The Young Quixote’s Cat
The young Quixote entered the book store with a glint of hope in his eyes.
The late nights at the office were starting to wear on his psyche. He knew he needed something different, but he didn’t know what. There was a noble calling in his soul whose voice was muffled by the distractions of life. The late nights at the office were a necessity — they were sure to pay off when he finally landed the sales contract that would make the quarter. It did not bother him that his weekends and holidays were mostly sacrificed to the alter of bureaucracy, after all the crossed t’s and dotted i’s were insurance against the predatory auditors and dart throwers that were a necessity to keep the organization in line. He had been fortunate to have kept clear of this kind of trouble over the years — although he suspected that he had it in him to duel it out with an auditor, he lacked a certain spine for adversary. He mostly shied away from confrontation.
He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of book he was looking for. Something different. He needed a change.
He thought about his departed cat Jinxy. He had never considered himself a cat person, but when Luscinda had left him alone with a mortgage he hadn’t budgeted for and an unwanted pet it gave him some silent comfort that at least he still had a part of her to hold onto. All she had taken of his was an abstract landscape photograph of New Mexico countryside. He had always found the cat somewhat distant. He suspected that Jinxy had a softer side but had never seen it first hand. Their relationship was not unlike coworkers in adjacent cubicles, all business and matter of fact exchanges — he left her food and water, changed her litter, and in exchange she every once in a while gave him a passing purr or a nod hello. Cats are like that. It’s not until a cat is vulnerable that they show a softer side.
He thought about picking out an autobiography, a tragic missed romance novel, or some story more surreal, but none of those genres felt right.
He smiled at the thought of movie depictions of cats without opposable thumbs trained to come on command, with a helpless kitten nursed to health via breast pump and a father-in-law’s lie detector interrogation — cats aren’t really like that, and such cringeworthy movies left him feeling just as intended. When Jinxy had finally departed, he thought about burying her in the backyard garden, spreading her ashes in the compost, but it just didn’t feel right, that would be like just giving up on Luscinda. So instead he got Jinxy stuffed. She gave the mantle a hint of distinction, and at least he kept a memory this way. The day he brought her home from the taxidermist he climbed into the shower and as the steamy water flowed softly sang please don’t let me be misunderstood.
Having finally worked his way through the soulless retail space the young Quixote found his way to the register, in his right hand a book of chivalry and in his left one by Jack Kerouac.
*For further readings please check out my Table of Contents, Book Recommendations, and Music Recommendations.
Books that were referenced here or otherwise inspired this post:
Don Quixote — Miguel de Cervantes (graphic novel by Rob Davis)
(As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.)
For further readings please check out my Table of Contents, Book Recommendations, and Music Recommendations.
