It has been about 4 months now since the Siamese Po has joined my cat compound, adding his life gradually into each space in the house.

For nearly half of that time, he lived in a single room upstairs, hide and bone, and for part of that period, living from a tube in his neck.

When he began to eat, he was granted freedom into the rest of the house, and into the community of the other two cats.

He is still trying to win that community- or, he is still trying to coexist in the same space with these other felines.

The little one, the queen mother alpha, growls at him whenever he is too far into her personal space- across the room. And if he engages her, he is rebuffed angrily.

The big boy, El Gordo, walks slowly but leerily around him, often unaware that Po is watching him, and that Po is aggressive with him.

Po charges El Gordo, but Chayya (the queen mother) hears it, and she launches herself into the combat arena, screaming and flailing.

Po takes hits, and feels claw stabs. He lacks front claws to retaliate with, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to fight back.

It’s a rough world in this cat house.

I watch them all interact, and yell a lot more than I used to. I spray them with jet streams from a water bottle when they are belligerent – a new tactic in this less docile period of the abode.

And then there are the periods when all three fall asleep and to each, the other two do not exist.

Margaret’s cat is different. He disappears upstairs for an hour at a time, and erupts into long loud “mowwing” sessions that last for several minutes up there, or downstairs as he wanders in the kitchen, oft when he’s alone.

I wonder what he is expressing. Is he asking himself questions? Is he grieving? Is he reminding of his presence? Is he lowing his loneliness?

Sometime each day, he paces downstairs in a circuit, walking in a circle, like a lion in cage, waiting for dinner, or for the gate to open, so he can go back into his kennel and retreat from public eyes. I don’t know what he’s thinking, where this unending path takes him, what he is calculating in his cat mind as moseys.

And that’s okay.

He plays. He runs around the house after a good bathroom call, unlike the other two cats. He is happy for pets.

I take extra time to sit and pet Po here and there. His has been a hard journey.

I pick him, and his long legs dangle and hang like the clunky drones on a bagpipe. He is limp in my arms and lets me carry him however, and if he doesn’t nudge my arm or hand for a rub of his face, he will turn his head and look me in the eyes.

I do not know what he thinks, but he looks at me, holding a gaze, telling me something. And then I rub his face and head.

I stop every now and then and remind myself, this is Margaret’s cat.

This is the cat that Margaret raised, and fed, and petted, and kept inside, kept near, and shared some of her life with.

This is a creature she poured her love into, and talked to, and disciplined, and gave treats to.

I remember that he was Margaret’s cat, and that she is gone.

And he is here.

Here he is, kind of lost, trying to figure out who he is in this new place.

You and me both, buddy.

Let’s go walk your loop and talk about Margaret.