Meditating on Miyâ: The social media stray cat

All cats are stray cats unless they belong to, or have been adopted, are cared for, or singled out by writer and thinkers. Unlike dogs that can be put on the leash or tied, or imprisoned in homes, cats are left to roam, to walk the night and day. They are thus all “stray” animals. like all other animals, cats and dogs (birds, spiders, etc.), are not really known by the universe unless they are mentioned by people.

Miyâ should have been this unknown animal. But one afternoon, when the sky was a dull blue displaying no cloud formation I could photograph to entice prayers, praises, and perorations from friends lonely or depressed because of this virus, there was this cat, ordinary in its yellow and white color, sunning under the eaves of my apartment. It was on its back it had a big belly. It lazily turned around and got up. The cat was pregnant. So the “it” became a “she” and I the man feeding her.

I went back inside and found a bowl with an unfinished pares—you know that food, which consists of beef cooked in thick broth. Before the pandemic, I was a pares fan, with my friend bringing me to its beginning in Retiro. This version though was bad and I thought this poor (in the economic sense of it and not in the sighing sense of the word) cat would not mind eating a leftover. I heated water in the electric kettle and made the dark gravy lighter. True enough, the cat took a bite of the beef and spat it out. She went back to the “soup” and lapped it up.

I took photos of the cat with my phone. And posted the photos online, addressing a grandnephew, Julio, how I found a pet. I was, of course, being charming to this boy who ramps up his charm when he sees a cat.

Soon a cousin (Lia) asked: what’s her name? No name, I responded. She will be Miyâ, the generic name for cat in Ticao Island. Lia and I share the same birthplace and I know she would understand the impulsive naming. As I was the only one, I believe, who knows the meaning of the word Miyâ in the whole neighborhood, my choice of that name would render this cat singular. I was trying to be nonchalant after all this was the afternoon of the quotidian, made even more humdrum by the presence of this cat. But you know when you are asked to explain a choice, you ponder more, and introspect: How we—in our colonized history or peripheralized existence —always act our desire to expound on our identity. All because of a cat.

“Likes” copiously flowed onto my post. People were welcoming. I had become a cat person, a becoming that implied I was not that kind of an individual before this animal made sense of my existence. Miyâ had become the objective correlative to my autobiography, unfolding as it were as I fed this other being that did not belong to me. At the back of my mind, I was doing my own analysis—miyâ belongs to me because she did not run away when I moved closer with the bowl of food to where she was. It is prodigious how one’s arsenal of quotes from grandmothers could come back as on-point divinations pertinent to animals.

To a cousin still, I explained how this gesture of mine excludes commitment. She, Miyâ, can ignore the food I give her and it will not be an issue involving utang na loob, which is a shady value anyway imposed on us by a contested value of reciprocity fashionable in the sociology of the ’60s. If there was a Social Contract in the tradition of Du contrat social ou Principes du droit politique, (French seems a slinky language to deal with cats), a 1762 book by Jean-jacques Rousseau, it began and should end with the bowl of food. The theory has at its core the power of the State over the Individual; applied to Miya and this writer, the theory assumes I have power over this cat.

The notion of commitment did not escape another friend (Emmie who either was in her chalet in Switzerland or hibernating in her Palawan resort) who said she is happy I am becoming a cat man even if I did not promise a commitment. I took that as a compliment.

To this airy (from my end) notion of commitment, a rush of responses came in from Danielle who as an expert in transportation and mobility I assumed to be more rational. Aside from her welcome-to-the-club greetings (I did not know people can form a kind of Gemeinschaft a la Tonnies around cats), she issued a veiled threat about how cats become bosses in people’s lives. To Danielle, I rushed to explain how an urban poor cat like Miyâ is not empowered. But Danielle was relentless; she cautioned me not to underestimate the powers of urban poor cats. Well, at least, she agreed there really are urban poor cats.

To Danielle and friends and acquaintances following the online conversation, I articulated my side: the literatures on the urban poor cats (and you can say the same of urban poor people) indicate how, when not enlightened by pet owners or human companions, these cats become pawn in the manipulations of humans who are called leaders or politicians.

I was not convincing my readers though. From a friend (Nanette) came the warning: what if you get attached?

This morning, I checked on the bowl outside which I forgot to retrieve. It was empty. I guess rats feasted on them while Miyâ was somewhere warm, pondering on her belly and the sad future of her children.