노래방 끝났어요

It’s been nine months since I’ve touched a cat.  In Korea, the cats are feral, eating mice and garbage.  They’re all over the place but terrified of people.  Today, on a walk back from a yarn store, jauntily swinging a bag full of deep-fried mondus, I had a close encounter with a cat.

The brown tabby tom stood outside of a flower store.  “Mrow.” He said, swinging his hips.  I stopped and stared.  For the first time in Korea, a cat did not run away from me.  “Koyangi,” I replied in Korean.  We did a back-and-forth, he mrowing, me stooping, reaching, responding, “Koyangi, Koyangi.”  He was in the awkward post-pubescence of cats, a little unsteady on the legs, but coat still shiny, unmatted. He seemed free of major pests and had the look of health in his eyes.

I ached to touch him.  My hand shook as he swayed just out of reach, spraying a little.  A fantasy that had built in the back of my mind of me petting him, tucking him under my arm, and the two of us starting our new life together in my Korean apartment, burst.  Never would his unneutered mouth eat table scraps from my chopsticks.  This would be a one-time affair.

I remembered my mondu and cringed inside.  Here, I was about to cross the line—I never gave food to strays.  But all I wanted was one little touch.  One little brush of my hand over his mottled brown and grey fur.  He was my type, after all (I’ve got a thing for brown tabbies.) I stuck a hand in, and broke open the deep-fried pork dumpling.  “Koyangi,” I tried to purr, offering a bit of my snack.  “Mrow! Mrow! Mrow!” He cried louder, but came no nearer.  Rebuffed and broken, I walked off.  A few feet later, I put some of the mondu down and watched as the little boy cat ate warily.

Looks like it’ll be a few more months before I get to touch some pussy.