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I don’t know why but the second I’m alone with Pfote, I want to cuddle her.
I want to cuddle her like a baby, and ruffle her fur, and kiss her, and bounce her around. I want to be her Papa.
I miss my Papa.
I start to talk, “Do the other cats make fun of you?” I say, like I’m consoling her, for some reason the baby voice feels condescending right now, “Do they make fun of you when you go out into the alleyway?”
“Do all the outdoor cats make fun of you because you're an indoor cat most of the time?” Since I’m sitting funny, it’s easy to hoist her on my stomach. She looks cozy there.
“Do they make fun of you because you’re big and squishy?” I say again, ruffling her soft belly, “That’s because everyone here loves you a lot, okay? You’re very cute.”
“Do all the other girl cats make fun of you because you like to cause chaos? Because you leave when you don’t like something? Do they say that’s a boy thing to do?” I ask, patting her as softly as I can, “That’s okay, you know? You remind me of my sister. I hope you get to meet Lottie one day.”
“Do the cats of other colours make fun of you because you're ginger?” I ask, I want to sit up properly, but she’s rubbing up against every inch of my skin, “Do they say you look like a fox? Do they act like you’re a predator because of it?”
“Are they scared of you?”
I realise I’m crying, I don’t know how long I’ve been crying for.
“Do they glare at you when they hear that you have a German name? That I speak it with you sometimes?” I switch language mid-sentance, “Is it because of the war? Do cats know about the war?”
“Do they make fun of you because I’m a bit African, and I’m your Papa, so you’re a bit African too?”
I have tears down my shirt now, I can’t remember if they dry fine, or if I’ll have to wash it. I can’t think well right now.
“I want you to know that I love you.”
I don’t think Pfote understands what I’m saying. I like what I’m saying.
“I love you, okay."
“I’ll be your Papa.”
“I’ll be your Papa.”