yesterday it was a buzz; today a meow. what will we hear tomorrow?

[something which did not actually end up being a common app essay. presents an alternative understanding of symptoms.]

“‘I meant,’ said Ipslore bitterly, ‘what is there in
this world that truly makes living worthwhile?’
Death thought about it.
‘CATS,’ he said eventually. ‘CATS ARE NICE.’”
- Terry Pratchett, Sourcery.

I think of these words as last efforts, five hundred of them pooling their strength, collectively making one final go at explaining who I am, and what manner of havoc I might wreak upon your institution. When I think of defining myself, I think of a question. Never mind what I am or who I am –– why am I this way?

I am, in fact, slave to a cat. She is not my cat, but she stops by, and when she’s here, I am without a doubt her human. I’ve never seen her wearing a collar. She reminds me of that Rolling Stones song: “Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday. Who could hang a name on you?”

Anyway, I needed something to call her, so I decided on Jophie. It’s short for Jophiel, the name of my favorite archangel, bestower of divine inspiration and guardian of Paradise. She’s my little angel, Jophie. She knows when I need her, and I swear she brings Eden around with her, golden-green behind her big, round eyes.

Jophie has a tremendous presence. Even if she comes through my backyard to see me in the dead of night, my eye is drawn to her, her coat shimmering like millions of deep-pressed pencil marks, reflective and graphite-black. In the dark, her irises reflect the glow of my flashlight like two huge peridots. They flicker into view on the edges of things, making me look twice, enticing me to walk further, searching for a nameless something by Jophie’s light. If she’s afraid she’s lost me –– and she is afraid of nothing, save losing me when she wants me to follow –– she looks over her shoulder, and my flashlight catches her eyes again, and we press on.

When we’re not outside, discovering and rediscovering everything, Jophie and I talk. (I speak fluent cat.) We don’t discuss anything in particular, but I haven’t known her to respond to others who attempt to start a dialogue. Her meow peals prettily from little lips, a bell-like sound, and she purrs loudly and appreciatively.

I especially adore Jophie’s affectionate side. Like all cats, she is capable of being serious and pensive, even aloof, but sometimes she comes in unexpectedly, after a long absence, and curls around my feet, reverberating with feline satisfaction. She emits heat like a tiny furnace, and makes a superb pillow. All the hot chocolate and Christmas lights in the world would be a poor substitute for the innocent pleasure of running your fingers through Jophie’s fur, seeing her sleepy smile, knowing, when she’s gone, that you have done well by her. She brings light with her and leaves hope behind.

So now you know. This nameless little cat nudges me along, pleading with her tiny soprano voice, and I give in every time. I hope you understand. If she’s ever visited you, then I’m sure you know just what I’m talking about. If she hasn’t, well, you never know. She comes and goes.