Fur the color of a Grecian sunset never seems to fade into the shadows like some of the alley cats’ darkened pelts, but none of the merchants rushing up and down the twilight-lit street appear to notice her as she slips past them into an unlit alley that, like her, seems to evade them despite its obvious existence. She mastered the art of stealth long ago. Seasons have passed since she was left as a kitten to fend for herself as the scorching Greek summer faded into autumn.
Here, it’s a fend-for-yourself world. A few of the cats are friendly enough to let her sleep in their territory for a night or two before shooing her off to hunt for herself. Most aren’t nearly as amiable, and there are always a select few who, at least in the legends, have turned cannibalistic. She bears several scars, given to her when she met unfriendly claws and hostile attacks. Many have died from the aftermath of such battles and infected scars are a feline’s worst enemy. Mosquitoes swarm throughout the back streets, and the flies are constantly in pursuit of the rotting fish and fruit that litter the sides of the worn alleys. Heat chokes the air like a blanket spread several feet above her. Most call it miserable. She calls it habitable.
Days, weeks, months in the alleys made her as tough as the males. She’d learned quickly that female alley cats were few and far between, and that the males saw them as weak targets most of the time and producers of their kittens the rest. She mothered a litter a while ago. There were four kittens. Three died, one murdered by his brother, the only survivor. The others were taken by the elements—a car wheel, the ocean. Death is inevitable in the alley. Why fear it? She expects it.
Today she traverses the ship docks. Her small body is rippled with muscles, but no fat. Fat is for the winter days, when it’s her body’s responsibility to keep her alive. Today promises to be another hot summer day, punctuated by the sweat trickling down the backs of the shirtless fishermen and the essence of laziness drifting through the air. Summer is wonderful if the fish are biting. She marks her life by the fish, like the fishermen, only it’s not money she’s worried about—rather, she’d prefer to stay alive as long as possible. Instinct tells her that. She doesn’t consider death. Instead, she focuses on life.
She remembers her housecat days, when she was sure the alley cats were miserable and had nothing to live for. Time proved for her that the market was a fascinating place. Rodents rush around sneakers, their cheeks loaded with discarded food. She loves the taste of fresh caught mouse. But it’s the fish that have the best flavor. It takes skill and stealth to steal a fish from one of the bright white boats that parade around the murky waters of the bay, but biting into the soft, thick meat far outweighs the hard, dry pellets that fill the housecats’ bowls.
Slinking down to the dock, she spies a ship tied to one of the large poles that protrudes from the edge. She lowers herself to the ground, and in a moment of sheer strength and agility, leaps onto the deck. The boat stands firm, refusing to sway under the addition of her weight. She crouches, scanning the horizon. No one has noticed her. The phenomenon of her apparent invisibility still confuses her, but she doesn’t mind the least. She uses it to her advantage, in fact, as she lets her nose lead her to the skeletal remains of any fish left.
The jackpot! Two piles of fish bones, still with chunks of meat left, greet her as she turns the corner. She ignores the reek of stale cat. Someone has been here before, but they left this for her. She understands. Stuffing yourself is a bad choice in the alleys. A full cat is slower and his senses weaker than one who is simply satisfied. She crouches towards the meat, her shoulder bones stretching the skin above them. She eats. The fish is old, but it retains its flavor. Age has made it chewy, but it remains a good meal. Swiftness is everything to a Grecian feline. It is the fastest runner, the fastest eater, the fastest fighter, who will win the race of survival.
She finishes quickly and heads back to the dock. Stories are told to kits about the horrors of being trapped in a waterborne boat. Thee fisherman can cast their lines for hours before returning to the mainland. Cats who are discovered are thrown in the water to drown. After all, who wants a mangy fish-eater on their boat? Less useful than a leaky vessel, that’s what the fishers say. They care not about one feline’s survival.
But the alley cats and the bay fishermen live separate worlds. If there’s no trouble, the men let the cats survive. And it’s more than survival, she thinks as she pads back to the abandoned street. The excitement of the market, the satiation of the fish, the fulfillment of a night hunt? It’s far beyond simply striving to exist for her. She’s learned to take the unbearable heat and angry males and twist them into pieces of her world, a world where fish, mice, and sunsets make up for the scars decorating her flank and the ugly stories behind them.
The sun beats down from its position high in the sky. Her day is not yet over. Adventure awaits.
And as the Greek market goers pass by unaware, one ginger cat slips into the shadows yet again.
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