My latest kitten has just learnt (or, perhaps less impressively, just grown) to jump clear from the kitchen floor and into the fridge. I have an irresponsible habit of leaving its cheese-thick door ajar when constructing lunch, and for the past week or so with almost no fail I have heard the corn-grind of his nascent toenails on the lacquered wood, hoiking himself up and into the cavity. At first it was laughable that this compact oik, this tiny hoiker, no longer than an Evian, with a rib-cage like an arm of bangles, should be able to leap eight times his own height. But, of course, on comes life, filling him up, changing his schematic, upgrading him, hardening his bones and his claws. Every day his face grows more and more concave, more SETI-like, though his enormous eyes, the colour of lager, never cease dominating. He pips the pip of the pipistrelle when he is pleased to see me or is hungry, and his tail lashes like a cat. His tongue, when he deigns to display it, is as sweet as a banana chip. He eats like his own tapeworm, and has found the longest stretch of unbroken space in our house, an isosceles from the tip to the tip, and he runs it daily, religiously, back legs pulling forwards and to the right, threatening at every moment to throw him out of control. With all of these disparate likenesses in him, it is becoming no trouble to rally some of them to his cause and pull himself up into odd places, especially if they contain nice smells.
Usually I catch him before he can haul himself into the body proper; he manages only a hit of melt-water, floating with spring onion skins, before he is deposited back onto the kitchen’s plain. Other times, however, my sandwich is complicated, and requires numerous trips, strategies, avid concentration, and I forget about him. And when I finish and come back to it all I can see of him is those eyes, rustic, hot and alien, weirding me out from amongst the darkness between the tofu and Crunch Corners.
In some ways this is adorable; a precious sight of a precious thing being obliviously capricious, reveling in breaching the rules which are only enforced half-halfheartedly. I sigh, remonstrate him all up on one level, in the same high, fairytale registers in which his natural prey speaks; this being the only way to get him to look at me, to turn his amber instruments my way. In that moment I feel as if I have just won some research time with an expensive telescope.
In other ways it is truly unsettling. Here on the greasy, misted shelves Teddy (that is his name) lurks with the vivarium, dripping packages, the eeking plastic and the compartments, and in so doing takes on all the attributes of a commodity himself. He is lost amongst the other discrete objects in the fridge’s depths; or rather, is not lost but merely indistinguishable. It is no longer important that he belongs out in the warmth and attention. He is no different in weight, distribution and unit cost from a pack of four chicken legs, a few tins of sweetcorn, a Tupperware of cold rice, or indeed an Evian.
If I squint, he disappears entirely.
What is worse is that these commercial attributes are not imagined; they are part of him already. It is only the sterilising airs of the fridge* which bring him into focus. He has, of course, always been a commodity; there are many kittens like him, and there will be many more, and yet all of their owners will believe them unique. He is mobile within bounds; when needed, he is stopped and ceased to make an opportunity for photographs, a feature for guests, and a giver of pleasure. He was bought, quite materially, for a large amount of money; we were even fooled by his packaging, his blue fur like something synthetic and highly flammable, those unbelievable, high-resolution eyes. He is maintained with unguents, pills and pastes. He will grow obsolescent before other, less-rarefied cats.
I do not like this feeling. I do not like it revealing his ubiquity, his seriality, his place on the shelf. He was bred to be beautiful and gawky and loving. Soon we will clip his testicles off, as one takes off the ugly head of a carrot.
I do not like this feeling, and so I pluck him out the fridge always, as soon as I can, before he can charm his way into this carton of blueberries, fuzzy with their own, coquettish fur. I put him down, trill at him, have him trill right back, and shut the door. He goes to sleep in a perfect cursive. His eyes shut, impossibly. He loses his charge so easily.