It’s been a traumatic time of late for little Dusty. Only several months ago, the blanket, scratching pole and litter tray would always be just where he expected them to be – under the shade of the book cabinet surveying the main stairwell and entrance hall.
He would spend his late kittenhood days carefully maintaining his magnificent grey Persian coat, and play-fighting with his frolicking, druelling and decidedly less intelligent adopted canine brother, Chip.
He would also dedicate significant segments of his evenings curiously surveying us humans and our strange rituals from the safety of the living room windowsill.
All of a sudden, Dusty’s world got turned upside down. He did well to endure over three weeks of ongoing works at the new house in filthy and uncomfortable conditions, hiding from workmen intent on prodding and unearthing every last patch of privacy the unfinished house had to offer.
And so he would bide his time, all alone while Chip frolicked around, blindly trusting just about anyone who tossed a tennis ball or squeeky toy his way.
When a flea infestation finally forced us evil humans to sheer off his thick coat, apparently the source of most of his pride, poor Dusty was left naked and shamed. Just when it seemed things could not get any worse, the unthinkable happened. Another cat.
I was just as confused. As I returned home from work on that fateful day several weeks ago, there he was, just lying there on my bed, staring at me like I was an imposter in my own room, a black-and-white street cat with an unusually charming temperament.
It would seem he managed to cast some kind of spell over the other humans in the house, securing for himself a cosy new home just in time for winter. The ghastly humans even gave him a name, Figaro. How original. This was war.
I suppose this week’s opening ramble just has to take the proverbial cat biscuit. Dusty’s struggle, however, is not much unlike our own. Do you remember in school when physical activity and sport was the exclusive reserve of the physically robust and gifted?
Do you remember the feeling of being left out? Do you feel any resentment each time you see near-perfect bodies flashed by the media? Yes, some are dealt a great genetic hand, others feel they have no choice but to fold.
In sport and exercise, sometimes less talent or aptitude is a blessing, because it must be replaced by a stronger work ethic which ultimately carries you further, slowly but surely
After everything Dusty had already been through, I bet he was pretty close to folding too. After all, what hope did he have against a tough street cat used to roaming, scavenging, climbing walls, scaling rooftops and scrapping with other animals in competition for food? Little fluffy Dusty hails from a lineage of domesticated, linen-lounging Persian cats who do little more than sleep, eat premium food, lick themselves and amble no further than the litter tray, if they even make it that far.
I noted with interest Figaro’s broad shoulders and bow-legged front quarters surrounded with visible muscle mass and meaty hips and thighs too.
Dusty by comparison was still sporting the bald Siamese look, revealing rather pathetic and boney-looking hips and hind legs. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the actual relative length of the leg bones in Dusty and Figaro were different.
Figaro’s lower hind leg bones were longer than Dusty’s, a more athletic structure allowing better leverage for running and jumping. His spine was also longer and more streamlined, suggesting greater mobility and range.
Figaro must have noticed these discrepancies too, strutting about confidently and proudly like a champion athlete, not paying much attention at all to Dusty’s hissed warnings from down below, as he defiantly occupied the highest conquerable vantage points in each room of the house.
Chirpy Chip had long since accepted Figaro with open paws and flailing tongue, but Dusty would have none of it. When encrouched upon too closely, he consistently protected his personal space with the ferocity of a determined youth with something to prove, a kid in school with the kind of drive that only comes from having to work twice as hard as everyone else to make the team.
Figaro, on the other hand, reminded me of the athletic types who never really had to try all that hard given the sub-standard competition. But alas, a wind of change would soon ruffle Figaro’s short fur.
After a long day out a little over a week ago, we returned to find an evolving pecking order at home. Dusty was perched on the highest point of our most comfortable living-room armchair looking quite pleased with himself, Chip was oblivious and Figaro was nowhere to be seen, at first.
When he finally emerged from his hiding place, he had a visible wound on his nose and, as a result of whatever Dusty did to him, was now suddenly content with the lower level vantage points.
In sport and exercise, sometimes less talent or aptitude is a blessing, because it must be replaced by a stronger work ethic which ultimately carries you further, slowly but surely, towards that single defining moment that tastes so much sweeter than an easy victory.
Consistency and a stubborn refusal to yield or accept what goes against your grain eventually triumph over effortless flair. If you have ever experienced the ‘us and them’ syndrome when beholding society’s body beautiful, and find it a hard pill to swallow, consider traversing the Dusty path.
To which defining moment would you have it lead?
matthew.muscat.inglott@mcast.edu.mt