When the cat goes crazy

It starts with a rumble at the back of the apartment, a kind of strange noise that is not without evoking the first rolls of thunder. It is unknown at this time what he will do after leaving the post. Very quickly, in the distance of the bedroom, one hears like the beginning of a gallop, the echo of a wild ride, a rush of footsteps that make the living room walls tremble.

It’s time to dump her and move on. There’s what appears to be your cat, a demon-possessed cat being chased by a horde of bloodthirsty trappers or vindictive mice. It passes before your bewildered eyes at such a pace that the time to realize who, what it is – a cat? a supersonic missile? a creature from space? – he has already spun and you can hear the cavalcade that extends and reverberates throughout the house.

Your cat does not run, he details.

Moments later, he still reappears as fast, so fast that when you marry the delicate turn leading to the kitchen, you hear his claws screaming on the floor as if to avoid a runway, and after two, three rubs untimely, time to adjust his speed to the villainous curve that almost sent him wagging his mouth first against the wall, here he is again for a new lap of the track.

When he finally returns to you with a somewhat slow pace, he has the crazy look of a character straight out of a novel by Dostoevsky. The dilated pupils, the mustaches stretched to their maximum, the ears erect vertically, the hairs bristled like an acid hedgehog, one would swear he has just put on two or three coke rails, a cocktail of euphoric drugs.

Everything in his house then says the madness that inhabits it. Il ne s’appartient plus et c’est à peine and you recognize yourself in this feline line by Jack Nicholson in Flight over a cuckoo’s nest that brave tomcat who sometimes slept dreamily in his basket. Seeing him stand in front of you like an exhibitionist at the exit of a libertine club, the round eyes of a desire that does not say his name, one would think he is ready to go on a crusade. In the gaze, he has the fixity of one who has just seen God, and everything translates into a great inner disorder in him, a kind of fleeting madness whose cause and origin no one can comprehend.

At this point, it feels good that the cat is in a state of agitation that overwhelms him completely. Would he have the ability to see himself in this moment that he would come to doubt his own existence as if a double lived in him without his knowledge. There would be the everyday cat, the one who sleeps, eats and sleeps again and then, that one, that other one, that stranger, that monster that is very difficult or even impossible to identify with.

Seeing him unfold in this way, climbing the ceiling, hanging from the chandelier, bouncing against the walls, climbing the libraries, running as if death in person were chasing him, one feels at that moment an immense compassion for this creature who ordinary is called cat. Clearly, this thing, whatever its real nature, its real name, this victim of hallucinations, a disorder of behavior usually spotted in the very sick, of those who haunt the corridors of a psychiatric hospital, and claim to be the ghost of Napoleon or the reincarnation of Christ.

What does he see at this hour? What does he mean? What kind of fatal scenario is stirring in his brain? Is he like the poet who suffers from the fact that lucidity is the closest wound to the sun? Has he just understood the absurdity of all life, his own as well as that of his master fool? Does he respond to the call of an impulse that would be that of his species, a desperate attempt to escape the clutches of fate, of the certainty of the coming death? Or is he just crazy, sublime, royally, triumphantly crazy?

I ignore.

Sometimes I get jealous. Ah, if only I had been allowed time for a moment to run like that too, down the stairs, to rush into the street any ceasing affair, looking so misguided that passers-by would be frightened and all prayed the gods of the earth never look like me! Ah, if I too could be mad for only a few minutes a day, regain the lightness of existence, break free from all dogma, and go to the streets as if nothing mattered, neither the passing of time nor the ordinary men, the awful chewing of everyday life!

Except that I, unlike my cat who, once his crisis is over, happily regains the comfort of his basket, I would not stop.

Crazy, I’m crazy, I’d stay crazy.

At the same time, crazy, I already am, right?

Leave a Comment