Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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A few months ago, as winter turned to spring, I began a daily walk – in the company of my cat. My wife and I count ourselves fortunate to live next to a city park. Amid kilometres of asphalt and concrete, a park’s dash of nature attracts all. Birds enjoy it, so do rodents, arthropods and occasional reptiles. From our window we view passersby enjoying the walkways, gardens, basketball courts and lawns on offer. We also witness the rougher side of the city: drug sales, occasional violence and the people for whom public places have become their sole refuge.
Many of the humans we see are accompanied by canines of varying size and breed. Dogs seem to run this park, or if not run, they certainly walk it with verve, enjoyment and regularity (in both senses). With so many animals – two- and four-footed – enjoying this space, why not felines too?
Ms. Rosie, our permanent house guest of more than a year, is not our first cat. Our previous cat spent his days sleeping inside and nights patrolling outside. Sadly, he met his end in the jaws of a coyote, and in our grief, we vowed to confine any future cats to the great indoors. This seemed prudent not just for the cat’s protection, but also to insulate other animals, especially birds, against brutal and indiscriminate feline claws.
But when Ms. Rosie arrived as a kitten, a friend advised that a young cat can be taught to tolerate a harness and leash. This offered a chance for life-extending exercise and the mitigation of daily tedium. A bored cat, like a teen without their phone, is the devil’s plaything. So we purchased a handsome and escape-proof (as promised on the package) harness to introduce Ms. Rosie to the salutary benefits of outdoor life.
She took to it surprisingly well. Other than a few cranky squints as the harness slipped over her ears, my wife and I remained unscathed (nothing like the trauma of nail trimming). She gradually accepted the leash and progressed from a precise inspection of our patio to probing the swathes of park lawn that abut our home. She pounced on flies like a blonde panther and gazed at overflying robins as if she’d discovered fire. She also acquainted herself with the subterranean wonders of a large spirea bush, finding much that is precious in the dark. Successful in her exploration, she chirped appreciatively at me, though more so at the arrival of an errant bird.
Then came the inevitable advent of dogs. We’re taught that cats and dogs manage their relationships like North and South Korea and that the most prudent approach for pet owners is to establish a demilitarized zone between species. In the wake of our previous cat’s demise, I worried about Ms. Rosie’s physical safety, but even more so about how madame’s leashed fury might be unleashed on the snouts and eyes of unsuspecting mutts.
To my surprise, however, my cat not only tolerated dogs – she welcomed them. Now, when she spies a dog trotting with its owner, her ears perk and she tugs me toward them with curious alacrity. Invariably, the dogs express surprise bordering on shock that this tiny sand-coloured alien wants to address her predator. They touch noses, sniff each other’s “downstairs” (so to speak) and proceed on their way. She’s also started to crouch and pee in several preferred places in the park, making me wonder if her canine exposure has kindled new habits.
Ms. Rosie greets errant humans the same way. The park bench near us often houses folk who greet the dawn with a smoke and a king-can of beer. The other day, a guy we now know as Reggie petted her and asked “How did you get her into a harness?” Ms Rosie arched her back in delight as I replied: “Reggie, it’s more how do I keep her out of it.”
In short, Ms. Rosie embraces the park in all of its verdant beauty and urban reality, greeting each visitor with grace and curiosity.
The British philosopher John Gray states in his book, Feline Philosophy: Cats and the Meaning of Life, that “cats have no interest in teaching humans how to live,” but can offer hints about how to exist less awkwardly. A city park is a public place, and that means it becomes home to vice and virtue, lifer and newcomer, walkers and the walked. I’ve seen recent changes in our park that worry me but in my daily sashays on the cat walk, I’ve begun to echo my unusual pet’s experience of wonder, feeling a need to take a chance on the scary and exciting world.
John MacMillan lives in Toronto.
