Pearl

Pearl is hanging out on the porch again. Pearl, the riddle. Pearl, who desperately wants to be petted, but who always seems to remember he's supposed to be scared and runs away when I get to within three feet of him.

He's a large, white and fluffy, one of the cats we inherited when we bought the place and who we named before we got close enough to determine his gender. He meows constantly to draw attention to himself; he flomps on his back submissively -- all from a safe distance. He definitely wants us to notice him but can't commit.

Pearl makes me ponder the inequity of the fates of cats. Miss Kitty was immediately affectionate. In fact, the first night we sat on the porch, she came running up and dropped a mouse in Dave's lap. Arnold, the tuxedo Teddy mimic, took a few days and then figured out that humans sitting outside drinking coffee meant head scritching and tail tickling. And then there's Teddy who has two rational adults jumping up to let him in every time he jumps up in the window, a full food dish and the best chair in the house to sleep in.

We never knew any of our cats as kittens. We have no idea what happened to them to form their quirks and personalities. Teddy is aloof, even for a cat, as if he can't afford to get too attached in case we abandon him. But Pearl breaks my heart. How much terror and betrayal has Pearl survived?

I have never understood the attitude of disposable cats. Even our farm cats had names and plenty to eat. Is it because cats don't always come when they're called? Because they purr like race cars and then turn around and bite? Because they don't fawn like dogs? I like dogs, but if I'm honest, I've always preferred the stance of cats -- "You want to pet me? You come over here." Cats have self-esteem, poise, balance. Cats have control over their emotions. They're affectionate, but it's on their terms.

I believe Pearl will eventually permit me inside his perimeter. We've gone from a half-acre barrier down to three feet. I only hope I'm worthy of the trust.