Mangy Cat

Here's a recent Travel Writing assignment for class, which is supposed to be a 500 word essay centered around an Angers animal.

Amid the lawless French drivers, bicyclists, and summiting high heels, I’m not sure there’s much room for an animal to survive the streets and sidewalks of Angers. The poor creatures would probably get hit and splatter on the sidewalk along with the dog shit, before an Angevin could utter out a, “pardon!” It is odd though, in Austin squirrels stare at you at every corner, frozen with acorns stuffed in their mouths, and grackles hover over restaurant tables. Here there is an uneasy absence of scavenging animals outside of the many cafes and savory patisseries. Angers should be the land of milk and honey to an Austin sparrow. Here it would be a bird’s dream, as long as they are as quick as the French step.

I did, however, spot one pigeon at the chateau of Angers, perching in a stone crevice, blending into the grey hues that cloak the city. Perhaps they are hiding everywhere-all sorts of animals, blending into old buildings, and ever so often, like the bats I saw on our first night, they shriek and fly across rooftops, but no one takes notice.

On the way from the chateau towards the medieval homes near the gothic St. Maurice Cathedral, sat a mangy white cat, perhaps pretending it too could blend into the beautiful old architecture. It did, however, succeed in looking old. Ignoring my momentary co-existence, like any great cat, it remained completely disinterested in me. In the narrow cobblestone street, it was the only breathing being besides me, if in fact it was still breathing. It then dropped its eyelids and opened them, in that cat-like wink of confidence.

I wondered if he was an old soul, maybe someone who used to attend mass at the cathedral, now content to being an ugly cat, sitting in the warm sun, waiting on its next bowl of crème. Perhaps the masses paid off nicely. Maybe, he had lived in the castle, and had ruled over Anjou, and was resentful of his downgraded status to cat, therefore stuck his nose up above my presence. Perhaps it’s Jean Bodin*, the Renaissance philosopher, returned to his birthplace at last to find peace and his own sovereignty as king of feral cats.

I felt a twinge of pity for him, kindness must be scarce for such an ugly cat, and earlier my peers had laughed at him as they walked by. Even I had, I must admit, smiled amusingly at his unusual appearance. Where are the rest of the Angers cats? They’re not off chasing birds. The dogs seem to be leashed up to their chic owners stably. This would seem like the kind of place where mice would be of plenty. But Mr. Bodin has been the only cat so far I’ve noticed, the only animal in fact, besides the fancy little terriers women stroll along with them. He pulled his ears straight back in annoyance, so I walked on, leaving him to the sun’s beams and silence.

*Jean Bodin, philosopher and politician, is noted for theory of sovereignty, writing a dialogue for coexistence between religions, and quantity theory of money.