She was with me for a keep sake; for a week or two until her parents settle down in their new house, and I only agreed because she was impossible.
Bing-Bing was very active. She ran everywhere, chasing feet, jumping on things, hunting toes, here, there and over again.
Bing-Bing was very talkative; she talks to everyone, telling them stories of her adventure, and she won’t be tired to tell another one although the person she tells her story to already had enough.
Bing-Bing was impossible to be contained in the carrier without screaming and rolling, and blowing people’s head off while they were dealing with movers, boxes, workers, truckers, some of them can care less for the well being of a little bouncing cat. Not to mention the trucks.
She has to stay alone in my studio for two weeks. I was running out of places and everyone has URI then. Boarding was impossible because people here would put her in a cage stacked up in a small, windowless room at the far back of the place, never to taste fresh air ever again, while the advertised “experienced”, “educated” and “well trained” staff would huddle, talking to each other with boombox to the max and smoke like train.
Impossible; but anyone can google it and the same story will pop up all the time, everywhere.
Staying alone in my studio and treated by an astronaut is by far better option.
One Saturday Bing-Bing was delighted to enter the same bag where she shuttled off her earth to head home. The sun is bright, the breeze is right.
The day turn to night, but no parents in sight.
No one pick up the call, no one replied the message, no one answered the why-s.
I took a taxi to given address, but it was the wrong one, so I took another ride home at nine.
I dropped by the colony to check on everyone and deliver food
I picked a little tuna off everyone’s plate, but Bing-Bing stayed in her bag, her light dimmed from her face.
On our final journey home, she fell asleep in my bag, holding the string of my raincoat pouch, her sole entertainment, her only solace.
When I put the bag down slowly, in the solitude of my studio, she crawled out, looked at me, climb my spread out jacket, curl up, and sleep.
The next morning, it’s the same food, but not the same Bing Bing.
In the afternoon it’s the same game play, but not the same Bing Bing
At night it’s the same lullaby, but not the same Bing Bing.
Through another week it’s the same cheerful greets, the same happy face, but not the same Bing Bing.
There was Julia, there was Spots. There was Cali, and there was Miss Kitty. There was Kaka, there was Thelma, and there was Libby.
None stayed long enough, none bare the broken heart.
Tito stayed one afternoon, and then the same Bing Bing.
She runs everywhere, chasing feet, jumping on things, hunting toes, here, there and over again.
Bing-Bing is very talkative; she talks to everyone, telling them stories of her adventure, and she won’t be tired to tell another one although the person she tells her story to already had enough.
Bing Bing put two feet on the rim of the water bowl when Stardust was drinking, slip the third one and splash water on his face as she fell into the bowl.
Bing Bing climbed the high and mighty mountain of boxes, and free dive on sleeping Spots.
Bing Bing animated the whole thriller novel until Thelma’s ear fell off. She went to Libby because Libby always listen, though I saw her nods in her sleep halfway through history.
Bandit can barely keep up with her.
Bing Bing follows me to the cattery and blow everyone’s head off.
Bing Bing loves everyone all the way to the moon
But unlike her parents, we love her all the way back.