Part 8 - You Can't Save Them All.

(Originally written December 31, 2009)

Part 8 - You Can't Save Them All.


“You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.” -- Charles Bukowski


Tashiki and Qindao were shoveling the school's parking lot after Morning Meditations. There wasn't much snow, but the lot is big. And, of course, The Master provided them only with small shovels. Even with the other students, this was going to take a while. They had asked The Master one time why the parking lot was so big and why didn't he convert some of that space into more of the Garden. Sensei replied, true to form, “You never know who is going to show up. We are prepared.”


Qindao stopped to ask Tashiki a question, “Why were you crying during Meditations?”


Tashiki thought about how to reply. “There is a stray cat in our neighborhood. I don't see him that often, but every time I do I feel sad for him.”


Qindao pushed another pile of snow out of the way. “There are lots of outdoor cats in our neighborhood. What's special about this one?”


“He doesn't behave like the others. He's young, probably less than a year old. And he shows all the signs of having been socialized to humans. He comes right up to me, rubs up against me, and is very vocal with me. He knows what it is to live with humans.”


“That can't be all of it.”


“No, it isn't. He has no collar, and that makes me think that he was lost or abandoned. Either of those things makes me sad for him. He wants something from me, and I can do nothing to help him. He's friendly, socialized, attractive, engaging, all the things you would want from a cat companion. But every time I see him I have to end up turning my back on him and send him back into the wild, and make him fend for himself. I have so much I could give him, but my commitments prevent me from being able to help.”


“Do you think he's in danger?”


“No. Well, no, not really. I understand that cats are built to be able to survive, even in the cold and snow, and we know there are places he can find to keep warm and hunt.”


Qindao pressed the issue. “Then why does he make you upset?”


Tashiki knew the answer immediately. “Because it's so unfair. I have so much. He asks for so little. I have to turn him away and force him to live a life to which I don't think he was born into. It's not his fault that he has to sleep in the cold, hunt for his food, and defend himself from the neighborhood threats. He was brought into this world to be a part of a family somewhere, but he's been cast out. He's been forced to become something that, yes, is in his nature and for which he is somewhat prepared, but it seems such a waste of life and love.”


“Would you take in all the strays?”


“I would if I could.”


“You can't save them all.”


“But I could save this one!”


Qindao thought about that a moment than looked at Tashiki straight on. “I'm going to get up in your face about a few things. It's a cat. They are built to survive in harsh conditions. We humans respond to them because we're built that way. Yes, they respond to us as well, but that's not their primary purpose. Is this cat injured in any way, other than being uncomfortable? Is its coat healthy? Paws, ears, eyes, nose, and tail undamaged? You have seen it observe traffic and avoid cars?” Tashiki nodded and grunted various acknowledgments in the affirmative, that the cat is, by all measures, adapting to its environment.


“You want to save the cat because it reflects something you desire in you. Right?”


Tashiki could not answer that one.


“This isn't about the cat.”


“No, it isn't.”


-----
Thus endeth today's lesson. Let us meditate upon it.


Gus - The Theatre Cat - a poem by T S Eliot


Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats--
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree--
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.


"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."


Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger--could do it again--
Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop."
And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
"Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."