I don’t understand cats. In fact, I often find them kind of unnerving. They are like invaders in your home. They stroll about like they own the place and nap through the days, then run up and down the hallways like maniacs all night. The way they look at (or through) you is disconcerting. I always think of Don, who lived above the Blue Light. His cats began eating him a few days after he was dead and could not feed them anymore.
I’ve only lived with them myself for a few years. The first time, they belonged to a neglectful roommate. I wound up the one feeding them many times, but could only watch in horror as they tried to lick cadmium yellow out of their fur; living in an apartment with two painters, that kind of thing was par for the course. The second time was much better. Gustav was Shay’s cat and mostly did his own thing. He was old and sick at the end. I dug a hole to bury him in the back yard of her house in Beverly.
Despite these contrary feelings, I’ve always enjoyed painting them. There’s a reason cat videos rival porn for taking up most space on the internet. They have personality to burn. When my Sunday coworker Jesse asked if I’d do one of his and his wife’s little fuckers, I didn’t hesitate. Like every other cat owner everywhere, they have ten million photos to chose from. He sent me dozens. I collaged the best of them into a source image for my painting.
I framed it and brought it into the bar a couple weeks ago. We hung it up on an empty bit of wall for the night. Jesse would go over to it occasionally and walk away smiling throughout his shift. I doubt I’ll live with any again but will probably be immortalizing many more cats in the years to come.
I can live with that.