elinor אלינור
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The story so far
...
Friday morning, early, the landlord arrived with his giant wife, three children and a baby. He installed a new fuse box—the envy of all the neighbours. Collecting his children he apologized for the American toilet roll strewn over the flat—they had never seen such a remarkable item. I thanked him profusely, or should I say pro-fuse-ly…
The story continues ...
After my spending some months in the apartment with the
brand-new fuse box, the owners decided to move back to Jerusalem and my lease
was not to be renewed. I found a new flat in a totally Sephardic
neighbourhood where I was known as hashketa, the quiet one, apparently
because I didn’t yell. Of course I didn’t yell—I had no one to
yell at—which also meant a certain level of loneliness, so when my daughter rang
one day to ask if I would take Susan’s cat, I was inclined to say yes.
My landlord assured me that pets were acceptable because as he said,
There is nothing in the flat to damage except your belongings.
Now Susan was famous amongst my daughter’s friends for
having ‘dragged’ her cat from her home in the USA to Israel when she made
aliyah. Yes, the cat had to be put into quarantine for many
expensive months—not that Israel hadn’t already accumulated more than a fair
share of unattached and even feral felines—but Susan was determined to keep her
cat, unaccountably named Squat. Susan adored Squat and provided
her with a comfy bed, an elegant litter box, a dandy flea collar and the best
cat-food available. She spoiled that cat something fierce and then
she met Mr Right—who was allergic to cats—and Squat was on the market.
Out. Nice knowing you. So the cat needed a
new home and I was it.
Susan brought Squat to my flat, introduced us at
breakneck speed, dumped her high-priced stuff just inside my front door and
ran. Mr R was waiting in her car and that cat was all mine.
So, I said to Squat, the first order of business—besides
determining where you will carry out your various functions—is to change your
name. Squeak? Squawk? I couldn’t sustain the ‘squa’ sound unless I
were to call her Squash. Unacceptable. After some
weeks I looked at that cat’s lovely face and said Don’t worry, sweetheart—we’ll
think of something. Goodness gracious me—Sweetheart!
And so she remained. We came to terms. She
kept me warm; I kept her fed. The perfect
relationship.
Then, in the manner of renters everywhere, I shifted
flats again and my new landlord was allergic, too. No cat hair
allowed. Moral dilemma—is finding the right apartment in Jerusalem
worth more than a cat? Sadly I canvassed everyone I knew and
finally found one of the bakers at a restaurant I frequented who had a disabled
younger sister who’d love the company of my cat. I hesitated,
because it took a very long time to bond with that cat, but he assured me that
his sister was gentle and patient by nature. All right,
then. Off she was carried to an unknown and possibly
unidentifiable village where, I was assured by someone less kind, they probably
eat cats. I don’t think so.
cross posted Israel Thrives
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