A streetcat named Vichyssoise

I once knew a cat named vichyssoise.

Come to think of it, not unlike the soup. Composed of humble potato and modest leek and yet her silky coolness poured her out of soup kitchen, onto streets, cloaking her with certain elegance, lending her airs and grace, projecting her into higher realms.

She came to me a fragment forced from the jaws of rush-hour traffic, a blend of fur, prickling with teeth and claws, helpless and hell-bent a concoction of oil and vinegar mixed. Good intention and reticence argued before me whilst cigarette smoke burnt my eye.

So young, fragile, yet so needy... I can't just let her die?

Milk my little kitty cat? How about fresh fish? No! No!

Was anything good enough for our Vichyssoise?

'Keep trying', I reason, 'it's been traumatic for her'; kettles hiss, cranky taps spit. Her refusal to be fuels my insistence, embroiling us. Mountain rams tangling on a precipice.

She became a part of my life, her daily rituals became a fascination; her fastidious toilet manners, her hours of narcissist self adoration, her picky table manners, her Zen-like devotion to sleep.

We were affectionate on her terms. She showed me love; curling herself up on my face whilst I slept, licking my feet with her rough gritty tongue, bringing me dead things.

She added colour, gave depth to my drab existence. It was all rather sweet and endearing at first.

Sweetness, colour and depth; Like a loaded gun: Depth can be scary. Depth also has to logically at some point become shallow. Interminably shallow. Colour fades, inextricably subject to mood, subtle shifts in scale turn verdant to vile in a heartbeat, and sweetness, cloying, dripping sweetness; catalyst for plaque of the soul.

I bought a dog, a big one. My Cerberus, my guard, custodian of the walls of my keep. Nothing changed. Contempt ruled the roost; for my wall, for my Cerberus, for me. Sometimes, when Cerberus slept, she came, purring, challenging me scornfully to love. The summer turned to autumn, something had to be done.

She's gone now, I set her free, charity looked the other way, she was carried away in a sack on a bike, the street reclaimed her babe,

Sometimes late at night I hear her, she lurks in the lanes of my dreams, Vichyssoise my darling, it just wasn't meant to be.