If you live in Jerusalem, you probably know your neighborhood
cats. I know I can't be alone in this. You notice them every
morning when you leave for shul or the grocery. When you
first moved in, you refused to distinguish between them
individually, but that didn't last long. Jews usually
maintain a healthy, if not adverse, distance from the
tendency to personify animals, but like any neighborhood
fixture, you have to notice them eventually, whether you like
it or not.
First you recognized that enormous one-eared tom. How could
you not have? You noticed when that female had four kittens
and you wondered when there were suddenly only three. When
you take out the garbage you can't help but feel like you're
intruding on some sort of intricate secret society.
I haven't, and won't, name stray cats, but that doesn't
matter. They're just as distinct without it. The cats in my
neighborhood are generally healthy, bordering on beautiful.
They have that sleek, groomed look you see in commercial cat
food ads. I suspect this has something to do with the elderly
lady up the block who feeds them, but there's reason to
believe otherwise. I've noticed a similar elderly lady who
feeds the cats near the yeshiva, and those are about as mangy
as bare survival will allow. Each neighborhood produces a cat
population with its own distinctive personality and degree of
health. The cats of Meah Shearim probably suffer the
worst.
There's a consistent gathering of about ten cats that wait
with intent patience behind the Mirrer Yeshiva's dining room.
Every once in a while, a sympathetic avreich will
bring out a tin of chicken scraps and everyone reluctantly
turns to watch a feeding frenzy worthy of the African
savannah. This is the closest thing to entertainment these
guys have time for, but it suffices.
People are rightfully hesitant to actually be happy for the
cats in their good fortune. We live in a world that overtly
misrepresents the moral significance of animals, so caution
is appropriate. However, I once saw a picture of R' Elya
Lopian putting out milk for cats in Kfar Chassidim, so I'm
sure it's not just a simple matter.
I never actually fed them until a few weeks ago, when a
mottled female decided our machsan would be a great
place to winter her kittens. I promptly decided that our
basement was absolutely not an appropriate home for kittens
but try explaining that to a nine pound calico who just gave
birth three times in a row. And besides, added my wife, it's
really starting to get cold outside. As of now, those kittens
are still down there, and they're getting bigger every day.
They receive a lot of the borderline-spoiled leftovers our
household produces, so I guess we can take credit for their
development, or at least my wife can.
The truth is, I get a lot of comfort from seeing the cats in
my neighborhood. No matter how bad you think your day is
going, they always look like theirs is going worse. They
always look like they should be worried even though they
never seem to be. This applies to animals in general, but
stray cats in particular. They live in squalor, and they
usually have no idea where their next meal is coming from.
They don't even live in a natural ecosystem like wild
animals; they live in an artificial city, just like us.
They understand, though, that there's really no such thing as
a truly artificial city. The city, just like the forest,
functions and provides sustenance for its inhabitants for one
reason; because the Borei Olom says it will. Animals remember
this instinctually. It's harder for humans. I'm sure it has
to do with something the Kotzker Rebbe once said: "I, unlike
most people, am not interested in figuring out why Hashem
does the things He does."
If we could understand why He does things, we could do them
ourselves. What's really exciting is to serve a Creator Whose
plan is so ingenious, Whose methods are so intricate, that
they're beyond our perception entirely. (I've never heard a
vort from the Kotzker, in fact, that hasn't changed my
life.)
The cats of Jerusalem are tough. When you turn a corner in
the Old City and surprise a group of them, they stay put.
They may be surprised, but they never startle. I've watched a
cat stalk a crow at least twice its size, with what looked
like every intention of devouring it.
What's really impressive is their tenacious ability to
survive. The year begins with a long cold rain that almost
always blows sideways, followed by a longer brutally
dehydrating summer. I can't imagine either season being easy
on the cats, yet somehow, they're always there. And not only
do they survive; they usually manage an immaculate appearance
while doing so.
I once heard that the individual follicles of a cat's fur are
specifically designed to repel dirt. I don't know about you,
Reader, but I find that amazing. Endowed with the proper
tools from Hashem, an animal can live in a filthy dumpster
without sacrificing its cleanliness and dignity. [Ed. In
fact, Chazal say that cats are there to teach us modesty,
another fine trait!] It would all probably make a nice
metaphor for something, but I'll leave that up to you.
I once saw an emaciated cat strolling down a sidewalk in the
Beis Yisroel area, its shoulder blades protruding above its
neck. It had clearly had a bad winter. I found myself
strangely disturbed by its appearance, and even more so by
its behavior; striding confidently along. Everything about
its body called for alarm, except its face. It bore an
expression no different from those shared by the healthy cats
near my home. Except, this cat wasn't healthy. Anybody could
see that. Death couldn't have been much more than a week
away, yet this animal was conducting itself in the same
routine manner it always had. There was no panic or fear,
because it simply didn't know. Then, while I was standing
there feeling sorry for the cat it hit me; I don't really
know either.
