Living with pusakal
What breed of cat do you have?” I am frequently asked. The long answer is: Cats don’t need to be purebred. Pedigree is redundant in their case because they’re already a super-species, i.e. vicious killing machine in adorable package.
The short answer, delivered proudly, is pusakal or pusang kalye. They came from the street, literally. Animal advocates might call them “rescues,” but in our case there is some dispute over who was the rescuer and who was rescued.
Nothing against cats with papers—they may have been bred for certain characteristics, but they’re still cats. All cats are beautiful, and that includes the funny-looking hairless ones for people with dander allergies. (Hairless cats like Sphinxes always look slightly resentful at their inability to shed all over the expensive furniture.) If you want cats to take to the pet salon, dress in couture and rule the cat shows, purebred cats are for you.
If you’re not fussy about your feline companions’ gene pool, you can be a pusakal person in 20 minutes. All you have to do is walk down the street and pick up a stray. Only be sure you’ve picked up a stray and not a cat who already has a human. Think of how frantic the human would be if the cat didn’t turn up for dinner. We’re talking about nervous breakdowns here.
There are advantages to adopting stray cats over buying them from breeders. Cost, obviously, and not just the initial outlay. Having lived with pusakal for nearly 13 years, I can attest that their veterinary bills are much, much lower than those of purebreds. They’re tough and hardy, they never get sick, they only visit their vet for their annual shots. (We go to Pendragon on Kalayaan Avenue in QC because The Once and Future King is one of my favorite books.) I figure their immune system has been fortified by generations of fending for themselves. “Na-natural selection na ang mga yan.”
Of course it must be pointed out that I live with indoor cats. Many humans allow their cats to roam freely around their neighborhood; this human is neurotic about feline safety and imagines (not unreasonably) danger lurking in every trashcan and city street. My pusakals have been spayed or neutered; after the procedure they lost the urge to explore the territory. They seem content to play inside the house or sit at the (closed) windows observing the outside world.
Occasionally I attempt to take them out for a walk in a park or a pet-friendly mall, during which they carry on as if they have been kidnapped. These walks are supposed to be for their benefit, but they’re really for me. I am pleased when people coo over the creatures, praise their shiny coats and ask me what breed they are. They are surprised to hear that these enormous, spoiled-looking house cats are pusakal.
See those scrawny flea-bitten strays on the street? If you clean, de-flea and de-worm them, feed them properly and give them a home, they will turn out to be raving beauties. Pusakal have pretty faces. Years ago, my Italian friends adopted a couple of stray cats in Manila. When they moved to Washington D.C. they brought the cats with them. (The felines had to endure months of quarantine but were finally allowed into the country.) A couple of years later I visited the expats in the US and was shocked at the cats’ appearance. They were humongous and gorgeous, and their fur had gotten fluffy in the cold weather.
My two eldest cats, Koosi and Saffy, joined our household when they were kittens. Koosi I picked up on the sidewalk where she was sunbathing. The guard put her in a plastic bag and I took her home. This may explain why she likes to get inside grocery bags. Saffy was born in a friend’s garage. A month later I brought her home in a cardboard box. To this day she is especially fond of cardboard boxes, and will try to snuggle up in them even if they are obviously too small for her. (She still thinks she is a tiny kitten.)
Mat, the youngest, was about a year old when he came to live in my building. I thought he was a dog, he’s that big. He seems to be of some sosyal breed—apart from being very large he has strange raccoon-like markings on his legs and tail.
Clearly Mat had lived with humans. (Witnesses claim they saw him leap out of a fancy car.) One day he turned up at my doorstep, meowing politely. When I opened the door he meowed again, then came in. Immediately the girl cats leapt onto the top of the highest shelf and started shrieking at the intruder.
He ignored them in his aristocratic manner, and spent several minutes exploring the apartment. He was particularly delighted to see the litter box; he made his toilet. Then he proceeded to the food dish, and as the girls protested loudly, he ate the kibble. Afterwards he went to the front door and meowed to be let out.
This became our ritual for several months. The girl cats became used to his presence, and ignored him right back. That’s when he started taking siesta. After eating his lunch one day, he jumped up on the couch and took an hour-long nap. In time the naps grew longer and he just never left.
It may be argued that I didn’t adopt Mat; Mat adopted me. Then again, given his elegance and politeness, he could be royalty who’s found political asylum.
