Coming and Going Feral
by Angela Townsend
A feral cat runs half marathons around the ice cream parlor. I will take you there to see her, but for now you have to believe me.
“Feral” lacks a universal definition. Some apply it to any felid outdoors, even if the subject of inquiry romances your ankles and colonizes your lap. The animal welfare community restricts the term to “cats not socialized to humans,” although the argument can be made that there are no domestic cats, only skilled negotiators. My friend Neil applies the adjective to any entity, from polliwog to nation-state, capable of “going feral.” We will go with Neil’s definition.
I cohabit with two cats constructed from surplus Disney characters and sketches by six-year-olds. They are the marriage of spice cakes and suede fringe jackets. On the Capacity for Cruelty index, they rank below Big Bird. God sewed the Beatitudes under their collarbones. When I trim their claws, they reenact every film in the Death Wish series simultaneously.
Their predecessor was a little lower than the angels. They cannot get their wings as white as her fur, though they try. She taught me the accurate definition of “soulmate.” She manifested outside a fire station in Brooklyn at four months of age. No one can prove she was ever newborn.
The municipal shelter said she “did not like being handled.” The implication was that this was a bad thing. It is the duty of everything plush to welcome idle fingers, and to accept going airborne without warning. Larger animals do not request permission.
Pippa said “no” to questions she was not asked. The shelter planned to “put her down,” but saints without holy days retain the capacity to go feral.
Pippa handed me off to the spice cakes in a demilitarized zone. A household man observed the proceedings. He installed garden spikes around every soft piece of furniture to keep all the cats on the floor. I agreed not to wear bright colors at his parents’ house. The case was handled. I pried it open. Pippa is gone yet persists. I do not mind trimming the spice cakes’ claws without assistance, even if we all go feral.
“Feral” is more of a stretch bracelet than a tattoo. It has rosary beads, chips of tourmaline for healing, and all the capital letters of my name. I take it off around my mother and Neil. I press it against my pulse when I don’t want to be handled.
Sometimes I forget I have it on. I drive through the village shaking my bangs to cayenne music that discourages domestication. I see a mother stare at me at the stop light. I wonder if she is schooling her child, “That middle-aged woman is getting down with her bad self. Someday you will understand.” I flash her a peace sign. The child flashes one back.
I meet my best friend at the ice cream parlor, and we watch the feral cat. She has never been missing. We have never tried to touch her. She knows where to find us. She knows where she is going, lap after lap around Dairy Delite. The animal welfare community would confirm that she is “well fleshed.” A lost pet would be gaunt and ragged, a mourning shroud of tangles. A “true feral” knows where to find meat and how to negotiate knots. She is kempt because it feels better on her own skin. She can turn her attention to half-marathons, whether or not anyone offers melted cream.
Bio: Angela Townsend works for a cat sanctuary. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2024 winner of West Trade Review's 704 Prize for Flash Fiction. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Blackbird, Five Points, Indiana Review, The Iowa Review, Meridian, Pleiades, SmokeLong Quarterly, Trampset, and Witness, among others. She graduated from Princeton Theological Seminary and Vassar College.
