A Tale of Two Cats
There are two cats in the apartment.
An orange and white cat (Itty) and a grey and white cat (Bitty).
It's really cute. Itty's been the old guard. She's been growing right from a wee kitten around us. And we go wayyyy back. Her mother lived in a small make-shift Ikea box I'd bought until her untimely death. And well, Itty's a chip off the old block. It's customary now for her to make her walks like the milkman every morning, purring and meowing in anticipation of treats.
And don't get me wrong, it's a fair deal. Some pets and pats for milk? Sign me up.
And it's not just me. Every house on the ground floor falls victim to it. Milk, meat or bread. She's well-fed and rejoices in her own little kingdom.
But now she's found a playmate. A grey and white naughty bugger in Bitty who 'shows her the world'. From her cocoon on the ground floor, she's started exploring territory. Roaming across the apartment, scouring for food in rats or cobras. I do see them now infrequently, but it's only whenever I'm off running errands. Bittersweet, but life.
Near the pool or the common area, it's clear they're having fun. Darting from one place to another, playing and chasing each other, it's a unique experience to witness. An exhibition of love, affection, camaraderie in a species different from our own.
But Bitty is aggressive. While Itty stays relatively secure within the confines of the apartment, Bitty's a daredevil, greedy. He rushes through exploring not just our apartment but those around us, too.
And witnessing that is a bit traumatising. For though Tom and Jerry is an animated show, the dynamic -- Tom vs Jerry, Tom vs Spike, rings painfully true in reality.
Bitty is regularly chased by the strays. Any attempt to cross is akin to watching a persecution. I've watched in agony, seeing Bitty barely just fit under the gates and escape the clutches of these strays. I only wonder if Bitty's actually aware he has nine lives. Hmm.
And so we lived in relative ease. With Bitty & Itty frolicking in paradise and me drudging at work. A cross in paths? Serendipity. Oh, boy.
As I head out to work today, however, the scenes are a bit different. Passing by, I was met with an unsettling, putrid smell. It seemed like a cut-out from reality, an area blockaded by that ghastly odour. What was it?
My answer lay there waiting, but a few steps ahead.
In broad daylight, the mangled remains of an animal remained. Disfigured beyond belief. It was hard to discern anything about the creature. Flattened like a roti, it wasn't uncommon to find remains of a dead animal. With an ocean of trucks coming along the same roads, being crushed to death was the norm for animals.
Curiosity, however, got the better of me. I studied the creature. The poor soul, now decaying, lay there in wait to be plucked by the crows eyeing breakfast. It appeared to me as though it was running away, its face directed towards an apartment nearby. If only it were a few steps ahead/behind, it might've lived to tell that tale.
Yet, its rather smaller size intrigued me. Its legs were tinted in shades of grey and white. The body, though snuffed of life and marked by huge tyres, was originally coloured in grey. The signs were ominous. Was this Bitty?
I'd argue against it, but the facts said otherwise. Slightly sharp teeth, peppered in grey and white and size too small to be yet another stray. This was Bitty. He was crushed to death. I couldn't help but ask myself, what of Itty?
A bit ironic to look up to clean blue skies and celebrate a sunny day. The leaves, green as ever, seemed to celebrate their blossoms and carry on. How could I?
The crushed soul couldn't help but make me question whether death was such a beautiful thing, for if being picked by maggots, crows and vultures was the way to go, I would argue otherwise.
However, as Bitty was left to rot, people carried on with their own day. So did I, so will Itty.
How are we different to sutta if all our existence is just snuffed out?
I fail to find myself an answer.
A part of me wishes to stay a doomer. To remain perpetually afraid of this unanswered question.
However, a part of me fights from within. For if death is but so colourless, would one be ready to commit to it?
Would one be willing to forsake colour for monochrome?
I can't help but compare to provide meaning. Bitty's life was meaningless? I'd disagree.
But I am yet to find a satisfying answer for I have got to rush to work.