It starts with a rattling sound in the back of the apartment, a kind of strange noise reminiscent of the first thunder coils. We don’t know exactly what’s going on, but our ears ring with life from the approach of a looming danger. Very quickly, at a distance from the bedroom, we hear something like the start of a sprint, the echo of a road trip, and hurrying steps rock the walls of the living room.
It’s time to sit down on the chair and in front of you there is what appears to be your cat, a cat possessed by the devil and hunted, it seems, by a mob of bloodthirsty hunters or vengeful mice. It passes before your bewildered eyes so quickly that it is time to realize who, what is it – a cat? A supersonic missile? Creature from outer space? – He’s already gone and we hear the procession that goes on and reverberates around the house.
Your cat doesn’t run, it runs.
After a few moments, it appears again as swiftly as ever, and so swiftly that when it comes to taking the gentle bend leading into the kitchen, we hear the claws of its claws on the floor as if to avoid derailing, and after two or three prematurely rub, which is the time Appropriate to adapt his speed to the rogue curve that almost made him slam into a wall, and he left again for a new course.
When he finally comes back to you with a somewhat slower gait, he has the crazy look of a character inspired by Dostoevsky’s novel. Pupils widened, mustaches stretched to their fullest, ears pricked vertically, hair bristly like a hedgehog on acid, one swears one has just slipped two or three bars of coke, a mixture of exhilarating drugs.
Then everything about him speaks of the madness that inhabits him. He no longer belongs to himself and you hardly recognize him in this cat replica of Jack Nicholson in Flying over the cuckoo’s nest This brave cat who sometimes sleeps in his own breed. To see him standing before you like a showman at the exit of a liberated club, his eyes wide with a desire that does not mention his name, you would have thought he was ready to go on a crusade. In his eyes, he has the constancy of someone who has just seen God, and everything related to him reflects a great inner turmoil, a kind of temporary madness whose cause or origin no one can understand.
At the moment, we feel that the cat is in the grip of a frenzy that completely overwhelms him. If he had the ability to see himself in this moment, he would doubt his existence as if he was a double person living in without even knowing it. There will be the everyday cat, the one that sleeps, eats and sleeps again, and then, this, this other, this strange, this beast that is hard to recognize or even impossible to recognize.
Seeing him trotting in this way, climbing to the ceiling, hanging from the chandelier, jumping on walls, climbing bookcases, and running as though death itself were stalking him, we feel at this moment an immense sympathy for this ordinary creature. The cat is called. Clearly this thing, whatever its true nature, its real name, is a victim of hallucinations, a behavioral disorder that is usually spotted in critically ill patients, and of those stalking the corridors of a psychiatric hospital and pretending 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 doomsday scenario is going on in his brain? Is it like a poet who suffers because the wound is closer to the sun? Did he just understand the absurdity of all life, his own as well as his master’s foolish absurdity? Does he respond to the call of an impulse that would be of his own kind, a desperate attempt to escape the clutches of fate, the certainty of death to come? Or is he just a crazy, polite, royal, victorious crazy?
I don’t know.
Sometimes I get envious. Ah, if I were only allowed for a moment to run like this, and to run down the stairs, and to hurry into the street with all my work stopped, and look so bewildered that passers-by would be frightened and pray all the gods on earth would not be like me! Ah, if I could also go crazy for a few minutes a day, rediscover the lightness of being, free myself of all dogma and go into the streets as if nothing mattered, neither the passing of time, nor the common man, the ugly chew of everyday life!
Except that, unlike my cat whose crisis is over, I find comfort in his basket, I will not stop.
I’m crazy, crazy I’ll stay.
At the same time, crazy, I really am, right?