MEHI LOVESKI - OLEG

Mehi Loveski (Oleg G. Mikhailovsky) is a bi-lingual author from Russia. His essays and short stories have appeared in several online and print venues both in the USA and Russia, including Essaysandfictions, Dove Tales, FictionMagazines and The New Youth Magazine (Moscow). He lives in Yekaterinburg with his wife, son and a dog.

---

​Oleg
Canticle for a Pet

Picture by Jim Warren
​

​I know how it will be, for this is not the first time I have found myself in that strange place, and yet whenever it happens again I feel the same breathless anticipation as on the first night…
 
 … standing before the bridge over a slow little river. The other side is a lush green of grassy meadows and hills where creatures of all shape and hue are running and playing together. As I stare at them, transfixed, I spot a familiar figure darting cheerfully among others. Tears well up in my eyes as I recognise those handsome features – can it really be him?... I try to call his name but the word comes out hoarse and unfamiliar. Suddenly I see him stop, look in my direction and begin to run towards the bridge, bobbing up and down in the tall grass. BEHOLD, HE COMETH LEAPING UPON THE MOUNTAINS, SKIPPING UPON THE HILLS. When he reaches me, he pauses, momentarily hesitant, then makes a last frantic leap and we embrace – in joyous reunion. He showers me with kisses, his adoring eyes as bright and lively as before. Oh, how long I’ve waited for this moment – all those endless days and nights that we’ve been apart! How miserable life has been without a hope of ever seeing him again even for the briefest of moments… Suddenly his eyes grow distant and sad – oh, I know what you are thinking, poor soul. But no, this time I won’t let you go, we’ll be together, forever. Nothing will ever stand in our way and no one will take you away from me again. I FOUND HIM WHOM MY SOUL LOVETH: I HELD HIM, AND WOULD NOT LET HIM GO.  We look back to where he came from, and slowly, still in a tight embrace, start crossing the bridge… together.
 
When I wake, my eyes wet and puffed, it takes me a few minutes to separate myself from the dream. I can hear Moe and her litter starting to get restless in their nest – it’s time to feed the cats and clean the place. After the chores have been taken care of, I come out to the garden to have a little time for myself. The garden isn’t very big or well-tended but it is an excellent playground in warmer weather as well as a place for me to think, pray and remember people, both humans and fur-people that I loved…
 
Oleg was the first cat that came into my life. As I was walking down the road, I spotted a fluffy bundle trying to hide itself away between a brick wall and a wooden fence. He was very small and too young to be away from mummy, but she was nowhere to be found and no one wanted to know about him, poor thing. So I took him home and soon was held prisoner by that little baby, who wouldn’t sleep in his basket in day or evening, only very late at night.
 
At that time I was studying Russian in North London, so one day I wrote to IFL to ask if they could help me find a pen friend in Russia and soon they sent me his address. He lived in Siberia and was in his last year at university. His BA thesis was on Joyce, while I had a hard time reading Turgenev and Chekhov.
 
In the morning Oleg liked to climb right up my jeans and onto my back, hanging there precariously, until his breakfast was ready. Another of my pet’s “endearing” habits, as he grew accustomed to the new surroundings, was to knock flower pots from the window sill. But he really was such a sweet little soul especially when he climbed onto my bed early in the morning and gave me a greeting kiss to make sure that I was awake and that there was no chance of me doing anything but get up and feed him.
 
Just before the Moscow Olympic Games I came to the USSR for the first time, disguised as a tourist but with the sole purpose of seeing my pen friend. I remember our first meeting at the Red Square, trying to recall the mixed and new feelings in my heart the moment I saw him. The city looked very much like in the glossy brochures but I hardly remember where we went – the famous sights are a blur in the snapshots of my memory with only his face standing fast. Kissing good-bye after only five short days was a very sad moment – afterwards I had a long cry and hoped fervently that we could meet again…
 
I developed a habit of chatting with my pet – mainly in English, sometimes in Russian and less so in German. Sometimes I’m sure he was multilingual. He was such a mysterious, impenetrable soul on some days refusing to communicate, and yet on other days I understood what he said to me, for I understand cat language, too, even though I don’t speak it “purrfectly”.
 
Later that year my pen friend was drafted into the army, but we continued writing to each other. I liked to speak to his photos saying: “It’ll be summer soon,” or “I miss you,” or even asked: “What are you thinking now?” (without any hope of a reply) and “How would you say this in Russian?” (this time a bit more hopeful). Sometimes I wished he could just drop in and share a meal or chat or… what else? “Let’s go for a walk together?... Let’s go swimming, no? Sorry, I forgot you don’t like to get your ‘paws’ wet. Well, let’s go to an art gallery? Or else let’s go to the woods together – we might see some squirrels there…”
 
Oleg seldom mews, just purrs, very audibly, like a Geiger counter, so I often ask him if I am radioactive and, sure, more often than not I am: the “Geiger counter” starts to hum violently, getting visibly overheated, and finally bursts into a fit of uncontrollable somersaults…
 
 The year his army service came to an end we started making plans for our next meeting. I signed up for a four-week summer Russian course in Leningrad – I just couldn’t wait to see my hero, my Siberian tiger again. As the day came closer I felt growing restlessness and I think it was then that I realized it was definitely a “mild” case of being madly in love – after only one short meeting and two years of correspondence. I was so excited I started kissing tulips and daffodils, cats, newly opened buds showing soft light-green leaves and even throwing kisses in the air, provided the wind was blowing in the right direction…
 
Oleg is a really good cat, so good that he floats slightly from the strain. Yes, it is such an effort for him to remain good and modest at the same time that his paws just about reach down as far as the ground or floor. Sometimes he has to relax and hover for a while on the furniture, the mantelpiece or… simply in mid air.
 
Leningrad was a beautiful place. For many nights we roamed the streets in the undying light of aurora borealis, as if in a dream. There was also a night, the night, when all he said was an unbelieving “No, no, no…” while I, positive about the source of my orgastic exultation (“Yes, yes, yes!”), sealed his lips into submission with endless kisses.
 
After I had moved to a flatlet in Streatham, Oleg had to stay at my parents’ as the landlady didn’t allow pets. When I came to see him after work, the little imp was beyond himself with joy and in constant need of attention. If I dared read a newspaper he was sure to come along and see to it that I didn’t. The silly “child” would leap from a shelf or bookcase and land onto my lap or push his way under the paper, leap out at me and dart off. So pretty soon all I could do was “read” Oleg, the Tarzan...
 
The months seemed to go slowly again, but tolerably so, for we knew we could see each other again soon. We just allowed ourselves to be happy, living in the blissful anticipation of our next meeting. Every day I wrote him tender letters while gazing into his hypnotic eyes in the photos on my night table.  Thoughts of him were like a therapeutic, addictive but salubrious drug (gotta have more!…)
 
Oh, sshh! I must not think or write too loudly because Oleg has miraculously sensitive hearing even when he is busy dreaming holy dreams which only cats can appreciate. At the moment he would seem to be asleep but in fact he may be writing a world-shattering thesis on peace… and quiet and steady breathing, and maybe snoring, or perhaps not – that is too base.
                       
Our February holiday in Moscow was definitely the best – never mind nearly losing my voice on account of not taking the Russian frosts seriously. I think we spent more hours in happiness and calm together than ever. That time our “Kissing Tower” (a phrase that became a secret code for our meeting places – after the funny writing on his T-shirt) was the hotel Cosmos. He had a fake guest card with the words Mr. James Bond/room 007 – a boyish stunt that could have cost him dearly in the place swarming with KGB agents and their underlings.
 
Oleg had a lovely time with my parents and now he is back to his tricks making up for the lost time – tipping plants over, scratching furniture and stealing food from my plate while ignoring his own.  He also contemplates an expedition to the “summit” of the lounge curtains, preferably via the north face (or television and book cupboard).The little darling knows he’ll get away with anything.
 
 It’s been hardly three months since we last met but I’m already thinking of our next meeting, counting off the days. Mum wonders why I am wishing my life away so quickly. The summer may come and go but I can’t be happy unless we are together. Excuse me for having a quiet cry here – being two years nearer to kittenhood than you, love, I am allowed one or two teardrops still, especially if it’s over something I want but can’t have right now. You are my lollipop. Hope you don’t mind my calling you that… sweetie…
 
Oleg has been telling me all sorts of little cat things, such as: “You know there is a lovely scent under the small fir tree in the garden,” or questioning: “What’s that leaf you’ve got in your hand?” Oleg is a keen gardener – he delights in pruning the pot plants on the window sill and in the garden. He loves to sit among the plants to encourage (or threaten?) them to grow. He gazes so fondly at them with his mischievous eyes that I think any moment he will caress their leaves with his tongue… and teeth.
 
We were thinking of getting married, ignorant or rather innocently unaware of the formidable challenge we faced. Our next meeting that I’d been so fervently waiting for was alternately blissful and desperate. He lived in the country which didn’t allow its citizens to leave, even briefly, just as it didn’t welcome foreigners – except for a short stay as money-paying tourists. Why were people around me meeting and living together freely while I had to wait for months on end to see my love?...
 
Oleg has been flirting madly with my blue pullover. Perhaps he is in love. Tonight he was busy playing games on top of her and purring. When he paused to decide his next move, I saw he had worked up a little erection which he licked carefully. I think I’m beginning to understand his little cat passions now… I’m starting to show severe symptoms of deficiency – like “stripping” in front of the photos of you that stand on my table. Poor photos! They have to watch – for they can’t shut their eyes – as I get undressed each night and go to bed… 
 
The following year was a hard time for both of us. Still I had enough in my “reserve fund” to book another holiday. I was never going to save for a place of my own that way – but what did I care? This time we hoped to make some enquiries in order to learn if things could work out in our favour.
 
When he came in that morning I could smell that he had been downstairs in the cellar because he was all dusty. Now his tail poses mind-boggling question marks: “To sleep or not to sleep? That is the question.” Of course, one can only expect such deeply thought-provoking questions to come from a well-read cat such as Oleg, who is a great fan of literature – he never misses the opportunity to sit on any book he comes across.
 
Visits to government officials were in vain – the arrogant fat cats didn’t even deign to explain why they wouldn’t let him come to see me. Back at home I tried what I could visiting the Foreign Office, the local MP, the embassy people, solicitors and advisors – but what good could that do if my lover wasn’t allowed out of his cage?
 
This morning Oleg and I shared breakfast. No, I wasn’t eating out of his bowl – I don’t eat meat. Oleg just sat on my lap tasting my egg and licking the butter from my toast. He seems to love sandwiches. I sometimes wonder whether he would like crane fly pate on toast to eat as he reads his morning newspaper. Right now he is reading about Mrs. Thatcher – by sitting squarely on her picture. Such good taste! He feels similar about Mr. Brezhnev. Whenever I open a paper with his photograph, along comes Oleg to blot out the picture.
 
Where has all this year gone, I wonder? It seems to have almost disintegrated around us.  Ever since the last holiday I have been in a state of spiritual limbo … My soul is at its lowest ebb – I find that I lack the energy and zest for life that I once had. Still I think of you every day and wonder if the sun could pass my messages to you. At night I ask the moon, the stars or the clouds if they would send my kisses to you when they look at your part of the world. Sometimes I feel like asking the wind but the wind is fickle – it changes direction and one can never be certain that a message entrusted is the message received…
 
Oleg has been looking for something – what could it be? Is it a lost thought? A stray brainwave? Anyhow, he is satisfied now – at both ends. He has just used his tray and I can tell it from quite a distance. Now he has gone off for a walk – to see what he can smell and smell what he can see. I wonder where his little paws take him and what thoughts dance about in his feline brain box…
 
His last letter was short and dispirited: he wrote he was moving to another place and wouldn’t be able to write for a while. All my subsequent letters to him remained unanswered. I wonder what really happened to my Siberian love. Did he get his paws cold?  Did the Big Cat get his tongue? Whatever happened I know one thing for sure – I shall never forget you, my love, my honey-cat, my eternal pen friend. If I can’t have you, I shall have no-one… except my cats.
 
It is dark, cold and raining outside. A candle is burning on my night table: the flame has a golden halo around it, glowing yellow, fading towards the outer edges. Oleg is being a full stop, curled up on my bed, perhaps a rather full stop, but nonetheless the same large circular dot one usually finds at the end of a story. Sweet dreams, my fur-child. We have another twelve years to go before you leave this earth on a dark February night. Then we’ll meet again – I know how it will be…