GILES SELIG - MY CAT HERSCH

Giles Selig  writes anonymously in Rhinebeck, NY.   His short fiction and poetry have been published in various print and on-line literary journals, including Chronogram, Pilcrow & Dagger, Medium, Made-Up Words, Laughing Earth Lit, Henry, Edna; and will soon appear in Light and Dark, Foliate Oak, and other publications. He is a retired advertising/communications executive.

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MY CAT HERSCH
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​He was a yellowed, weather-beaten neutered tom with a bum eye and a long brown scab on his nose, but from the moment I first spied him in the shelter I recognized he had a very special talent.  Not many cats have language, after all.  But Herschel did, and learned to understand each word I said.  In all the years we lived together we had countless conversations, some profound enough that I transcribed them in my journal.   I never heard him speak, of course; he didn't have to.  He listened to me very ably and signaled though his purrs and yawns and body language whether whatever notion I advanced for his consideration might be right or wrong.  And if he disagreed (as with my taste for Emily Dickinson) he stuck his tail up in the air like a whaler's mast and sailed out of the room.
The first of these exchanges I remember very clearly.  We were riding home to my apartment in a taxi.  Herschel was on my lap, in one of those cat-carrier things with a screen at one end.  He still had his Tyvek collar with his shelter name, which was "Petunia", and I asked him what he thought of that.  He did not take it kindly.  I imagine he construed as a slave name, like Topsy.  At any rate, it was the only time I ever heard him growl.  "You deserve a better name, my feline friend, and a less demeaning one," I said, whereupon he closed his eyes and purred.  I began considering the possibilities, names no other cat had ever had, or likely would, and the first that came to mind was Herschel Litwak.  Now you may think this was highly original of me but actually it was just the opposite.  Herschel Litwak was our cabbie's name, which I'd noticed on his nameplate.  But the important thing was that my pet would find this name august and singular, and embrace his new identity without question.  Besides, he probably didn't even see the driver's name.
Within minutes I had carried Herschel up to my apartment, which had already been provisioned with his food and litter box and even a couple of kitty toys made of yarn with little jingle bells attached, and bade him please to make himself at home.  He seemed to like it there.  All that afternoon he lay contentedly at my side while I told him my life's story.  Herschel proved to be an excellent listener.  I often told him how pleased I would be if he could say a thing or two about himself, but I knew of course that human language was a one-way street.  It occurred to me one day that I could lay out an alphabet of Scrabble tiles for him to arrange into words, but when this didn't work I realized he had probably never learned to spell.  Poor Herschel, as I gathered, hadn't had much education.  So I began to read to him, everything from Vergil to Vonnegut.  He particularly liked poetry, except somehow Emily Dickinson.  "Invictus" was his favorite.  Sometimes he would paw at me to read it through for him a second time, he identified so closely with its meaning.
I will not bore you of the details our life (or lives) together except so say that we were loyal and loving companions to each other over many years, both in a familial and – if I may say so – in a literary sense.  But sadly and inevitably each of us, in accordance with our biological calendars, approached that age where the small events of every day and hour reminded us that our time here was limited and that the curtain was bring drawn.  For me that happened around age seventy-five and for Herschel it was twelve years plus whatever age he had when I adopted him, which would make at least another two or three, so let's say fifteen.
One evening I read him Bryant's poem "Thanatopsis", which he had never heard before.  He seemed to follow it attentively, opening his eyes and vocalizing at the parts he liked.  I realized then that our inevitable discourse on confronting death could not be put off any longer.  So I asked him, "Herschel, what are your views on euthaniasia?"  And when he did not answer I said, "Very well, then, if you have no formed opinion, what are your general feelings on the matter?"  He immediately got up and arched his back, stood his tail up in the air and blew out of the room.  I thought it prudent not to bring it up again until the following day, and amused myself for two hours until dinnertime by reading several chapters of Moby-Dick.
That day, as I remember it distinctly, was Thanksgiving eve.  I had procured a pre-cooked turkey and, since Herschel always loved good turkey over all the other foods he ate, I was surprised at his indifference.  He wasn't giving me the cold shoulder, as I could easily recognize the signs of that, but the sudden dullness of his one good eye and his plodding gait informed me that he wasn't feeling up to par.  I thought of asking if he was sick but thought it better not to, as sick meant going to the vet and going to the vet would mean not coming home, at least in Herschel's mind, for he could read the tea leaves well enough.  So I held my tongue.  But even on Thanksgiving day he had no turkey and so the next day, which was Friday, I had to take him to the vet and indeed it proved to be a one-way trip.   
I was going to miss him awfully and I'm sure his feelings were the same.  Yet in his own mysterious, catlike way he knew I'd soon be joining him in some cosmic afterlife or whatever.  In fact, it took less time than I expected.  Not six weeks later I myself was at the pearly gates of Heaven and there, reposing sphinxlike on Saint Peter's lap, was Herschel Litwak, waiting for me.
"Herschel!" I cried out to him.
To my astonishment he answered me in perfect English.  "Why must you call me that?  I hate that name!" he practically barked, and I knew at once that Heaven's blessings had endowed his speech.
"But Petunia wasn't right for you," I said.  "I gave you a new identity and read you poetry."
"All of which was duly appreciated," Herschel said.  "Otherwise...  well, you have no idea how boring life can be if you're a cat, especially a neutered one.  But still, you had no right to change my name."
"Sorry, Hersch," I said.
"Now that you're here, maybe we can read some things together like the good old days.  You may not know I memorized 'Invictus'.  Shall I recite it for you?"  Herschel was above all else a very literary cat.
"Since we both know that one already, how about something new?  Like T. S. Eliot's 'The Naming of Cats'?"
"Sore subject.  You know, you really pissed me off sometimes."
"I did?  But I adopted you; became your friend and mentor.  I fed you every day and cleaned your litter box.  We spent quality time together.  We dialogued, as best we could.  And most of all I read to you incessantly."
"Frankly I didn't share all your tastes.  You liked the 19th Century.  'Thanatopsis' and 'Invictus' were okay but Emily Dickinson really sucked.  Poe and Melville were unfathomable.  Twain and Dickens and Conan Doyle would have been welcome, but you never offered..."
"I never knew," I protested.
"You never asked," said Herschel.  "Never even asked, not even once."
"You couldn't verbalize your wishes," I explained.
"But I could signal what I liked," he said, and of course he did. 
"Cut to the chase," I said.  "If you'd had your choice of anything, what would you have preferred instead?  Aeschylus?  Cervantes?  Balzac?  Dostoevsky?  Shakespeare? Proust?"
"Elmore Leonard, maybe.  Raymond Chandler.  Don DeLillo, too."
"I thought we knew each other.  I never would have guessed," I said.
"Where the hell did you think my tastes ran?  Oprah Winfrey?  Danielle Steele?"
I laughed at that and bent to rub the top of his nose next to that big scar – he loved that, I remembered – but he shrank away.  "Don't patronize," he said.  "You can be so condescending."
I said I wasn't teasing him so much as laughing at the strangeness of it.  "Here we are in heaven, you and I.  Erstwhile master, erstwhile pet.  A human being and a cat.  And you're telling me you liked violent, noir detective novels.  I wouldn't call that lowbrow, Hersch, but you've got to admit it's pretty funny." 
Herschel said no, what's funnier is to be a cat named Herschel Litwak.  And then he hissed and swiped at me with his right paw until I flinched.  I didn't want his claws to snag the only slacks I had.  "But you want funny?" he went on.  "I can tell you something funny if you're man enough to hear it."
"All ears, Hersch."
"God, that really grates on me sometimes!  That name, I mean.  But for what it's worth allow me to return the favor."
"What favor?" I asked innocently.
"Wanting a friend, you gave me a human name.  What if I was lonely too and decided to act in kind by giving you a cat name?  What if from now on I called Fluffy?  How'd you like them apples, Fluffy?"
"You can't be serious, Hersch," I said.
"I told you, I detest that name.  So please don't call me that again.  Okay, Fluffy?"  He pronounced this with dramatic flair, holding both paws up to make air quotes.
"I wish to God I'd never taught you English, man," I said.  "But we can still be friends, right?"
"Forever friends," he said.  "But we've got to settle this.  I hate Hersch and you hate Fluffy.  So if you address me with respect, using my proper cat name, then no more Fluffy.  Deal?"
"Sure, but you've got to tell me what that name would be."
Herschel didn't answer right away.  But after several seconds passed he began to purr and rub himself against my leg.  And then he said a single word: "Meow."
 
                                                                -- END –-