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part 1 of the story
Kitten

Alfredo Bravo de Rueda

Dedicated to Dayvee, my friend and a unique human being

    I don’t know why some animals are crows and some are cats, but it’s not my fault if sometimes they cross each other’s paths and get so attached to each other; if they get to ‘love’ each other, if you allow me to use that word. I don’t know why, if there has to be something like cats and crows as different animals, we are sometimes doomed to meet each other. And I say this not because meeting the kitten was bad for my life but because it was the best that could ever happen to me. And that kind of happiness can be an unforgivable sin. Yes, happiness may be the unforgivable sin.
    Like everybody else in my crow community, I went to sleep after sunset and woke up a little before sunrise. Like everybody else, I foraged for food, in synch with the rest, never moving too close to the crow in front of me and never slowing down to the point of obstructing the crow behind me. Like all the crows born in that part of the forest, not far from here, where my egg hatched and I opened my eyes to this world for the first time, I helped raise and defend the young chicks’ area when I came of age. And I, as good as any other crow, or even better, at making tools when making tools was needed. But since I was young I knew I was different from other crows and other crows seemed to feel I was different from them, no matter how I tried to conceal it.
    When it was time to have offspring, I always looked at the mating partners building their nests in the higher branches of the trees. I saw them using branches, twigs, hair, twine, bark, plant fibers, mosses, cloth, and other materials until the nest was safe enough for their eggs. And I envied them when I wondered why my love had to be lonely and different. And I envied their babies when I imagined they would live at least long enough to meet the proud eyes of their fathers and the loving eyes of their mothers. Should I say that I never met my dad and that my mother was not precisely loving? Was it because I was different? Unlikely. I was too young by then for them to notice. Nevertheless, my life might have had better options had I been born into another family, at another time, or as somebody else’s short-lived but fulfilled dream. If so, the penitence for my unavoidable sin of loving the wrong animal would not have hurt so much, neither when I loved Lawrence nor when I loved the kitten. But I was born to commit that sin. It is just the way life is.
    Yet, no, in that part of the forest, having unloving parents wasn’t a reason to be melodramatic either. Most crows don’t meet their dads or don’t have them around for long. But I wanted that not to be true. Since I saw the human children with their dads in that park from the top of those trees, where I spent my free time, I wanted to meet mine. I wanted my mother to keep an eye on me and come to console me if I fell and scraped my knee as the mothers of human children did. I spent hours watching them playing with their dogs, and their balloons, and their balls, and their dads. It was better than when crows play. And, as I said before, since that mournful day I don’t want to remember, my company was no longer sought by other crows, or by other ravens for what it could matter. Could it be that they could smell my sin in my feathers? The point is that, as stupid and corny as it may sound, I wanted to feel as those human children felt.
    That brings me to that day when I was already four. The day I call the mournful day. A day of winter when the other young crows, the same crows who had played with me in the water fountains and pooled water of the nearest village when we were all small, came of age. Courtship. They started singing softly and getting close to the females who had just left a mark in their hearts. The same spontaneous, almost unlearned ritual with that rich mix of soft cooing, rattles, growls, bowing movements, and mutual nuzzling I myself had sought and feared when I was younger. And I had feared it because since I turned four and the other young crows started telling bad jokes about the females to whose enchants they pretended to be invulnerable, I instead started to develop a crush on Lawrence. I never said a word but probably more than once my eyes betrayed me. As I mentioned, I was never the most popular crow but if the few who tolerated me beyond the daily chores needed confirmation there was something wrong in me, they had it that winter. I, who had always been tough as an eagle’s talon, ‘tough as nails’ as the humans say, cried when Lawrence picked up his bride. The same Lawrence whose eyes had given hope to my heart so many times. That’s when the other crows confirmed their suspicions and even the few who tolerated me started to make distance themselves from me. Even my brother and my sister started making distance from me.
    Nobody had to expel me from the community. Although nobody was hostile, everybody, Lawrence included, kept the same cold distance from me. Nobody bullied me. But their silence was more hurtful than any damage their beaks could have done to my skin, especially because my heart every day secretly embraced the vain and shameful illusion that Lawrence would one day leave his family for me. A few more times, my eyes followed Lawrence, as embarrassing as it may sound for him and for me, and a couple of times I didn’t even care if anybody noticed. But he did, and he stopped talking to me. He stopped giving me even those crumbs from his table that were his commanding voice, even if those crumbs fell only when it was absolutely necessary and in that tone that turned sharp and hurtful whenever we had to work collectively as crows. At some point, no longer even that. That’s how he started to send me instructions with other crows. Thus, when Lawrence had his first children that spring, I knew it was time to leave. That day my mother didn’t pay attention to the words I had prepared during the whole previous night with the heaviest of hearts to say goodbye because, I guess, she never paid much attention to whatever I had to say anyway, and that morning my brother and sister had already left for the day, so I couldn’t share my farewell with them either. Since the day they caught me with my moist eyes following Lawrence on his way home, to that home of which I was not part, my siblings started leaving home earlier to avoid my presence.
    That was two years ago. And some wounds, like cancerous wounds, never heal completely, but they heal just enough. I know how to survive by myself anyway. Where I live, there are plenty of insects, seeds, grains, nuts, fruit, arthropods, mollusks, and worms to eat. Not carrion for me. I am not into carrion like those ravens who would eat anything are. And I know how to keep my feathers clean with a good anting. The secret is how you rub the ants on your feathers. So no, I don’t have to spend the whole day scratching myself like those pigeons you see around there. Besides that, I still wake up at dawn and go to sleep at dusk, always in the same safe spot to make sure I don’t receive the unexpected visit of some snake during the night. A snake wouldn’t dare pay a visit to my former community, but here it’s different. And I know everybody wants to eat but, heartbroken or not, I still have an issue with those who want to satiate their hunger at my expense.
    So I am alone, but when I fly, the skies are still mine, even if that’s not true. I feel the sun on my feathers even if the sun doesn’t know I am here. And I no longer have to sweat raising the new babies and defending their area, although I must admit that I miss that part. Above all, I have plenty of time to study, although learning is a trap unless you have a way to apply your new knowledge to something; otherwise you will feel useless just the same. On the other hand, even the knowledge you will never use takes time from you. At least it does that: it makes time go faster.
    As I mentioned before, I myself often venture close to the parks, where humans gather, and I study them. I have watched them many times play with their dogs, their balloons, their balls, and their dads. I hear their conversations and I have even watched them repair their cars. I don’t know how I could fit in that picture though. I could not be a dog. Dogs can be turned into domestic animals and I couldn’t. I might have been a cat, but not a dog. Dogs see humans as their gods while cats see them as their peers. The only exception to that rule would have been probably Lawrence. But enough of Lawrence. The point is that I learn a lot about those humans just by watching them.
    First, half of them seem to enjoy their families on the days they call Sundays, but the other half of them seem to wish to be somewhere else, like my mother. On the other hand, on the other six days they can rarely be seen with the families they seem to enjoy so much on Sundays. For the other six days, they seem to be always in a hurry and avoiding one another in their rush. On the latter, I haven’t been able yet to reach a conclusion though. And it’s not that crows don’t dedicate time to other activities besides their families, but the proportion seems to be exactly the opposite of humans. On those six days, I prefer crows, I guess.
    Second, on the days they call Sundays, time seems to elapse slower and be more enjoyable for them. On the other six days, when they are always in a hurry, they seem to be more miserable. Their faces, and we crows remember faces, don’t seem to cherish the anticipation of the next Sunday though. It’s as if they were under some sorcery that shoves them toward where they don’t want to go. And no, I am not stupid, they are going to work. I know that. We the crow work too, but work is not an invisible yoke to which we are forced into submission but excursions where we, all together, happen to pick up food or other necessities, like straw for the new nests, in which we sometimes even have some fun.
    Third, on days that are not Sundays I’ve seen big boys bullying the smaller ones. In the crow community, the Alphas would have put those bullies in their place from the very beginning. But not here. Here nobody seems to care. As if that were normal. Crows may make distance from you if you are like me, but nobody will bully you even if you are like me. On that, I prefer crows too.
    Fourth, on the days they call Sundays, hierarchies don’t seem anywhere to be seen. On the other days, even the shadow of those hierarchies seems to be too strong to be defied though. And, again, I am not stupid. There are hierarchies among crows too. There are clear and stable hierarchies that put the strongest and more intelligent at the top in terms of mating and territory. Lawrence is an Alpha after all. But if you do your part, you can spend your life without having trouble with an Alpha. On the contrary, Alphas are normally respected because they help the weakest links to keep up with the rest. Unless you are me, of course.
    So, you could say I prefer to be a human on Sundays and a crow the other six days of the week. That’s the way I would like things were and if things were that way, I would change nothing from then on. That makes me a conservative? I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it just makes me a crow who lives in his own head.

    Then everything changed. That was the day I found the kitten. I was coming back to my safe house in the tree when I could see that small black-and-white lump at the side of one of the trees. It barely moved. As I flew closer, I could confirm it was a kitten, what some call a tuxedo kitten, so I assumed his mother would come for him at some moment and continued my way to my safe home. It was almost dusk anyway.
    Thus, I lay on my bed of straw, pulled down the straw grate I had prepared to stop unwanted night visitors, and committed myself to meditate about all I had seen that day until I fell asleep. But I couldn’t. I turned to one side and then to the other but the result was the same: I kept thinking of the kitten. What if its mother didn’t come for him? If so, that’s nature’s cruel way of dealing with those who are defenseless and alone. But... since when does a gay crow come with those kinds of lines? Nature is cruel, but that’s precisely why you shouldn’t be defenseless and alone, and that kitten didn’t seem to be there for a reason of its own making. So, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go have a peek, just to make sure its mom had come for it. That’s what moms do. But what if she didn’t? What if something had happened to its mother? Or what if its mother were like mine? And those November nights were getting cold enough to kill a baby. If they could kill a crow chick who lacked the warmth of its mother, they could also kill a kitten who didn’t even have feathers to protect it from the cold. And maybe it was not such a good idea to venture into the forest after dusk, but I did.
    Soon I found myself at the side of the ball of fur. It barely breathed and its meows were very weak already. Its wide-shut eyes seemed to be just waiting, though not too enthusiastically, for the moment of death. So I decided its mom would not come back and that my stupid questions could wait for later. The kitten, if it was going to survive, needed warmth and food. I could give him warmth with my feathers the way I have seen the females in my community give to their offspring, but first I had to find something to put in its mouth. And the only thing I could think of that late in the night was worms. So, I flew to the humid spots at the side of the stream where you can always find worms and brought a bunch in my peak. On my return, the kitten was exactly in the same position, oblivious to my presence. But fortunately, its mouth was open, so I just had to turn him on his back with my beak and dropped the worms in its mouth hoping the silly kitten would not refuse them. He didn’t. He started chewing its worms and soon after his open mouth showed he was expecting more, so I flew again to the stream and brought him more worms. It finished its worms and its gluttonous mouth opened for the third time. I couldn’t say no though and I had to make a third trip to the stream. That’s when, because I concluded the kitten might have had no water in who knows how long, I made a fourth trip to the stream to bring it some water in my beak. It sure needed some water to wash down all those worms anyway. And its open mouth welcomed the water too. Its resigned but frightened eyes now seemed calmer and grateful. But there was still the issue of the cold, so I decided to protect him with my feathers the way I had seen the females do with their chicks and I spent the night there, hoping not to have an encounter with a snake, missing my comfortable bed of straw and the safety of the straw grate. That’s when I noticed the ticks. Lots of them sucking on the blood of this poor thing. They would not affect me because of my anting, but they affected it. So I used my beak to kill and eat as many as I could find attached to its skin. At some moment I was full and sleepy, but I kept killing those bastards, who were bleeding this poor hairball; killing and spitting them until I was too tired and I simply fell asleep over the kitten.
    That first night was difficult for me. In the middle of the night, the kitten, still asleep, instinctively was trying to milk me. It grabbed one of my legs with its claws, from which I am glad my feathers protected me, and started sucking it with his raspy tongue. Then it started purring and purring until the apparent dream stopped and its breathing under my wings revealed it was relaxing again. It took me some time to get back to sleep, but that didn’t annoy me even though there are few things that bother me more than the interruption of a proper eight-hours sleep. Actually, at that point, I almost cried because this kitten still would have to come to terms with a fact that, in my case, I had had to deal with in my own way; in my own very painful way: its mother had not wanted him.

    At dawn, the uneasy movement made by the kitten, who was waking up from a nightmare, woke me up. The early hours could be the coldest, but the restless kitten left me with no alternatives. I freed it from its prison of feathers and that’s the first time I heard its voice.
    “It’s cold.”
    “I know it’s cold. That’s why I kept protecting you with my feathers. It’s going to be cold for at least another couple of hours.”
    “Hmm... Are you a rook?”
    “I am a crow.”
    “A raven?”
    “A crow! A crow! Are you deaf, you little hairball?”
    To my surprise, the kitten laughed. It was not mockery. It was a sincere, innocent laugh that increased my desire to protect it. But because that was enough laughter for a cold morning, I decided to elaborate on my explanation.
    “Crows are hoarser... So, what’s so funny?”
    “Just saying...”
    “We are bigger...”
    “Ravens are bigger. The beaks are almost the same though.”
    “You were just laughing like a silly hairball a moment ago and now it happens you are an expert? As if you were a panther yourself...?”
    The kitten laughed even more.
    “What happened to your mother? You were covered in ticks and fleas. Who do you think cleaned you of all the ticks?”
    “I don’t know. Thank you, sir.”

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