I was walking home with 24 pounds (12 kgs) of tuna, swearing at my fate as a pauper. Well, but then come to think of it, no rich person ever carry 12 kgs of tuna with a limousine.
As I continue to be pathetic, my eyes stumble upon a little yellow tabby, about two months old, standing on both of his teeny weeny little leg trying to reach to a dangling tentacle of a squid.
All of a sudden I am warped to the top of the mountain with a green lush of grass and white little flowers singing The Sound of Music.
But the woman walking in front of me didn’t.
She skip two steps forward and club the tiny kitten with her own shopping bag, not any smaller than mine, and the poor creature flew to the air probably still wondering what was happening.
I dropped my tuna, turned myself into some sort of Babe Ruth and catch the kitten mid air, though landing right in the middle of the road. An incoming motorcycle followed by an (empty) ambulance swerved to my left with some !@$&*!!!!! but life goes on.
The clubbing woman was in awe, as with others who watch the show. Not everyday some flying squirrel catch a flying cat mid air and land on the road like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.
But I didn’t.
I walked back to my bag of tuna with my eye on fire, glaring at the woman, who immediately pick her own club head shopping bag and run for her life.
The cat? probably still has no idea, because he just stay still the whole time.
I pushed him inside my jacket and moved on.
A few steps and a couple more moaning at my fate as a pauper, I caught up to the ambulance, just parked, the driver delivered something to some sort of a maternity clinic, and drove back off.
While dragging another yellow kitten as he drove through a curb.
I dropped my tuna again, screaming my lung out trying to stop the departing ambulance, flailing my hand like crazy. A parking lot guy saw what I was trying to do and chase along flailing his glowing stick.
Lucky the driver didn’t speed up thinking he was chased by a couple of maniac.
I fell on my knee, and crawl down under while the parking lot guy told the driver he’s dragging a cat, and when they are done talking, I am done rescuing. Life goes on.
The cat? probably no longer have idea because she was still stunned when I pushed her into my jacket.
I ended up taking a motorbike taxi to go home, pushed all those tuna inside the fridge, and on my way to the vet, totally forgotten to take pictures of the two gingers.
It’s probably a good thing. They are not a great sight, especially the little drag race queen.
I was in the middle of translating an old folklore about Siegfried, so I called the little boy, who lost one eye at such young age as Siegfried, and the nearly skinned young girl was named Brunhilde. Brunhilde the Valkyrie, who plays with death and shape shifting as a cat.
It took me about six months caring for her. From raw meat to growing her skin back to learn to walk pain free, to the way she is now. No photos. I couldn’t bare snapping on a painful skinned thigh and back, straight to the neck and almost boiled cheek.
It took her a year to be cat again: chasing the ball and climbing our lemon tree, flying to the air to catch some bumblebee, watching the world go round from on top of the kitchen cabinet, climbing the pillars of our cattery and the first to put her claw mark two days after we’re done with the renovation.
It took her another two months before she is fixed, but not before she made the vet and I chased literally high and low all over the house just to sedate her. She woke up faster than scheduled and almost fell off the operating table.
She gave us a good sport and a sizeable cardio (if not heart attack with that almost falling incident), but then she is fixed, and checked, and vaccinated and declared healthy as a fiddle. I mean Valkyrie. Oh, sorry, a cat.
One day I wonder how many deaths she has been cheating, and how.
I looked at her face, sleeping hugging an open can, probably dreaming of humble human putting kibbles, no, I mean offering, inside.
She is a Valkyrie, and she shape shift as a cat. So…