazard copy then typing it in the first place. My head was bursting. Teeth grinding. Tight muscles. That’s the cue. Time to get some air.

The sun was out, a rare summer afternoon in winter. I left my hoodie inside. I walked a fair distance, trying not to think about the deadlines, trying to enjoy the outdoors. God gifted us with good weather. But I was still jerky. I looked to the clouds, the floor, the falling leaves, but my mind often felt and sat in front of my laptop, working on the copy. I needed to breathe. I needed to be centre. To be mindful. To enjoy this moment, this moment in time, this day the the lord made, this time in the place in time-space, or is it space-time?

The stray looked on, on top of a large stone. His head tilted. Quizzical eyes darting at me.

“Mind your own business”, I told him.

The stray tilted his head all the way to the other side.

“I’m trying to relax”

The stray nodded.

“Well, whatever… stop acting like you understand what I’m saying”

The stray rested, his front paws crossing in front, letting a silent yawn.

“What’s wrong with you anyway? Why aren’t you running off or something?”

The stray let out a growling purr.

“So what do you want me to do? Talk about my _problems?_ My _deep dark problems?_”

He meowed yes.

“Can you actually understand me?”

He meowed yes.

“Like… you can understand everything I’m saying? Everything I’m actually saying?”

Yes. With a slight nod.

I talked to him about my deadlines, the stray absorbed, nodding here and there and letting out a meow for approval and that growling purr when he was bored. After an hour or so I ran out of things to talk about. My mind was empty, clear as crystal. After a bit of meows and a purr he walked toward another bush. I asked if we could do it again the next day the stray answered a long drawn out meow, something like “Yeah, whatever”.

I stepped inside, through on my hoodie and edited the rest of my copy. After a bit of work I was done. I submitted the copy in an e-mail, then started looking at cat memes. With every cat picture I saw, the memory of the stray would flash before me. His meows, his growl. His white and brown coat. His eyes. The more I replayed our conversation the more questions I had, the more things I wanted to say. This wasn’t the first time I had a bad case of staircase wit or staircase topics but this time I was limited. I couldn’t call him. I couldn’t text him. There wasn’t — to my knowledge — a Cat version of e-mail too. I had to wait for the next day.

During dinner I talked less than usual. When asked I said that I was still thinking of work and stuffed my mouth with food. They talked about something. I nodded. I cleared my plate, washed every plate near the sink and thank mom for the food. Worked out earlier than usual. I barely got a sweat running before I jumped into bed. I ran some questions for stray — silly things, serious things — for the next day. In the dark, I decided to name stray. Katze seemed to be the best name for stray. Something foreign yet common. Something close but far. Katze is German for “Cat”, something I stumbled on when I was messing around on Google translate. I threw a whole bunch of words but Katze is the only one I remember. Yes, I am a cat person but I’m a curious one too. I have never owned a cat — my mom hates them — so all my love for felines is from afar. The school cat was always some what stray, though she had a collar and a name. I loved her, the first time I have ever loved anything that wasn’t human. With SC it made sense, I loved her. Then she died.

I woke up earlier than my alarm, my cold toes woke me up. My room was dark, lit by the eerie morning light, six on the clock. The carpet was ice cold, like wet ice. I change out my PJs, wore longs, the thermal ones I got from my aunt and a random shirt and sweater. I switched on my laptop, read through e-mails, nothing new. Looked over my projects, three still active due in a couple days. Opened all the docs, reading through all I did the days before. I choose to continue with the article for a tech company, 500 words done, the post is simple enough.

My alarm rang. I switched it off and headed down outside. My heart started racing halfway out the room. I ran back into my room, pressed ctrl+S, then headed out again still a bit shaky. In the kitchen I stole a bite; bread, jam, peanut butter. The sun was already rising. _Maybe Katze is out already?_

Katze stretched in the sun rectangle then balled. I was temped to pet him, but his eye stopped me. I sat in silence, only movie to get comfortable. The air picked up a little, rising then standing still. I tried to fined something to say, everything from the night before vanished without a trace. A thick fog clouded my current thoughts too. Bored, Katze tried keeping his head up, then the sun hit him, his ball got smaller and tighter. He looked at me. I looked back. He closed his eyes. Fast asleep.

Just like the day before, when I got up Katze left. This time I was quite. Katze also left slower, strolling into the bushes. I got back to my desk. I typed and typed. Backspaced almost everything, then typed again. The fog was still heavy; ideas, words and grammar unrecognisable in muck. I saved what I did. 1000 words survived but a few of them will be dead. More than a few. I opened up solitaire. Click. Click. Click. I closed solitaire mid-game. Out my window, Katze was pacing back and forth by some flower pots. His head low, stomping on the floor almost. I wonder what he was thinking about. What struggles was he going through? What was he punishing himself for? I saw a meme were a cat ran up to her owner after some of her food was eaten by another pet. She was so angry! Katze was not that angry, though.

That afternoon told Katze about SC. I told him about how we met and how it all ended. Katze listened. Really listened. His ears were pointed at the start, all the fun parts of our relationship. His ears drooped, eyes tearing up when I talked about the end. I was tearing up too. I was something about Katze, how he reacted — his eyes, his posture, his ears — that hit me. SC flashed next to Katze, then SC vanished leaving her cries for me. Katze started shivering, letting out cold long cries. Katze’s cry. SC’s cry. Both singing to me, burning my ears.

“I don’t know if you can understand me”, I began, “But I can’t take care of you. I can’t…”

Katze let out a sad meow.

“My mom hates cats… above that, I can’t feed you… you know. Food is expensive for humans, let alone a cat.”

I know, Katze meowed.

“I know you wanted me to adopt you… I know you chose that place near me to get closer to me…” — tears ran down my face — “I mean I have a hard time taking care of my self… I still live with my parents. I don’t make enough to live off of too. I’m just still a kid. I’m sorry…”

Katze walked over to me. I bent over picked him up and hugged him. I brought him to my chest. He purred — sweet, soft — right next to my ear. As I cried, Katze rubbed his face on wet cheek, saying “It’s okay”. I sat down in the dirt and continued to hold him.

“I think you should leave… I think its for the best” I whispered. Katze blinked slowly, then struggled out my hands. He walked down the driveway, skipped on the flower bed and again on the wall. He looked back, called to me one last time then jumped over the wall. He was gone.

I stepped inside. Washed my face. Headed to the kitchen. Toasted some bread. Slide butter over the warm toast, watching the butter ooze into a liquid. I ate the sandwich, ripping it into bite sizes before throwing them in my mouth. I then sat at my desk. Backspace. Everything. Start afresh.

* * *

Twitter: @TJohnShumba

---

*Originally published on [TJ Shumba](https://paragraph.com/@tj-shumba/katze)*