Baloo

The cat looked rough, the patchy fluff of outdoor living and dirt on his light color paws. He was an orange tabby cat, but to my seven year old eyes he was a tiger. Majestic, keen on exploration, and powerful. I watched him from the back door of my southern California home, nose pressed against the warm glass. With nonchalant swagger, he hopped up on the wooden fence that supported the low hanging avocado tree branch and part of me wondered if cats like avocado too. I knew our cats ate dry food from the pantry, but this cat seemed a little more wild than them.

“He’s just looking for food, if we don’t give him any he’ll go away,” my mother inserted from the kitchen, peeking out to see my enraptured by the tomcat.

Except I didn’t want him to go away. And my mother had inadvertently given me a plan to keep him.

The Jungle Book was the hot movie of the season, McDonalds rolling out a Happy Meal toy of the characters, my favorite (and probably an indicator of who I am as a person but I digress) being a large Baloo. Baloo wasn’t just plastic though, no, with a slight push of his arm he would reveal an empty space one could put things into his large belly. At one point it held candy but those days were long gone and my child self decided this was the perfect vessel to abscond outside with hidden cat food for my new feline friend.

When my mother left the room I scuttled to the pantry and shoved as much as I could into Baloo, for the first time in my life experiencing the adrenaline rush of breaking the rules. My hands shook and I spent more time glancing up at the door to see if she was coming back than I did transferring cat chow but finally it was done. I snapped the hand back into place and waited for a good time to get outside.

The time arose the next day. My mother free lanced from home which gave me large chunks of pseudo-supervised time to (quietly) wreak havoc on the house. I had a penchant for eating houseplants and setting up extranvant soap operas in my living room where my stuffed animals acted out whatever drama my life experience could come up with. But this day I took Baloo-cat-food-holder and hopped outside. My sister was in her room, probably reading or at the very minimum doing something not as chaotic as my usual antics, but as much as she ignored me she wasn’t the type to rat me out. I hoped so at least.

The tomcat wasn’t there but I sprinkled the food underneath the plastic chair my mother sunbathed in.

“Here kitty kitty kitty,” I said, “here's some snacks.”

I snuck back inside and took the opportunity to refill Baloo.

The following morning, to my absolute delight, the tom cat had returned, chasing imaginary creatures around in the grass and laying belly up on our cement porch. I overheard my mother complaining about him and a neighbor saying he was left behind when his family moved. I thought about him in an empty house all alone, his meows echoing as he searched for a meal. I was even more determined to transport food out to him but had to wait for the best time. I watched him prance around like a tiger, even revisiting The Jungle Book and wondering if he came from the world paraded on the screen.

My mother slipped into her office and I scrambled to get outside, hoping to get a delivery in before he left for the day. I was so busy pushing his arm to the side and sprinkling the dry food in what was rapidly becoming my ‘usual spot’ I didn’t even notice my sister.

My sister was a quiet type, reserved and rule oriented. The typical eldest child. When I look up and see her interrupting my act, the equivalent of breaking the law in her eyes I’m sure, a stark fear rushed through me. I hadn’t mastered the ability to talk my way out of situations yet so I froze, Baloo hanging as the last bits of cat food dumped out of him.

She is equally frozen, her fists gripped tight around something, her shirt held with the other to create a makeshift basket. When my mind spirals down from panicking, I realize she too is holding cat food.

We do not speak as she releases the handful of kitty chow into the wind, brown pellets sprinkling across the grass. I snap Baloo’s arm closed and stand, clearing my throat and making my back as straight as possible. We both do not acknowledge the other as I return indoors.

The tomcat returned the day after and the day after that, eventually ingratiating himself into our family and becoming our protector and confidant. My mother always talked about how strange it was that he was so insistent on spending time in our backyard. It took twenty years for my sister and I to admit to one another we fed him and my mother still doesn’t know. It became hilarious to us once it was out in the open.

We named him TC, short for ‘Terrific Cat’ (I was an incredibly creative seven year old). He acclimated to me and my sister well, though he admittedly was my sister’s cat. Through many moves and life changes he stuck with us, finally retiring from life at the ripe age of 27 (ish, we're not sure how old he was when he came to us) when my sister and I were fully grown and living on our own. Our little secret, our inside joke.