October 2nd, 2022 - 9:33 AM
I can’t claim ownership over the backyard of a home of which I only rent a room, but insomuch as I can, I have made it my own sanctuary. In the persimmon tree gather the finches, sparrows, and warblers clinging to suet and sunflower feeders, the millet showering the tree roots as the birds bounce about in the dirt with urgent excitement. The squirrel sits lounged on the wooden arm of a telephone pole that tucks itself into the corner of two meeting fences. It barks threats at a neighborhood cat that strides casually about the lavender bushes. The cat is unphased and pays it no heed. The birds slowly disperse themselves over the fences and into different yards, and the cat is left to recline in a shallow foxhole that cushions its fur in soft dirt.
At this time of year, it’s overcast. However, the receding dawn saturates the sky in gentle oranges and pinks, reflecting off the thick overlapping sheets of clouds and onto my skin.
Citrus, as he was named by Sam, is a Red Tabby cat belonging to some nearby neighbor. We aren’t actually sure of its sex; Sam is partial to assigning animals as male as she often does when she names things, but we’ve inspected Citrus enough times to be suspicious of this assumption. In this instance, the name lent itself enough androgyny to fit either way.
Regardless, he is one of many neighborhood cats that have ventured here. My backyard is usually a mere detour on whatever journey they are pulled on. They balance with precision and ease on the surrounding fence, taking note of me before fleeing.
I can’t remember my first meeting with Citrus, but I was immediately aware of his friendliness as I often attempt to acquaint myself with animals. I do remember one of my earliest encounters, when he too was crossing by way of the fence. I called out to him in the name we had bestowed upon him. At this point, we had used the name “Citrus” enough times that he was beginning to associate it with us or maybe he just recognized our voices. I stumbled barefoot onto the pavement to meet him, and his disposition was such that he knew to wait for me. He looked at me and squinted in the manner that cats do to denote affection, resting his right paw beneath his breast and hanging his left lazily over my side of the fence. I rubbed his fur gently and engaged in small talk while he idled about in the sun.
Citrus is not a notably chatty tabby, but he will greet you with a dainty meow. Once he became familiar enough with my home, I would often call to him from inside my room, and he, seeing me through the open window, would quicken his pace and say a few eager words. I make a habit of keeping treats to lure him in, although he is happy enough with affection that he often neglects to see the kibble I lay at his feet. I then must direct him to it more explicitly.
Citrus is a loving cat, but desires to love on his own time. He will parade about you as if to lead you somewhere. However, if you deign to follow him, he will only stride a few paces more before collapsing on the floor. Rolling around on pavement and dirt is one of Citrus’s great joys. He twists his body back and forth in great sweeping motions on the ground, occasionally stopping in his rotation to look at you with satisfaction. By the end of every visit, his fur is coated with gravel and dust. I do my best to wipe most of it off and free him of any clinging burrs. His appearance is unsophisticated but iconic in its simplicity. His coat is a creamy orange with streaks of white that roll down his sides and pool on his belly. This white is also smeared unevenly on his nose and about his cheeks. His feet are like white mittens, though they are often powdered in dirt.
I am lucky enough that Citrus has frequently entered inside my home, exploring about my room and underneath my bed, even drinking from my toilet. I suppose this might be alarming to some, but I am certain enough that he is an owned cat. He sometimes sports a collar though not usually, and he is also lean but sturdy, which is the sign of a well-fed animal.
I think now and then about the day I won’t be living at this apartment anymore; the friends left behind: the finches, the jays, the squirrels, and Citrus especially.
