Little Mac

"No matter how much cats fight, there always seems to be plenty of kittens." - Abraham Lincoln

Our friends invited us to come visit a bird park near their apartment. We wandered through crowds of families, past children who were excitedly stretching out their arms as far as they could through the double bars to reach the animals that frantically scrambled for any morsel they could snatch. The kids seemed especially keen on feeding the monkeys, which were in their own section of the park. Mothers stoically watched their sons climb up the bars. The monkeys eagerly mirrored the boys’ actions, climbing up their own cage’s bars. Reaching the top of the gate, the boys would then carefully balance their weight as they tipped themselves over, leaning forward to offer their fruit roll-up or cheese curl. We enjoyed the sight, little monkeys feeding other little monkeys.

Suddenly, destiny stared us in the eye, and destiny came in the shape of an emaciated, barely-able-to-mew kitten. Mover, one of my flatmates, first spotted the kitten, shivering and looking pathetically alone, by the park’s bathrooms. A man smiled at Mover’s attention and, perhaps as a kind gesture, kicked the kitten towards her. The little guy toppled over himself and began mewing desperately. Mover gasped, took him up in her arms, and ran over to us to show us what she found.

Once little children saw us holding and petting the kitten, they shyly came over to watch. We carefully held out the little fuzz ball and asked if they’d like to pet. Some tentatively reached out their fingers and giggled when the kitten looked at them with as much curiosity for them as they had for him. Bird, my other flatmate, noticed how the way one person changes her treatment of an animal changes the way everyone treats the animal. All it takes is one person.

Mover had already introduced the idea to Bird and I of adopting a cat while we were here. We welcomed the idea, and when this tiny possibility looked up in our eyes, we couldn’t say no. We tried to logically examine the pros and cons of the decision, but within five minutes, Bird settled the debate by determinedly walking out of the park with the little one wrapped up in her scarf.

Now in our friends’ apartment, searching the Internet for instructions on how to care for a feral kitten, we watch as the small bundle of fuzz and ribs transforms into a death machine as he attacks and devours spoonfuls of wet cat food. His aquamarine eyes are frozen in an incredibly sad expression. They look like giant pools of depression, the epitome of sadness. I think I hear violins playing whenever he looks up at me. His tangerine orange fur and white belly will look nicer once we give him a bath. He’ll be a cute kitten once he starts eating. I notice that we keep using the future tense with him.

Our friends speculated on a name. One guy suggested that we name the kitten after a dinosaur. “Pterodactyl,” I suggested jokingly. For some reason, that name caught on like wildfire among the guys, and they started calling the little guy “Pterry,” complete with the silent P. Mover gave us one of her looks and sternly shook her head. Nope, we’re finding a new name.

Back at Balconyland, we watched as the kitten unsteadily walked around the living room, never straying too far away from us. Pet care stores are in short supply in Amman, so we decided to pilfer sand from one of the many adjacent construction sites as litter. We asked our landlord about the kitten, and all he said on the subject was, “I had a tenant that had a cat here once, and the cat destroyed all the furniture.” But he said it with a smile, so we’re interpreting his words as a tentative yes.

Within a week, the kitten has gotten incredibly fat. We admire his bulging belly as it almost touches the ground. Suddenly, the little guy has a growth spurt so that his body frame matches his growing stomach. He’s now a feisty ball of energy. Soon he’s teaching himself the art of pouncing. As we do homework, he cleverly disguises himself behind a leg of the dining room table as he plans his next attack on our ankles.

One day, I come up with a name. “Alain McNamara,” I offer to my flatmates. McNamara is the name of our program coordinator. We all love it. Now we’re all keen to say, “Ah, Alain bit my finger!” and “I think Alain is hiding under the table,” and we find ourselves thoroughly entertained by the complimentary imagery of our coordinator mirroring the kitten’s actions. Soon we adopt the nickname “Little Mac,” and we look forward to the day when we can introduce the Big Mac to the Little Mac.

Little Mac started attacking everything to the point where I jokingly speculated on whether he was rabid. I imagine a horror film where a little zombie kitten infects three innocent, unknowing flatmates and causes a zombie epidemic throughout Amman. But we’re all still healthy (I think) and Little Mac is now the vision of health.

He’s a daredevil, jumping off of heights that are several stories to him. He enjoys Kamikaze missions. He will jump off of my bed, land on the window curtain, and hang there until his mewing attracts someone’s attention. He finds that the shaky covers of the drain lids are fun to surf on. He’s getting better about getting lost in a dark room and mewing until someone comes to rescue him. He enjoys watching Glee. Anything and everything is interesting, and absolutely everything is a chew toy.

Like most parents, Mover, Bird, and I find that our child takes up a huge chunk of our everyday conversations. Notice that this post is about twice the size of all the other ones, and it has pretty much nothing to do with my experience in Jordan. I promise I won’t indulge in my obsession with Little Mac too much via this blog, and that I will actually tell you more about my life in Jordan. Next time. J