the history of a tough motherfucker
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
white cross-eyed tailless cat
took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
took what was left to a vet who said, “not much
chance... give him these pills... his backbone
is crushed, but it was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there... also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off...”
took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in de cades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go anywhere,
put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat—I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough...
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up and falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed,
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say, “look, look
at this!”
but they don’t understand, they say something like, “you
say you’ve been influenced by Céline?”
no,” I hold the cat up, “by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”
shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows...
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photographed
together.
he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.
Otras obras de Charles Bukowski...
