I am Kafka, a Cat

My mind is in shambles. Why did I become a cat? Could it be that I transformed as a cat? Am I still human now that I’m a cat? Am I cat now even though I’m still human? Perhaps. Thoughts and questions like these won’t ever cross the minds of cats. Is there a cat who knows Franz Kafka? Is there a cat who loves to read? In any case, how will I regard myself? Am I now a human cat? Or a cat human? But there’s no question about it: I am as feline as any cat could and should be. That is, if someone would say that I still resemble my mother or Ate Mating. Where I’m from, there is a belief that cats, given time, (even dogs sometimes) will eventually start to resemble or take the appearance of their owners (but even back then, my Ate Mating and I resemble our mother, who won in a beauty contest in her town back in the day, both in face and in complexion; our father is not too shabby as well, even though he had darker skin and a shorter stature). Or maybe it is only my mind that remained human, my ability to think and to reason. But aren’t cats the same? Even in their cat-ness something human exists in their consciousness.

It has been a week since I became a cat. Apart from my transformation, nothing of note or amazing occurred. Everything remained normal in our house. And I am yet to be regarded by my mother, sister, and even by Garfield and Exodus as someone (or something) different or strange. There’s nothing to fret about. Mother’s not looking for her son, Ranilio. Ate Mating is not looking for Ranilio who used to driver her to and from work in the city center. Perhaps Ranilio was never really lost in their eyes. Probably because I’m always out and being a pain in the ass during mealtime. Probably because I can still enter my room through the window in the morning. Mother will still wake me up even when I am tucked in my Inabel blanket. I am a sleepyhead and I’m rarely never asleep. The only thing that’s different is Mother’s habit of staring deeply and longingly at my graduation photo at the bedside table. She would even caress and hug it sometimes. On the other hand, not even my acquaintances, colleagues, and closest friends asked where I went or looked for me. I also missed the opportunity to follow up my job application in a newspaper company where a close friend works as a layout artist. He didn’t even give me a call. Not that I mind. I just find it unusual.

Everything seems normal even after I became a cat. It even got to a point where I don’t see it as a problem, with the only exception being moments where I question whether I’ve completely become a cat or if some part of me remained human. Not that I wish to return to my old self. I don’t even miss or seek the things I was accustomed to when I was still human: reading books and magazines, fiddling with my computer and surfing the internet, listening to music, watching movies, and riding the motorcycle. I can still read. I can still recognize the words and letters in my midst. I still know how to use a computer (I might find it difficult to use a computer because my hands are now paws, even if there is this “mouse” to be chased, nay, used). And of course, I can still listen to music and watch movies because my Ate Mating often listens to music on the stereo and watches DVD movies. Even with my hands turning into paws, I can still use my beloved iPod. But I don’t know about my Nokia N95. With my small claws, I’m pretty sure that I’d have a hard time pressing its keypad. Au revoir to my textmates. I’d also probably miss riding my Honda XRM. The only thing that comes as a surprise is its current state: it’s already in shambles, a bump or two away from being scrap metal. Someone must have borrowed and crashed it while I was busy being a cat. Again, not that I mind. I am not even remotely interested in reading, fiddling with computers, and riding motorcycles anymore. I can barely appreciate a good song or film. I would much prefer to play with Garfield and Exodus. Or perhaps sleep all day. Or just like any cat, continue to pester our masters for food.

Be that as it may, there are still things that make me doubt my complete transformation as a cat. For example, even if they don’t understand a single word I say whenever I talk to them, I can still understand my mother and sister’s words—I can still understand their fluent Ilocano. I am also surprised that I understand Garfield and Exodus. It is not meows that I hear from them but fluent Ilocano as well. And when I talk to them in Ilocano, they can perfectly understand me. Am I now speaking the language of cats? This is, of course, not new. There are people who have been known to understand and speak the language of cats. Take, for instance, Nakata, the wandering old man in Haruki Murakami’s (my favorite Japanese writer) Kafka on the Shore. Or the talking cat in Neil Gaiman’s (another favorite writer of mine) novel Coraline. Yes, I’m fully aware that both are stories of fantasy. But how do I distinguish what’s real and what’s not if I’ve indeed become a cat?

This is probably what I get from reading too much fiction, especially those of the magical realist and fantastical subgenre; the works of Kakfa, Murakami, and Gaiman; and of stories about cats. Perhaps I am now in a situation that most people would describe as Kafkaesque. But why be so literal about it? Is there really anything magical about my situation? In the term paper I wrote about Kafka’s work, apart from the allegorical, psychological, and social interpretation of his work, I suggested that the events in the novel can be read as a sign of reincarnation or karma. Not that I believe in reincarnation and all the New Age shenanigans that were the craze during my college days. It’s just all fluff, something to impress my professor. And impress him I did. I got full marks for my term paper.

But what really bothers me, what really makes me nervous and sends chills to my spine, is the fact that my mother and sister call me by my name Ranilio. At first, they don’t call me that name whenever they talk, call, feed, or reprimand me. But one day, my mother suddenly started reprimanding me like this: “Wake up, Ranilio. You were even snoring while asleep in the hammock.” This incident happened again in the kitchen. My sister started reprimanding me like a cat: “Ranilio, get off the table! Go to your feeding bowl in the corner! Ranilio, don’t be such a bother!” That’s when I realized that they were really talking to me as a cat. But why did they use my human name to address me? If I have indeed become a cat and they’re aware of it, why would they use the name of a person who just happens to be their own son and sibling? They still see and know me as Ranilio, right? But why don’t they seem surprised or disturbed by the fact that I’ve become a cat? Could they have known about my situation from the onset? Am I the only one who doesn’t know?

But if I am really to be a cat, I need to change my name—a name that would separate my being a cat from my being human (or my humanity from my cat-ness?). Just like how Garfield and Exodus get to have their own names.

I was the one who gave Garfield his name. It was right around the time we adopted him from our neighbor. It was my Ate Mating, on the other hand, who gave Exodus his name. I don’t know where she got “exodus,” but she said that it wasn’t from the Bible. Maybe it was from famous Bong Revilla films during that time. For her, “exodus” had this cool and mystical ring to it. On the other hand, I obviously got “Garfield” from the popular cartoon series featuring a fat orange-shaded striped tabby cat. Our Garfield also has the same orange-shaded fur.

Ate Mating and I realized that we were the only ones who knew the names of our cats. We discovered one day that Exodus and Garfield didn’t know their own names, let alone have a penchant for names and naming. They ignore me whenever I call them using their names. It is only humans who possess names, who like to name things. I thought this to be only true in fiction, a flight of fancy, just like how Coraline’s cat friend explained to her why cats don’t need names. According to Wuss-Puss, cats don’t need names because they already know themselves. From what I know, just being called “cats” already suffices for them. I also noticed that they recognize themselves and others through scent. You know me when you smell me. But I will also tell them that they still need names to set them apart from each other. And that is why I insist on calling them the names that we gave them.

As for myself, I need a new name—a cat name—so that I can respond when Garfield or Exodus ask for my name. A name will also help when the time comes for me to introduce myself to cats outside the house. I will also give them names, especially the females.

And just to be safe, I’m just going to be the one to name myself. How does Haruki sound? No go? Yes, its final syllable does not sound good in Ilocano. It might raise some eyebrows. What about Murakami? Nah. Doesn’t sound good. Sounds like the word for cheap in Tagalog. The cat names in Murakami’s novel—Mimi, Kawamura, Goma, Okawa—also just aren’t cutting it. Even the names of cats from popular films, TV shows, books, and comics like Tom, Felix, Puss ‘n’ Boots, Cheshire Cat, or Cat in the Hat sound flat to me.

I know! I’ll just call myself Kafka, a fitting tribute to the writer who presaged this mystical feline phenomenon I’m going through. Naming someone Kafka, albeit uncommon, isn’t something new. Murakami named Kafka on the Shore’s protagonist, Kafka Tamura, after his favorite author.

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I am Kafka, a cat, now a cat, bow! Prettier than Franz, because naming someone Franz is akin to naming someone who is human. Kafka, like Exodus, has a cool, mystical, and exotic ring to it. A very fitting name for cats.