Birds and Brooms

When we first brought Gigi home to New Jersey, all of us were fearful that if she went outside she would get lost, or hit by a car. At that time she was so scrawny you could count the bumps on her spine. There was a wooded area behind the house and birdfeeders in the back yard. Being married to an avid birder means I read lots of newsletters from the local Audubon Society, and that meant that I knew their policy on letting cats roam free: don’t do it. And so we’d let Gigi out for a few minutes, and then we’d start whistling for her and calling her name—and she’d come back. One morning I was on the phone, talking to the guidance counselor at the elementary school. Gigi was just outside the door, sunning peacefully on the deck. As I talked, I heard a commotion outside—a flutter of feathers and a strange sound coming from Gigi. I was about to open the screen, when I saw that Gigi had brought me a present—a bird, very much alive, was in her mouth. I grabbed the kitchen broom, opened the screen and swooshed it in her face until she dropped the bird and, thankfully, the bird flew away. Gigi looked confused. What amazes me to this day is that I stayed on the phone through the whole ordeal. That was the last time Gigi ever caught a bird. Here in New York Gigi constantly watches the backyard birdfeeder. Her tail moves back and forth as she crouches, in the huntress position. It’s been three years, and I don’t think that Gigi has any real intention of catching anything. The fun is in the dream.