The real Pounce . . .
An 18-pound black cat named Pounce is an important recurring character in Trail of the Jaguar. Like several of the other characters in the book, he is based on a real-life figure—in this case, a remarkable 18-pound black cat named Malcolm.
Malcolm and I became acquainted when he lived with a university student in a four-unit apartment building also home at the time to two of my best friends, Bruce Douglas and Michael Cox. My introduction to Malcolm was watching in horror as he stood on the handrail of a second-floor balcony, eyeing the roof eight feet above, and then gracefully leaped to the parapet—but that wasn’t nearly as terrifying as watching him jump back down to the four-inch-wide handrail a few minutes later. Malcolm was neither particularly standoffish nor particularly friendly, but I worked at wooing him until he would always come over for a scratch behind the ears when he saw me.
Some months later Bruce called and told me the university student had moved home—and simply left Malcolm in the apartment. I was incredulous at the casual cruelty of the act, but immediately drove over and got into the bare unit. I found Malcolm hiding under the kitchen sink on a shelf. He was clearly traumatized, but came out when I called and let me pick him up and take him home.
And from that moment on, that cat was bonded to me. In fact he seemed to become more standoffish to others while transforming himself into my shadow. If I sat on the sofa, he’d curl up beside me. At the kitchen table drinking morning coffee, he’d be in my lap. Once or twice each night he’d come in from his forays to jump into bed and knead piercingly on my chest, purring, just to re-establish contact. I don’t have much patience with those who fraudulently exploit the “Emotional Support Animal” thing, but I can tell you that cat was a comfort to me during some hard times.
A critical moment arrived a couple of years later, when I first brought Roseann over. I knew she was a devoted animal lover, but warned her as we walked in the house not to expect Malcolm to pay much attention to her. A few minutes later he strode in from his bedroom window entrance and marched to the fridge expecting his nightly dish of milk. I excused myself from my new romantic interest and poured some, which he lapped up before wandering back out toward the living room while I rinsed the dish.
Over my shoulder I heard Roseann doing the baby talk thing, and thought, That’s not going to work. I put the dish in the drainer and walked back out.
On the floor was my cat. Flat on his back. His hind legs were stretched out straight, and his front legs were stretched over his head. Roseann was running her fingernails up and down his belly and cooing at him, while he purred loudly enough for me to hear ten feet away, his eyes half closed in ecstacy. I actually said aloud, “Uh, Malcolm?” His head rolled toward me, and I swear he winked. If cats had opposable dew claws he would have given me a thumbs-up.
Three simultaneous, momentous things happened at that instant: Malcolm gave Roseann his stamp of approval; I gave Roseann my stamp of approval, and she gave us both her stamp of approval. And while to the end of his days I remained Malcolm’s ultimate safe place, Roseann was not far behind.
Malcolm was a consumate hunter (this being before the days when we began to realize just what engines of destruction cats are when multiplied by fifty million or so). His specialty was Inca doves, which he would bring in and eat on the carpet so fastidiously that the only thing left would be the feet, surgically nipped off at the top. Everything else went down—everything—and he never left a drop of blood on the carpet. One night as we sat eating dinner, he brought in a dove and proceeded to hook it with a claw to fling it around and re-pounce on it. One hook got a little exuberant and the dead dove described a gentle fluttering arc and landed with a thump between our plates. We both grabbed dishes and glasses, fully expecting an 18-pound cat to follow it. Instead we looked over to see him sitting politely alert, looking up at us as if to say, “Heh. Sorry. May I have that back please?”
But Malcolm’s very most favorite sport was dogbaiting. We lived in a university neighborhood with a small lawn bordering the sidewalk where people frequently passed with dogs on leashes. Malcolm would lie in the grass, placidly watching the dog approach, his tail gently rising and flopping. Dog and owner would mistake this as friendliness, and the dog would bound over. As soon as it was within range, 18 pounds of fury would explode, flaying open the poor dog’s nose. A couple of dog walkers actually yelled at us for letting our vicious cat trick their poor friendly pooches. One German Shepherd that had its nose split in three refused to walk by our house again; the next time we saw the owner come our way, the dog spotted Malcolm and pulled his owner across the street.
There were goofy moments. Like the time he brought in a cicada, ever so gently held between his teeth while it buzzed crazily, and presented himself to us as if saying, “Look at this! What the hell is this thing?” Or the time we woke up at 3:00 AM to a strange skittering noise in the kitchen. We crept out and turned on the lights to find our 18-pound, German-Shepherd-terrorizing black cat gleefully chasing a Coke bottle cap around the floor.
I’d like to say Malcolm lived to a ripe old age. But one day when we got home he was under a table in the living room. He came out when we walked in—but then collapsed onto his side. We rushed him to the vet and had to leave him to be evaluated. They called soon and gave us the worst news: It was peritonitis, possibly from a wound he’d suffered in a minor tussle with a neighbor’s cat. There was nothing to do.
We drove to the vet and I opened the cage he was in to pull him out so I could hold him while the vet injected the drug that would end his suffering. He couldn’t stand at all, he was panting and his eyes were defocused . . . but when I picked him up and cradled him over my shoulder he started purring weakly. That shattered me. I held him in my lap as the doctor administered the drug and he went limp.
We still miss that cat . . . but his spirit lives on in Pounce.
