A Crack in the Concrete

"All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive."
- Yann Martel, Life of Pi

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! 

My eyes open slowly, blinded by the darkness that has settled into my room, as my right hand fumbles for my phone, which has found its way onto the floor at some point during the night. I turn my alarm off, struggling to keep my eyes open, and drop my head back onto my pillow with a resounding WUMPH. I turn my face to the side, and in the dull grey hue of morning, a small figure darts across my room and into the shadows. A smile, which stems from the very depths of me, makes its way onto my face. 

"Yoda?" I call out in a groggy sing-song voice. 

"Mroww"

A pause. Some rustling. 

"Yodaaa?" Again, that same sing-song. 

"Mewrrhhh"

Another pause. And then, a faint sound of purring, which intensifies as he draws near. 

"Come here baby," I say, my voice flowering with tenderness, as I lift him from the floor with one hand. 

He lands on my chest, and presses his soft, warm nose into my face. I pull him away and try to make him hunker down under my chin, to cuddle into the soft folds of my shirt, so that I can stroke his fur and drift into the abyss once more. Instead, he viciously bites my hand, and flips onto his back, exposing his little pink belly. His back legs kick back and forth as he clamps his razor sharp nails into my skin. I sigh, defeated, and turn on the light. 

"C'mon," I say wearily, lifting myself from the mattress and planting my feet on the floor, "breakfast time". 

It's Ramadan. And I have half an hour to eat before I go into lock down mode. I make my way into the kitchen and throw two pieces of toast in the toaster, as Yoda winds around my feet, crying and crying and crying some more. He is still bottle-fed and ready for his own breakfast, a scoop of goat's milk powder mixed into hot water followed by 3 mL of antibiotics, 2 mL of probiotics, and an array of other medicines that have to be jammed down his throat with a syringe. I hate this part, and it takes me the better part of 15 minutes to get it all down. I remember my toast, which is cold by now, and spread a thick layer of coconut butter on top, with a second layer of tropical jam: sweet juicy pineapple. mouthwatering mango. crisp coconut flakes and hint of lime. I cram it into my mouth and wipe my hands on my pants. The knowledge, that this is the last thing I will eat for 12 hours, sits heavy on my mind. 

Yoda, still howling, for what I do not know, tramps behind me back into the bedroom. I get dressed, brush my teeth, and swaddle him tightly in a light blue towel, patterned with elephants, which seems to be the only way to calm him down when he is being fussy. He sits, bound in his terry cloth prison, and stares at me with big blue eyes. His mouth opens and shuts softly, like he is murmuring to himself. Eyelids get heavy, and I shove him under my burnt orange sweater. 

I call a taxi with an app on my phone (similar to Uber), and then hurry down to Jalan Kelab Ukay 5, which is the closest address listed for pickup. It takes about 7 minutes to arrive, and I barrel in with Yoda, heavy on my arm. 

As soon as I'm settled in the back of the cab, Yoda wakes up, and begins to wriggle out of his swaddle, howling uncontrollably. I feel a warm puddle begin to form on my lap, and I run my hand through my hair, which stands on end. The driver glances into the rear view mirror suspiciously, and then cranes his head towards me, his dark eyes settling on my sweater, which has taken on, more or less, a life of its own.

"You have kitten?" he asks menacingly, and wracked with guilt, I nod, lifting the burnt orange fabric to expose Yoda in all his glory, arms thrashing and face, deranged. 

"So cute!", he exclaims, delighted, and tells me that he has 10 cats at home. This is not uncommon in Malaysia. I do my best to dry my pants while he talks, stroking Yoda's ears, to keep him quiet. 

At work, Yoda stays in a pink basket on the window sill, where he sleeps, plays with his orange ball, howls for his bottle and basically does cat things. I feed him 3 - 4 times during the day, and then, when work is over, we go straight home. The people at work have, with knowing grins, started calling me, "kucing ibu" which means "cat mom" in Malay, and recently, at an iftar dinner (which is a break fast dinner for Ramadan), a Malay grandmother who spoke not a lick of English, asked her granddaughter if I was breastfeeding the cat. Everyone laughed. This is my life now. 

I am a starving cat mom. 

When we arrive home, Yoda prances around the house like Matt Rempel at a music festival, and I sit, with fork and knife clutched in hand, waiting for the call to prayer to sound out across the city. It's been a long and stressful day. But I am happy. 

Because Yoda is happy. 

And even though he shits on my bed and spreads litter all over the house and bites my face while I'm trying to sleep and cries for milk at all hours of the day and night, at the end of the day, he has shown me how resilient life can be. 

And, in this month of Ramadan, like a flower, growing up through a crack in the concrete, how resilient I can be. 

And that is an important lesson to learn, any day. 

Yoda - the day we found him - severely malnourished and covered with fleas

So tiny!

Bottle feeding when he first arrived (pre-medication!)

Swaddled in my burnt orange sweater!

"What's that mom?"

"I'll just sit here..." 

Helping me with my blog!