The Power Of The Pussycat

 

Most would agree that it is quite a feat to offend, rather than inspire, an impressionable thirteen-year-old boy. Yet, that is precisely what a gas station attendant accomplished one cloudless afternoon of the summer just past.

 

It was a simple interaction, really. After fiddling for a moment or two with the gas pump’s digital display, I walked inside and asked, “Are all of your pumps pre-pay?”

 

The attendant replied, “Yeah.”

 

“Okay, I’d like twenty dollars on pump four,” I said. “My husband usually gasses up the cars. I guess I didn’t realize.”

 

Ringing in the transaction, the attendant looked up at me and chided, “Oh, so you’re saying you’re a pussycat.”

 

To be honest, it didn’t really sink in at that moment. I offered little in response; but, upon walking back out into the warmth of the day, inserting the nozzle into the gas tank and watching the numbers flicker, albeit far too rapidly, it hit me. I should have responded with a simple “meow.”

 

After all, I have had the fortune of fine-tuning my feline essence under the tutelage of one of the feistiest calicos this side of ancient Egypt. I know what it is to be a pussycat. It has little to do with the diminutive and everything to do with living one’s own personal truth.

 

Sushi was adopted not long after being rescued from an abusive home in Tennessee. She was left by her rescuers upon a veterinarian’s doorstep with a note that read as follows:

 

I am a stray that was taken in back around November, and I had a litter of kittens. The people that took me in can no longer afford to keep me. Please help me find a good home. I am about a year old. I have a blue and green eye, and one is scarred due to my previous owners beating me.

 

The eye mentioned in the note ultimately had to be removed. It caused Sushi a great deal of pain and had become, in effect, a cancer risk if left untreated.

 

When I hopped back into the car with something just shy of a quarter of a tank, I mentioned to my son, “Would you believe what the guy in there said?”

 

“What?” he responded, only half-listening, given his absorption in the library book we had checked out the day before.

 

“He called me a pussycat,” I told him.

 

Taking for granted his mild-mannered demeanor, I was surprised at the intensity of my son’s response. It was far from trepidatious or timid, much less was it provided in the benefit-of-the-doubt approach he typically adopts when faced with any sort of conflict.

 

“And, you didn’t smack him? Mom, that’s totally disrespectful, not to mention sexist,” he told me. “I can’t believe you let him get away with that.”

 

“It’s no big deal, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I soothed.

 

“Do you know what that means?” he asked.

 

“I guess he was saying that I’m not good for anything much other than looking pretty,” I replied with uncertainty in my tone. I’m an editor for heaven’s sake. It’ll take another five years for the current trends in derogatory slang to make their way into my spell and grammar check.

 

“Well, yes!” my son exclaimed. “I can’t believe you’re okay with that.”

 

A couple of miles down the road, my son had apparently let go of the incident and was once again absorbed in his book. Yet, he had gotten me thinking.

 

I had a decision to make. I could be offended by the attendant’s comment or I could realize that the young man not only didn’t know a hill of beans about me but, given the feline training I’ve been blessed to receive, may have unwittingly given me what I would consider the highest of compliments.

 

To understand this, one must know Sushi. This one-eyed calico has been my mentor since she came into our home several years ago. She’s seen us through moves across many states and took it upon herself to size up my husband before giving her blessing to the marriage. Now, she’s got him wrapped around her paw.

 

It takes a lot to earn Sushi’s trust. There’s no doubt that she’s seen it all. She’d delivered her own babies, had endured abuse and then found herself abandoned by her own rescuers. Naïve she is not.

 

Although she can jump halfway across the master suite from the dresser to the bed in a single bound and is adept at delivering a mean right hook when pushed beyond her limits, she nuzzles and cuddles upon waking each morning and writhes in ecstasy with the sensation of a thoroughly administered backrub. She knows when it is wise to be guarded; yet, she understands that there are times and places when it is safe to let go and give freely of her well-earned adoration.

 

Yet, the characteristic that is most striking about her is that she is the epitome of fearlessness. There is no vacuum with the power to frighten her. She remains centered amid the chaos of each weekly cleaning day. “Go ahead,” one can virtually hear her say, “Bang around the pots and pans. Run the garbage disposal yet one more time. Now that you’ve got my attention, what exactly is it that you want?” Be assured, Sushi sugarcoats nothing.

 

On top of it all, forget the notion that sensuality lies within one’s appearance, physical size or any other measure. Sushi has taught me that it is nothing less than a manifestation of one’s spirit. Neither the presence of one eye instead of two nor a saggy maternal belly has put a damper on her self-worth. She is who she is. Take it or leave it!

 

If there is anything that I learned that day from the gas station attendant, it is that the power of words lies not in what is implied. Rather, the ability to empower or to destroy lies within the inference of what is uttered. It’s all in the interpretation.

 

All hail the power of the pussycat.

 

Sushi and I are proud to have lived our lives fully, to have known the miracle of giving birth to our children and to have endured abuse and disrespect while emerging from it all with our ability to love, writhe and purr firmly intact. We have proven ourselves fearless, time and time again, and have come to the conclusion that, despite our imperfections, we are unique and beautiful.

 

Now that I have thought it out, the next time I encounter that gas station attendant, I will proudly offer my most heartfelt “meow.” If that doesn’t suffice, I guess I’ll have no choice but to bear a perfectly manicured set of claws.

 

Reviews

[Through the Gateway]

A wonderful piece of introspection! I thought it flowed very well and it was very entertaining. It is funny how what people say effect us, good or bad.

And as for attaching "too much importance" to someone's comments...that's what humans do. And as a writer, the most innocuous of moments causes us to pause.

...or, paws. Whatever.

[Eagle Cruagh]

The attendant made an assinine remark that even
he probably did`nt know what it meant.

The writer attaches entirely too much importance
to comments from a retard.

The rest of the story is about a cat.

Nice try.

You get 100 % for effort.

---- Eagle Cruagh

[Just Plain Me]

I love this :)
Especially how you turned what was supposed to be an insult into a self empowering piece.
Good write :D

[symon]

I enjoyed this.

A few thoughts:

It reads with a nice hint of Southern charm that I found was discounted by stating the cat was from Tennessee. Without geographical reference the undertone works nicely for itself.

The paragraph that begins with "I had a decision to make." didn't flow as well as the others and I picked up on a trend of a paragraph beginning with a short sentence followed by a very long one that required slow reading to flow well.

Fifth to last paragraph: I would drop the second "one's" (personal preference).

Nice use of adverbs without overuse, although when read over and over: the closing sentence snaps better without the "perfectly manicured" (again - personal preference - it read a bit solipsistic in comparison to overall tone).

Thanks for sharing. I read it several times and found different morsels each time.