An Evening With Oedipus

An Evening With Oedipus

by Angst

I first met Oedipus inside one of the Foxworth’s garbage cans over on thirty second street. The Foxworths always have tuna on Friday nights, and apparently Oedipus and I had the same idea. But there in the dark of that trash receptacle, green to green, I realized that Oedipus was no ordinary cat like myself. He spoke a dialect that surely wasn’t mid-western (trilled his r’s when he purred), and he was a full-blooded Angora. He said he had the papers to prove it, but he’d lost them in a scuffle with a yard bull. Oedipus had hopped a box car
from Philedelphia.

I’m not sure how he did it, but he managed to talk me out of my share of the Foxworth’s tuna by explaining, in his articulate manner, that the tuna had been caught in mercury-poisoned waters, that the tuna itself was poisoned, and that the only reason humans ate it is because a special government agency had been utilized to cover up the facts. Oedipus said that Eastern cats, like himself, ate so much of it they had developed a special immunity. But that he would be glad to take the worry off my mind by "testing" my portion.

Oedipus said that some cats called him Oedi (pronounced Eddy) or just plain Pus, for short. But he thought it irrelevant what anyone called him, as long as they called him for chow. He told me he had been named after a king that liked his mother a lot. I was also fond of my mother, so I decided to call him by his full name: Oedipus.

My life has changed since I met Oedipus. Take a full moon, for instance…round and luminous…it’s enough to make a three and a half year old tom cat want to jump some fences and, well, you know… Not so. Not now, anyway. That kind of primal behavior is a thing of the past. Why, before Oedipus helped me get culture, a moon like that would have put me in a real romantic mood (everyone knows cats are incurable romantics). I used to pick up Suzi on nights like this, and the two of us would climb up on the Stephenson’s garage and cat around until the milkman arrived (some humans prefer a cigarette afterwords; I’m kind of partial to cream). But these days I know that the moon is just a barren sphere, one fifth the size of earth, and it’s romantic glow is only the sun shining on it’s surface. Oedipus told me that. Oedipus knows…

I used to be content with the simple life: a ball of yarn; a clothes line full of wash; a sunny place to snooze; maybe a pesky neighbor kid to scratch once in a while—just to keep in shape; a bowl of cream; Suzy. Simple things. No sweat. I was a free, uncomplicated cat doing my natural animal thing. But Oedipus helped me change all that. Oedipus helped me see how unthinking and irresponsible I had been living. Oedipus made be aware of my cognitive potential, to transcend those bestial instincts, to become a more fulfilled cat.

I remember the night he came to tell me Fred had lit the candles. Fred was his new master, a college student, and whenever Fred lit the candles it meant he was going to have some of his philosopher friends over. There would soon be a stimulating discussion. Oedipus didn’t want me to miss it. "It will give you a taste of culture," he purred. I was in a romantic mood that night, as usual, and would have rather been with Suzy. But it seemed awfully important to Oedipus that I taste culture. I wondered if it tasted anything like tuna.

When we arrived at Fred’s house there were some humans seated on a circle of pillows. I think there were some humans of both kinds, but I’m not sure. Most humans look alike to me. My father said you used to be able to tell by the clothes they wear. Frankly, I can’t see any sense in wearing clothes at all. Oedipus suggested we take a seat under the coffee table; there we would be close enough to hear but "unobtrusive…as a wise cat ought to be around humans."

There was a noise machine in the corner, making noise, and the house was full of strange smells. Candles burned everywhere. The humans were passing around something that looked like a Kitten Yummy, but it was on fire, and it smelled like the Stevenson’s back yard when they burn leaves. Something was also burning in a small shiny dish. The scent it gave off reminded me of Suzy during certain times of the year. I wished I were with Suzy.

"Humans like to burn things," said Oedipus, anticipating my question. "It makes them more intelligent." That Oedipus knows…

"Contemplate Truth," said one of the humans. "It’s all relevant," said another, and put the Kitten Yummy to his mouth.
"The human said to contemplate truth," I remarked casually. "What is truth, Oedipus?"
"Truth," said Oedipus, as he sniffed at the air, "is very important to humans."
"Can you eat it?" I asked.
"No."
"Can you climb it?"
"No. I don’t think so," said Oedipus.
"Well," I said, indignantly. "If you can’t eat Truth or climb it… What good is it?"
"I’m not sure. But listen…" said Oedipus, with growing impatience. "Humans are superior to cats, are they not."
"I guess I never thought about it," I said.
"They are. Take my word for it," said Oedipus. "And if Truth is important to humans, then Truth must also be important to cats."
"But the humans don’t seem to know what Truth is," I added. "How can it be important?"
"It just is," said Oedipus.
"Frankly," I told Oedipus. "I think this Truth stuff is for the birds. And speaking of birds…Does Fred happen to own one of the tasty morsels?"
"Shh! Listen to the humans," said Oedipus.
"One of the humans kept saying: "I suspend judgment. I suspend judgment…I suspend judgment on that point." All the other humans seemed to be angry with him—as if he had tipped over a milk bottle or something—They would shout at him and clutch at their hair. But all he would say was "I suspend judgment."
"That’s Fred. My master," said Oedipus.
"Does Fred have truth?" I asked.
"No," said Oedipus. "Fred is an agnostic. Fred doesn’t think anyone can have truth, but he keeps looking for it anyway."
"How does he do that?" I asked.
Oedipus pondered the question with a paw tucked under his chin. He stared at me…then at Fred…then back at me. Finally, he raised his head in a dignified pose and his eyes sparkled with candlelight.
"He suspends judgment," he said, proudly.

Suspends judgment. I decided not to suspend judgment on the flea that had taken up residence under my collar. He itched. I scratched him.
"Let us not forget Socrates," said a human. "An unexamined life is not worth living."
"Who was Socrates?" I asked Oedipus. "And why didn’t he want to live?"
"Socrates," said Oedipus, "was a human who lived at a time long ago, when cats were even thought of as gods."
"That’s silly," I remarked.
"Never the less," continued Oedipus. "Socrates was a wise human… He told other humans that they should think about life or they will never be happy. That they should have reasons for living, and live by those reasons."
"You mean to say…," I questioned Oedipus. "that I should have reasons for living and to live by those reasons?’
"Exactly."

I stopped scratching at the flea. I had never really thought about flea scratching before. I just took it for granted that cats (and also dogs, ugh!) scratch fleas. But then I began to wonder if maybe I was wrong in scratching it. It itched—as they usually do—but maybe that wasn’t a good enough reason to scratch it.
"Golly, Oedipus," I said. "I have never thought to think about life."

While the flea continued to itch under my collar, I began to think about all the things I hadn’t thought about. I wondered why I had a preference for tuna and cream; I wondered why the moon and stars looked so good to me when I was with Suzy. I wondered why Suzy looked so good to me. But then I began to wonder why I was a cat in the first place and not a stone or a tree, a fox terrier, a milk bottle, or a human. I rested my head on my paw, as Oedipus often did, and closed my eyes.

"Is anything the matter?" Oedipus asked.
"I don’t feel so good," I told him. "I’m thinking about thinking…and what I’m thinking doesn’t make me feel so good."
Oedipus chuckled—the way cat’s do after they’ve devoured a canary, feathers and all.
"Now you know why I brought you here," he said.
My tummy felt like it did when I licked finger paint off a kid’s thumb. The smoke from the Kitten Yummy bothered my usually sharp eye sight…thought I saw two of Oedipus. And the noise from the human’s noise machine rattled the inner part of my finely tuned ears. My brain spun ‘round and ‘round—as it did when the milkman flung me into a mulberry tree. Why? Why? Why?
"I think I have to leave now," I told Oedipus. "I have much thinking to do."

Oedipus helped me to the window, as I seemed to be lighter on my feet than usual. I jumped, only a short distance from the ground, flipped over and landed flat on my back—an embarrassing thing for a cat to do.

"I bid you farewell," said Oedipus, still chuckling, his four eyes twinkling. He left the window. I listened to his chuckling until it disappeared into the noise from the human’s noise machine. Normally, I wouldn’t have stayed there on my back on Fred’s lawn. But I was so busy thinking about thinking I’d forgotten my noble heritage. So I sprawled where I had landed, pressed into the grass—as it were—by the sheer weight of my own thoughts.

I wondered why I hadn’t thought to think before this; it seemed a natural thing to do, once you get the hang of it. I gazed up at a towering tree and wondered if trees could think. Maybe I wasn’t a cat at all. I might be a tree! I wondered if I lay on my back on the lawn long enough, would I take root and grow? Would I sprout leaves? Would humans stroll up and carve their names in me? And would dogs…Ugh! But then I thought: I must be a cat, because mother told me so when I was only a kitten. But how could she know. After all, I reasoned, mother had never thought to think.

I would probably still be lying there, waiting to take root, if it hadn’t started to rain. My ears became clogged with water, and my fur was getting awfully soggy. Then I remembered that I hated to get wet. I’d always hated to get wet—even when the Stephenson’s wanted me to take a bath like they did (humans don’t understand the utility of a long, pink tongue.) I reasoned thus: Trees like to get wet. I have never seen one come in out of the rain. I, however, do not like to get wet. Therefore, I am not a tree. Satisfied with the logic, I rolled over on all fours and looked for shelter.

I found an old shed across the alley and climbed in through a crack. Inside, the shed smelled musty and damp. There were sharp tools piled here and there—the kind humans often cut their fingers on—and some bags were stacked in a corner. The bags smelled like the stuff Mr. Stephenson spreads on his lawn as he mumbles: "Damn crabgrass! Damn Crabgrass!" I hopped up on the bags and settled down to do some more thinking.

I had just gotten comfortable, with all my muscles in their right places, when I heard a noise outside. The door of the shed creaked open. My fur would have stood on end if it hadn’t been so soggy. A large human (even larger than most) stood in the doorway and shined his light on me.
"I thought so," yelled the human. "Damn cat! Get outta here!"
I sprang from the bags, and his shoe plunged into my other end on the way out.
"Scat!" he said.

I sped out into the rain, but then I suddenly skidded to a halt when I ran into my thoughts again. I sat down to think. I can only tell you that what happened next was the result of all that thinking I’d been doing. Thoughts raced through my mind like they were having a fit. There I sat, getting soaked all over again after I had found that shed fair and square. It didn’t make sense. The human had a house of his own to go to. Why did he have the right to deprive me of my personal shelter. It didn’t make sense. It just didn’t make sense! I reasoned: Cats have been kicked around by humans long enough. It’s time we got a little respect. The thoughts grew stronger and stronger inside my brain, until they seemed to push me back inside the shed. I trotted up to the big human and demanded my shelter back. I don’t think he understood, because he grabbed a long tool that looked like it had a row of fish bones attached to it and raised it in the air. I sank my teeth into his leg.

"Yeeeoww!" said the human. (that’s human for ‘It hurts so bad’). He slammed the long tool down again and missed my ear by a hair. So I bit him again. "Yeeoww! Oww!" he said.

I ran out of the shed with the human close behind. "THUNK," went the long tool. It sank into the muddy grass, and I was half way across the alley before he could pull it out. I ran faster and faster so my thoughts couldn’t catch up with me; who knows what would have happened if they had. I ran under Fred’s porch and got a glimpse of Oedipus sitting there, so forlorn, before I collided with him. SPLAT! The next thing I saw was Oedipus sailing through the air. He sprawled upside down against the trellis. He looked too sad to even right himself. I cocked my head so I could talk to him.

"Oedipus," I asked. "Why are you so sad?"
"I’m embarrassed," said Oedipus. "It was awful."
"I’m sorry I ran into you," I apologized. "Some thoughts were chasing me."
"Never mind that," said Oedipus. Then he told me that after I left the house, he had gone back to the discussion. He said he was only there a short time when Fred suddenly grabbed him by the nap of the neck and dangled him in front of the guests, saying: "The only thing that separates us from this dumb animal is our ability to create language."
"I was so embarrassed," said Oedipus. "Can I help it if humans go to school to study French or German but never bother to learn Cat?" He told me that once he had tried to present his views on the energy crises to Fred. But Fred mis-understood. He took him to the vet to be checked for worms instead. So Oedipus and I spent the rest of the evening listening to the patter of rain on the porch, and trying to figure out how to say "solar energy" in human.

Well, that was my introduction to the life of the mind. I joined a small elite pack of cats who have had similar experiences, and we sit around and discuss the latest issues: The effects of a recession on the price of cat food; how to achieve equal rights with dogs and "milkpersons," as they are called now; and even deeper issues concerning the meaning of life itself. Some of the cats think they have found Truth. As for myself, I sort of suspend judgment. You might say I’m an agnosti-cat. Suzy has another word for it: snob.

Right now I’m sitting on top of a Foxworth garbage can, gazing up at that round, luminous moon, knowing that it is 240,000 miles from Earth. Knowing that humans (and perhaps cats) will someday colonize it. And yet wondering what made it seem so much more beautiful and warm before I met Oedipus.

Oedipus? Oh, Oedipus left town some time ago. I guess that a copy of War and Peace fell off of Fred’s bookshelf and landed on his tail. …broke it in three places—the tail that is. Oedipus decided it was too dangerous living around all that culture. Last I heard he was headed for California. He said he was going to live in a Zen monastery in the mountains. It was a place, he said, where humans and cats try very hard not to think. I wish I could do that—not think, that is.

The End