Read the book: «Love Catharsis»

Like all Russians, Simon loved borscht with sour cream, crepes with cottage cheese, and boiled eggs with caviar, preferably black. But Mary had calculated his BMI, considered him overweight, and put him on a diet. Preposterous. He didn’t need a diet. He was as gorgeous as Adonis, loyal as Lancelot, and affectionate as Romeo. Well-read and intelligent too. No female could resist his beautiful emerald eyes and loving smile, to say nothing of his shimmering coat. He was the finest example of the Russian Blue cat pedigree line.

His stomach growled—it was breakfast time, but he didn’t want to wake Mary yet. She smelled of lavender soap, warmth, and home. He had his own pet bed in the bedroom but preferred to crawl to her bed when he got cold or lonely.

He got cold and lonely a lot.

Mary’s cell phone vibrated, and the screen came to life with a new text message. Mary stirred, yawned, and stretched, trying to shake off the last images of dreamland. But Simon was quicker and fished her cell phone from under the pillow first. A text message from Mary’s new boyfriend, Vergenuis, read:

Vergenius: Mon Ami, would you like to go out tonight? How about the Fruits de Mer?

Seafood? What was this Frenchman thinking? Simon pushed the cell phone back under the pillow, but it was too late. Mary’s hand patted the bedding, then Simon’s furry shoulder, and groped the phone.

His perfect morning was destroyed. Simon rolled closer to touch Mary’s arm, hoping for a few strokes of her hand, but she was busy typing. Simon squinted his eyes and read Mary’s reply:

Mary: I have a marketing meeting until 7:00 p.m.

Vergenius: A quick bite at Nelson’s, then?

Mary: Remember, I’m a vegetarian.

Vergenius: I know just the place.

Mary chuckled and sat up, making it impossible for him to see her reply. Based on her bright face, nothing good. She shared her genuine full-hearted smile, which had always belonged to Simon, with an invisible suitor with a bizarre name—Vergenuis. Pffft. Very genius? Weirdo genius? What were his parents thinking?

"Simon, dear, breakfast." Mary’s voice coaxed him from the warmth of the bed. After a few lazy stretches and playing hard to get his attention, Simon trotted to the kitchen, salivating over the chicken liver pâté in his bowl. A closer look revealed minced cucumbers mixed in. Apparently, Mary hadn’t abandoned the idea of Simon losing a few ounces.

He was royalty, and Mary was his queen. When Simon first arrived as a scared little kitten in her modern two-bedroom Manhattan apartment, he detested her white furniture and the silence of the bookshelves. He dreamt of a companion—a lady cat to play with and cuddle, watch people outside, and try to catch a goldfish in tanks.

At first, he hid under the leather couch with his stuffed fox toy until Mary read aloud every evening, discussing novels and poems, addressing Simon as an interlocutor. Eventually, she’d won his heart with her kindness, intelligence, and soft-spoken voice. Rumor had it some Meow Mix kibbles were involved, but Simon would deny such an absurdity.

He jumped on the chair, knocking down a red pen and a few printed pages in protest of the presence of cucumbers in his breakfast.

He despised Mary’s work as a senior editor in a mid-size publishing agency. It came with countless hours of reading manuscripts. His aristocratic soul enjoyed Emerson more than Whitman and Oscar Wilde more than Thomas Hardy. He had no interest in the modern writer’s work. He could quote from Lord Byron and Emily Dickinson. Unfortunately, Mary could hear only a gentle purring. When his Russian genes called to him, he liked to chew on the collected works by Leo Tolstoy from the bottom shelf.

"I’m jumping in the shower. Be a good cat and eat your veggies. I love you, my knight in shining armor." She pet his shining coat and picked up the pages from the floor. "Don’t be jealous of my work. You know I love you more."

He closed his eyes to fully enjoy her humming Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 as she walked toward the bedroom.

Mary told Simon that his name meant “listener” in Hebrew and “flat nose” in Greek. Both fit.

On the days when Mary was not caught at work, they spent their evening together. They took turns choosing the books from Mary’s vast library. Simon usually rubbed his nose against his preferred literature, and Mary read it aloud. Last night, it was her choice. He had to listen to some teary romance, which was totally out of Mary’s character, but he was stoic to his Hebrew name and tolerated Jojo Moyes’s sad ending. Today was his choice, and he didn’t like the prospect of spending the evening alone.

Did she say yes to the dinner offer? Without a second to lose, Simon jumped on the counter. Mary’s phone was locked. A cat’s paw was no match for the human finger, but his dry nose was. Mary’s screensaver showed Simon sitting on a stack of books—royal posture, elegant tail. A few more touches on the passcode screen—Shakespeare’s birthday—and the message feed appeared.

Vergenius: Vegetarians have to eat, too, right?

Mary: Well, I’d planned to rest at home after a long day of meetings.

Vergenius: They make an excellent eggplant sandwich with tahini spread.

Mary: Sounds tasty.

Vergenius: Great food without a glass of wine? Waste of time.

Mary: Is that a quote from Plautus.

Vergenius: No, from me.

Mary: You twisted my arm. 8:00 p.m. it is.

A cold hand wrapped around Simon’s heart, and a pang of jealousy froze his front paws. Then, the cell phone screen went black. Would she sacrifice their evening together for a vegetable sandwich and The Frenchman’s company?

He wanted to type "change plans" with his nose but heard wet steps approaching the kitchen.

Slick as moonlight and fast as a panther, Simon flew to the floor toward the bookshelves. He watched Mary—fresh as morning dew with a wet towel around her head—fidgeting with the coffee machine. Brazilian roast tickled his nostrils. Then, without turning her head, she cooed, "Simon, dear, I’m going out tonight. We will read your book tomorrow."

Mary turned around with a steaming mug of coffee and pink cheeks to find Simon sitting on the book he had knocked from the bookshelf. The spine read The Truth and Other Lies by Sascha Arango.

* * *

Mary left for work, “forgetting” the book Who Moved My Cheese on the coffee table and placing a magazine with the page left open on the article Thriving through change on the windowsill—his favorite spot during the day.

Simon knocked the book to the floor.

He read the article.

Only then did he knock the magazine to the floor.

Cassy, a twenty-five-year-old college student and part-time maid, showed up at 5:00 p.m. to clean his litter box, refresh the water in his drinking fountain, and open a can of salmon pâté. To his silent dismay, she pushed two vitamins inside his food. But he wasn’t a fool. He dug the vitamins out and hid them under the couch. In protest, he decided to leave his food untouched until his stomach, weak from Mary’s forced diet, changed his mind.

“Simple pleasures are the last healthy refuge in a complex world,” said Oscar Wilde.

So, he ate the pâté while playing different scenarios in his head of how to get rid of Mary’s newly obtained boyfriend.

Cassy read to him and petted him too. Unfortunately, she read from Facebook, not content Simon would appreciate. Her petting was even worse; she only used one hand while holding her phone in the other. That didn’t count as love. It was half-love.

Simon concluded that both actions were likely in her job description, and he didn’t enjoy either of them.

When Cassy left, Simon watched an episode of Big Cats Tales on the Discovery Channel. Even a toddler knew how to turn on the TV. Simon was two, which was twenty-four human years. Using his paws and nose, he could operate a remote control and cellphone, take a ride on a robot vacuum cleaner, and—his favorite pastime—watch the swirling water in the flushing toilet. Mary kept the bathroom door shut when her utility bill went up.

After Jonathan and Angela Scott finished sharing their TV wisdom about the world’s most amazing animal, lions, Simon pushed the wrong button, and a South Park episode came to the screen. Kyle and company were going to toilet paper the teacher’s house. Simon giggled inside.

He turned the TV off and jumped on the dinner table. He scooped out two apples and one banana from the wooden fruit bowl without any problem. He nestled inside the bowl, taking its oblong shape.

Simon needed to catch up on his twenty hours of daily sleep. He thought about his life. How much would it change if Vergenuis became more than just a boyfriend? How could Simon prevent the stranger’s intrusion into their happy life? The idea of toilet papering didn’t seem so bad. If he was careful, he could probably get some toilet paper when Cassy cleaned the house on Saturday. Kyle had some regrets at the end of the episode, but Simon wouldn’t. His happiness with Mary was at stake.

Mary came home at 10:45 p.m. Ridiculous what some women would do for free food. Didn’t she remember she had a yoga class at 6:00 the next morning?

Simon curled up in his pet bed and pretended to sleep. He felt her gentle hand petting him between the ears and had to hold back his purr. He hadn’t forgiven her yet. She needed to know what she’d done to their trust, friendship, and reading routine.

"Simon, don’t be upset. You know I will never leave you. You are my kindred spirit, best friend, soulmate, and my family. But humans need other humans’ company. So, I hope one day to introduce you to Vergenuis, and you will see what an intelligent and kind man he is."

There was a pause, and he was sure Mary was going to say something else. But she only sighed and whispered, "Sweet dreams, my knight."

They didn’t need anyone else. Their perfect little world was enough. She had enough human communication and friends at work. Why did she want the company of some French-phrase-dropping dork when she had Simon—her knight and everything? They had a perfect life together, didn’t they? What else did she possibly need?

Mary made two mistakes. First, she bribed him with a squeaky chicken toy, like a piece of rubber could justify what she had done, though Simon liked the chicken’s funny noises.

Second, she didn’t tell him about her plans or Vergenuis anymore.

Simon was on high alert, even though things returned to normal.

The day went on: Cassy cleaned the house, and Simon watched a Discovery Channel episode on sea turtles.

Mary repented and came home at 6:02 p.m. She was friendly and chatted while eating her Asian salad, giving Simon Meow Mix kibbles without begging or reminders. He also got a bowl of chicken with gravy and no vegetables. Score! He could live without chopped spinach or cubed cucumbers.

A cup of herbal tea, soft light from the table lamp, a warm blanket, and reading together on the couch—the perfect Friday evening.

It was Simon’s turn to pick the book. He chose the third volume of The Cat Who… from Lilian Jackson Brown’s series of thirty mystery novels. Mary owned them all. Simon loved listening to the adventures of the series’ three main characters: a reporter named Jim Qwilleran and two of his Siamese cats, Koko and Yum Yum. He hoped that novel would carry his point across—he needed a companion. Mary was all he had, and he didn’t plan to lose her to someone else. He wished she would understand his longing for a soulmate, see his need for more attention, and be there for him.

“Bedtime, sweety. Let me get ready first, and then I will brush you.”

Mary yawned and walked to the bathroom. Simon knew her evening routine would take time—all that girly stuff: exfoliating, applying serum, tonic, moisturizer, and eye cream. He was glad he didn’t need any of that. Nature blessed him with good genes and astonishing good looks.

Something buzzed and flickered in the fold of the gray blankets. Mary’s cell phone? Did she leave it on the couch? Simon clawed the blanket and found the forgotten electronic device. Of course, it was a text message from Vergenuis.

Vergenius: Good night, Mon Amour. I’m excited to see Broadway’s Cats with you tomorrow. I will meet you there at 11:30. Say Hello to Simon. Bonne Nuit.

How dare Vergenuis mention his name, call Mary “my love,” and invite her to see a play on Saturday? And Mary? Why? She lied when she said he was the only one, her knight in shining armor, her soulmate, and her family. She’d found a substitute for him, betraying him, first for dinner and now for a play.

He stood on his slender hind legs. His spine went stiff as anger took hold of him. The cell phone bled light with Virginius’s message up front and Simon’s picture on the back as a screensaver. He would always be behind, number two on her list of priorities, the poor, neglected house cat.

A primal urge to destroy something and a vengeful desire filled his tensed little body.

Simon pushed the phone from the couch. The short fall onto the soft carpet didn’t do much. He hit the phone once more, sliding the piece of blue plastic across the kitchen tiles. A wicked idea was born in his foggy mind.

They didn’t call his breed “intelligent” for nothing. The hardest part was pulling off the side of the rubber case and getting a good grip on his teeth. The back of the phone had a white sticker of a black cat’s paw. Black as his heart.

Carrying the cell phone by the peeled case in his mouth, Simon headed to the barstool at the kitchen counter. He failed the first three attempts—not an easy task to jump up with the heavy device awkwardly sticking out of his mouth. The fourth attempt was successful, and, not losing momentum, he proceeded to the granite kitchen counter.

His heart pounded from the effort. Perhaps, Mary was right about the diet.

But Mary, of all people. She didn’t add any veggies to his bowl today—she didn’t care about him, his diet, or his emotional state. She hurt him with lies. Common sense left when Mary took an interest in another male.

Simon dropped the cell phone into the sink. He wished he could turn on the disposal, but the switch was on the side of the counter and out of his reach. Water would be enough. He placed his right paw on the water handle and waited.

A few minutes later, Mary, holding Simon’s brush in one hand in silk pajamas, showed up at the kitchen door.

"I need to tell you about my plans for tomorrow—" she didn’t finish the sentence as she stopped to take in the situation.

“Simon, don’t.” Her voice quivered. “Please.”

He gave her a heartless stare. He didn’t have words to express himself, but his actions would teach her a lesson. Revenge was a dish best served without cucumbers. He looked straight at her scared face, his green eyes full of determination and broken dreams.

He lifted his paw. Hot water rushed over Mary’s cell phone, dousing it completely.

Like an actress in a slow-motion movie, Mary gasped and ran to save it, but she was only human and moved too slowly. She tripped in her long pajama pants and landed on the tile floor on her knees. She snatched the phone from the sink, but it was too late.

Holding the destroyed phone, she rocked herself back and forth. Then, through sobs and tears, Simon heard her mumbling.

“I don’t remember his number. I don’t remember Cassy’s number. I don’t remember anybody’s number. What am I supposed to do?”

That’s precisely what he hoped for. Nobody remembers anything these days, relying only on their electronic devices. In their hectic lives, humans delegated their brains to the memory capacity of smartphone applications. Friends’ addresses, work deadlines, doctors’ appointments, and families’ birthdays—all surrendered to clouds and servers.

Mary looked at him and cried out, “Why? Why don’t you want me to be happy?”

Simon jumped from the counter and hid behind the couch. Just in case.

Mary moved his pet bed into the living room and locked her bedroom door. Simon wanted to make noise and run around the living room, but he’d worn himself out.

Simon was cold and lonely. He shivered and wished to climb into Mary’s bed. Then he remembered the text from Vergenuis and shook off his dreams of cuddling. Jealousy drove him to cook up more wicked plans.

* * *

Mary left early, leaving dry food in his bowl, her bedroom door locked, and a stack of books on the coffee table. The titles read Heart of Darkness, Orphan Train, The history of the Siege of Lisbon, and One hundred years of Solitude by Gabriel Marquez on the top of the pile.

He knocked the top book to the floor, and it fell open on page 234.

“Then he made one last effort to search in his heart for the place where his affection had rotted away, and he could not find it.”

He felt a tiny sliver of doubt about his evil plans, but Mary’s note for Cassy taped on the fridge pushed them away.

“Cassy, my cell phone broke. I’m getting a new one tomorrow, but today I need a favor. Would you please keep Simon at your place for one evening? I will explain later. I owe you for this one. The pet carrier is in my bedroom under the bed. Please, remember to make dinner for two. Thank you. Mary.”

Getting and destroying Mary’s note didn’t take him long—one skillful jump from the kitchen counter to the fridge’s silver door—and Mary’s neat writing was history.

She was not going to give up, but neither was he.

This was war.

He ate half of the note and hid the rest of it under the couch. Then, heart pounding and claws retracting, he waited for Cassy to show up.

“If you fail to plan, you plan to fail,” said Benjamin Franklin.

Simon was ready. Sharp claws—check. Furball ready to come out after carefully cleaning his gorgeous fur coat for two hours and eating half of Mary’s note—check. Toilet paper—just waiting for the opportunity to steal it.

He curled up into a ball on the windowsill, portraying a perfect housecat—his left eye half-opened to watch Cassy. She cleaned the apartment and left the bathroom door open, giving Simon the ideal opportunity to arm himself with three rolls of toilet paper from the drawer under the sink.

She set the table for two and cooked dinner—cheese ziti in the oven and salad in the fridge.

As soon as Cassy left, Simon dropped to the floor, ready for action. He had only thirty minutes before Mary and her new boyfriend returned from the Broadway play Cats. How pathetic. A kick in the gut. He would show them what real cats were capable of.

He did think twice before knocking the dainty Bone China dishes from the table to the floor, but it was a necessary sacrifice in the name of love. Shredding the silk curtains turned into swaying fun, and rolling toilet paper around the apartment couldn’t have been more pleasant. He should do it more often. Simon destroyed a couple of house plants, left the furball on the couch, and observed his masterpiece.

As Aristotle put it, “Excellence is a habit.”

Click. Clack. The front door opened. Mary’s charming laughter and an unfamiliar baritone filled the corridor, followed by muffled steps, silence, a gasp, and soft sobs.

Simon peeked from behind the couch to see Mary in his favorite green dress, plopped on the floor, crying into the shoulder of a tall man kneeling beside her.

“He hates me. He hates us. I thought we could be happy, the three of us.” Her muffled voice mixed with hiccups and sniffles, evoking shame in Simon’s cold heart. But it broke into a hundred pieces and scattered across the floor when Mary howled, “Grandma’s China!”

What had he done? Did he really believe destroying the apartment would express his love and bring her back? A gentleman would never make his lady cry. She was always there for him, but had he been there for her? Did he consider her needs and interests? Of course, not.

Vergenuis got up and walked into the hallway.

Simon crawled to Mary, sitting on the floor, and poked her with his wet nose. He wanted to say, “I’m sorry. It was mean and heartless. I regret my behavior and selfish actions. I don’t deserve you. I accept any punishment and consequences. If Vergenuis makes you happy, I will step away and make myself disappear. Please, don’t cry.”

Only a nervous swallow and a meek “mewoool” escaped his parched throat.

Mary looked at him with red, puffy eyes and smeared mascara running down her cheeks. She opened her mouth in an attempt to say something, but her lips quivered, and nothing came out.

No quotes from famous authors came to his mind, but a line from a popular song sneaked into his tiny egotistical heart. “If you love her, let her go.”

Vergenuis came back from the corridor holding a box of tissues and handed a few to Mary. Then he turned to Simon. He had kind brown eyes, a brilliant smile, and a barely traceable smell of something familiar and unknown at the same time that stirred Simon’s very existence.

Vergenuis spoke to Simon in a rich baritone, “Hello, Simon. I’ve heard so much about you. I hope you don’t forget your manners when I introduce you to Cleopatra.”

Who?

Simon flattened his ears and hunched his posture.

Vergenuis continued.

“Cleopatra is my cat. She is sassy, intelligent, and the queen of my house, but she needs a knight. Would you like to meet her?”