七 1

I have recently taken up exercise. To those who would sneer and dismiss it as presumptuous for a cat to speak of exercise, I beg to offer a word: were not you humans yourselves, until just a few years past, ignorant of what exercise even was, convinced that eating and sleeping were your heavenly calling? You praised it as “peace is the gentleman,” and with hands tucked in sleeves, never lifting your rotting backsides from the cushions, lived out your days in the honor and greasy comfort of being “masters.” It was only with the recent Western contagion into our divine land—this modern disease, kin to the plague, consumption, and nervous exhaustion—that you began your endless, foolish demands: “Exercise!” “Drink milk!” “Take cold baths!” “Jump into the sea!” “In summer, retire to the mountains and live on mist for a while!” I, having been born only last year and thus but a year old, have no memory of how humans looked when they first caught this sickness; indeed, I surely was not yet fluttering in the winds of this fleeting world. But one may say a cat’s year equals ten of a human’s. Though our lives are two or three times shorter than theirs, the development of a single cat within that brief span is quite complete—from which one infers that reckoning human years and cat winters by the same measure is a grave error. First of all, that a mere kitten not yet a year and some months old should possess such insight as mine should make this clear. The master’s third daughter, they say, is three by counted years, yet in intellectual development she is deplorably slow—knowing nothing but crying, wetting her bed, and sucking milk. Compared to me, who mourns the world and resents the times, she is a worthless thing. Thus it is no surprise at all that I should have the history of exercise, sea-bathing, and change-of-air cures folded within my breast. If any are astonished by such a thing, they are assuredly those two-legged fools called humans, lacking only two legs to be beasts. Humans have always been fools. That is why only lately they have begun trumpeting the virtues of exercise and babbling of the benefits of sea-bathing, as if they had made a great discovery. We cats have known as much since before our birth. First, why is seawater medicinal? Go to the shore and see at once. How many fish swim in that vastness no one knows, yet never has a fish fallen ill and gone to a doctor. All swim in health. If sick, the body fails; when dead, they surely float. Thus we say fish “ascend” in enlightenment, birds “descend” in imperial passing, and humans “fuss” in extinction. Ask anyone who has crossed the Indian Ocean abroad: “Have you seen a fish die?” They will surely answer no. And rightly so—search as you may, back and forth, not one has been seen floating, having just drawn its last (not breath—for a fish, its last tide). From the fact that in all time past and present, not a single fish has “ascended” upon that boundless, ceaseless sea, one immediately concludes fish must be exceedingly robust. Then why so robust? This, too, humans learned only afterward; the reason is simple. They drink brine and bathe in it always. The effect of sea-bathing is thus manifest for fish; and what is manifest for fish must be manifest for humans. When Dr. Richard Russell in 1750 advertised with grand exaggeration that jumping into Brighton’s waters cured all ills instantly, one may laugh at his belatedness. Every cat, when the time comes, means to visit Kamakura and such; but not yet. All things have their season. As pre-Restoration Japanese died without tasting sea-bathing’s virtue, so today’s cats have not yet met the chance to dive naked into the sea. Haste spoils work; until the cat thrown to Tsukiji returns home safe, we cannot plunge recklessly. By evolution’s law, until we cats develop due resistance to raging waves—or until “a cat ascended” replaces “a cat died” in common speech—sea-bathing is not for us.

Sea-bathing I postpone; exercise I resolve to do at once. In this twentieth century, not to exercise smells of poverty and ill repute. They will judge: not exercising means cannot, has no time, no margin. As in old days the exerciser was mocked as a ruffian, now the non-exerciser is deemed low. Our valuation shifts with time and place, like the pupil of my eye; but human judgment turns clean upside down. Let it turn—things have two sides, two ends; striking both ends to produce black-white change on one object is human adaptability. Viewing the mind reversed yields “mind” as “dim,” with quaint charm; peering at Amanohashidate from between the legs gives rare delight. Shakespeare forever would be dull; now and then one must view Hamlet from below, crying “You’re no good!” or letters stagnate. Thus it is no wonder the anti-exercise crowd suddenly itch to exercise, women racket in streets with rackets. Only let them not laugh at a cat’s exercise as presumptuous. Some may wonder what exercise mine is; I explain. Unluckily I have no machinery, so ball and bat perplex; and no money to buy. From these two causes my exercise is of the type called “costs nothing, needs no apparatus.” Perhaps you think I merely stroll, or run with a mackerel slice in mouth; but moving four legs mechanically along earth under gravity is too plain and dull. Whatever the name, the master’s occasional “reading-is-exercise” defiles the sacred. Still, plain exercise under stimulus may occur: bonito races, salmon searches are fine, but need the object; without it, bland. Without prize-excitement, I want artistic exercise. I considered: leaping from kitchen eave to roof; standing quadruped on the plum-blossom tile at the ridge—passing the drying pole, impossible, bamboo too slick for claws; springing on children from behind, interesting but risky, done thrice a month; having a paper bag put on head, painful and dull, needs a human, useless; scratching book covers with claws—dangerous if master sees, and only forepaws work, not whole muscle. These are my old-style exercises. New-style has deeper interest. First, mantis-hunting: less grand than rat-hunting but less danger; best sport from mid-summer to early autumn. Method: go to garden, find a mantis—easy in season. Rush with a whir to its side; it rears its sickle-head in guard. A plucky foe, ignorant of my strength, resists—amusing. Tap its raised head with right forepaw; the soft neck bends sideways. Its expression then is rich: a fine “Oh!” I leap behind, lightly scratch its wings; the carefully folded wings ruffle, revealing thin under-robe like Yoshino paper. Dressed double even in summer, it is elegant. Its long neck turns back; sometimes toward me, usually just erect, waiting. As waiting spoils sport, I tap again; a discerning mantis flees. One that rushes me is an uneducated savage; I smack it squarely, sending it two or three feet. If it advances meekly, I pity and circle the tree like a bird two or three times; it has fled but inches. Knowing my power, it dares not fight, only dodges. I pursue; it flutters in desperation. Its wings, long to match its neck, are ornamental only, like human languages, of no use. Thus its “great flourish” is but dragging on ground. Pity, but for exercise, necessary. I dash front, it cannot turn and advances; I bat its nose. It falls, wings spread. I pin with forepaw, rest, release, pin again—seven captures, seven releases, like Zhuge Liang. After thirty minutes, when it cannot move, I mouth it, shake, spit; it lies still; I poke, and as it leaps, pin again. Tired, I eat it. For those who never ate mantis: not tasty, little nourishment. Next, cicada-catching. Not all cicadas alike: as humans have grease-boy, minmin-boy, oshii-tsukutsuku-boy, so cicadas: grease, minmin, oshii-tsukutsuku. Grease is sticky, minmin crosswinded; only oshii-tsukutsuku is fun, appearing late summer when wind through the eight-fold collar brings colds. They sing so well I think their only calling is to sing and be caught. Early autumn I catch them—cicada-catching exercise. Note: a cicada is never on ground; ground ones have ants. I catch those on high branches singing. By the way, learned humans: does it sing “oshii-tsukutsuku” or “tsukutsuku-oshii”? The interpretation matters to cicada science; human pride is here, so answer well if you can. For exercise it matters not; I climb by sound, seize the singer. Looks simple but hard: I trust my four legs on earth, but climbing has better experts—monkeys, and their descendants humans. Though against gravity, no shame to fail, it hinders. My claws help, but not easy. Also cicadas fly; unlike mantis, once flown, my climb may be vain. Lastly, risk of being urinated on; that urine aims at eyes. Why do they void at flight’s edge? Psychological? Perhaps from pathos, or a trick like squid ink, flounder spikes, master’s Latin—a cicada-science question worthy of a doctorate. Aside, back to topic. Cicadas most congregate (if “concentrate” sounds odd, “congregate” is trite, so “concentrate”) on the paulownia—called wutong in Chinese. Its leaves are many and fan-sized, hiding branches; “voice heard, form unseen” might be my own folk song. I climb by voice; at a ken up, the tree forks as wanted; I rest, spy leaf-backs. Some fly off early with noise; one flies, others follow foolishly like humans. By the fork, all silent. Once I rested there, slept in black-sweet land, woke falling to the stone below. Usually I catch one per climb, but must hold in mouth atop, so it is dead when dropped; no response to prodding. The joy is pinning the singing tail-extending oshii with a pounce; it shrieks, flutters transparent wings—a cicada wonder. I always request this art before eating. Sometimes it continues inside my mouth. After cicadas, pine-sliding: briefly, not sliding on pine but climbing; cicada-catch climbs to catch, pine-slide climbs to climb—that is the difference. Pine is evergreen, rough since the Meitoku feast; no grip for hand or foot—or claw. I rush up, then down. Two ways: head-down, or tail-down upright. Humans think head-down easier; wrong. Cat claws bend backward, like crowbars pull but not push. Climbing up, nature pulls me down; to slow the fall is to descend. Claws backward, if head-up, resist the fall—thus descend. Reverse, like Yoshitsune at Hiyodori-zaka, claws useless, slip, become fall. Thus Hiyodori is hard; perhaps only I can. Hence “pine-sliding.” Last, fence-walking: the garden is square bamboo-fenced; the side parallel to veranda is eight or nine ken, sides four each. I walk the top without falling; sometimes fail, but well done it pleases. Charred posts aid rest. Today went well; three rounds by noon, each better. On the fourth, halfway, three crows from neighbor’s roof lined a ken ahead. Impudent, I thought, disturbing exercise, unknown crows on my fence; I called “Move!” The first grinned; second viewed garden; third wiped beak—had eaten. I waited three minutes standing; they, called Kanzaemon, did not budge. I walked; the first spread wings, only turned left. Beast! On ground I’d ignore, but on tiring path no spare for Kanzaemon. To wait for their leave tires legs; they with wings may stay. I was on fourth round, weary; tightrope-like sport, no guarantee without obstacle, but three black robes block—unsafe. I thought to quit, descend; they are many, strange beaks like tengu chicks, surely low; retreat safe, lest I fall. Then the left-turned crow said “Fool.” The next mimicked; the last cried “Fool, fool.” Even mild me cannot overlook: insulted on my premises, a matter of name (none yet, so of face). Retreat impossible; proverb says “crow-flock” may be weak. I steadied heart and walked on; they chat ignoring me. Angrier. Had the fence width been more, I’d punish, but anger only slows me. At five or six inches from the lead, one breath more, Kanzaemon as by signal flapped and flew a foot or two—

“Stories of the world, in your language.”