SIRK: the kitten that wouldn't die

Ah, nothing like waking up to a fresh new morning, padding down the stairs in my fuzzy pink slippers, eager to have that first sip of tea, and finding a big pile of cat poop in the middle of the kitchen floor. I guess that was the “sign,” the reminder that I needed to fulfill my promise to you, dear reader, and tell you the story of Sirk, the kitten that wouldn’t die. But first, I must pause until I stop gagging.

I think I can go on now.

Sirk (or Cirq as we spell his name in honor of the pretty village of St. Cirq Lapopie) is a not politically correct acronym that my son came up with: Semi-Retarded-Kitty. When we had the invasion of cats this summer, Cirq’s mother was dispatched to cat heaven, along with Cirq’s siblings.

The other cats were not interested in having Cirq around them, and so he started hanging out near the kitchen in the hopes that someone would take pity on him and feed him. He was a very tiny kitten, he showed up with a bit of blood on his forehead so we thought he might have been shot in the slaughter that destroyed his family unit, and he tended to walk as if he was drunk . . . hence, the reason for his name.

However, he was affectionate, and my son took a liking to him, and wanted to let him spend the nights in his bedroom, but my husband said “no way.” He didn’t want cat hair in the house. So Cirq ended up being the personal pet of the executioner of his mother. Life has its bitter ironies.

One night, when we were coming home in the dark from dinner, as I pulled the car in the driveway, the headlights shone on Cirq who stood stunned, immoveable in the middle of our path. My son got out to pick him up and bring him closer to the house, away from the road, but as he approached, Cirq ran away. And we never saw him again. My son would often wonder out loud what had happened to Cirq. We felt sorry for the little survivor, being so small and alone out in the wilds.

My son flew back to the States in mid August without seeing Cirq again. When I flew back in mid-September, I still hadn’t caught a glimpse of Cirq. When I left for Paris, I left seven cats at the house . . . including the despised Rapist. None of these cats were friendly, and none of them ever approached me. In fact, they would flee from me if I was walking towards them. I was hoping they would all leave since I hadn’t left instructions for anyone to feed them while I was away.

When I returned two weeks later, there was a nice looking, young male cat sitting by the door, who expressed his desire to be petted by winding his flea-hosting body around my ankles. I thought he was a friendly little bugger and petted him. I paid the price for being friendly as I was awakened during the night by intense itching on my wrists and ankles.

I told my husband about this strange cat, and when I described him, my husband said it sounded like it was Cirq. Yes. That was very plausible. After all, the cat had the same mark on his face that on Cirq, we had thought was a bullet entry wound. So admiring his pluck and his affectionate nature, I started letting him spend the nights in the kitchen. He spends his days sleeping on a faggot of grape vines that Roger gave me to roast duck over.

Until this morning, he has been very tidy and has been able to refrain from defecating or urinating in the house. He very politely deposits his waste in a little pile of gravel and dirt directly in front of the mailbox in front of the barn. There is a slight stench that greets guests upon arrival at our house, but as long as I don’t have to clean a cat box, and as long as Cirq doesn’t go in the house, I am willing to put up with having to remember to go around the pile whenever I make a trip to the mailbox.

I think his accident was partly my fault. I was very tired from my five hours of picking walnuts off of the ground by hand, and let him in the house earlier than usual so I could go to bed early.

Take it from me; a pile of cat poop will wake you up much, much faster than a cup of coffee.