Pixie in Paradise

I’ve been under the weather just a bit these last three days with some sort of mild stomach issue. It has made me a little weak, a little stomach pain, minor stuff, but I’m not myself and not able to wander all around the jungle and the beach like I usually do. It could be salmonella, or another food-borne or mosquito-borne illness; or, it could be my prostate. Who knows?

I’m not eating as much as I normally do and you’d think that’s saving money, but it is not. I’m spending a lot of time wishing soda crackers were fettuccine alfredo, cheeseburgers and loaded baked potatoes. And of course, chicken wings – that goes without saying. I also haven’t been writing much, spending time mostly reading and sleeping. 

Writing apparently involves your stomach because there is a known physiological gut-brain connection. Since this is not an encyclopedia of impersonal facts, but rather all of my own emotions being poured out onto the page, this gut-brain link makes me think it might be a little taxing in my current state to delve into deep or wildly emotional topics. That being said, we’re going to dip our toe into some pain super quick, just for a split second. Then we will dry that toe off and carry on. If it causes me to have diarrhea, I promise to return and finish the story afterward – or during, you won’t know. Creativity finds itself in some odd places. I don’t have time to hunt down an adult diaper in the jungle or the nearby small town. I probably don’t know how to ask in the native language for an “adult diaper” anyway, so let’s see how my stomach holds out for this. Quick, like a bandage.

I am just going to write about one of my all-time favorite subjects, my beloved Costa Rican cat, Mo. It’s easy for me to talk about him. I am one of those people who will walk up to a stranger I’m not already speaking to, or change the subject at any moment during an ongoing conversation, to slip in anything to do with cats. Specifically, my [two] cats. Because of this, there are people from California to London and down to Panama that know about Mo (tiny bit feral/mostly stray, Costa Rican cat son) and Pesto (American feral, turned domestic god, cat son). I was the same way when I had five chihuahuas and their Siberian Husky/Great Pyrenees brother. Everyone knew all the details of each of my fur kids. All of the canines have since crossed the Rainbow Bridge and I’m left with cats and completely obsessed, head over heels in love.

With just the cats it feels as if I’ve finally come into full power. Cats are much more selective as to who they will interact with and if one chooses you, you assuredly possess some magic within. Yes, they’re hungry but they will only allow certain special people truly into their little feline lives. There’s nothing more powerful than a strong, compassionate, happy woman with a cat that follows her around. If that’s how I live out my days, so be it. Don’t threaten me with a good time. I believe some close-minded people call that kind of woman a “witch.” I definitely call that type of woman a W.I.T.C.H.: Woman In Total Control of Herself, as Devon Cole puts it.

Do you see how quickly I got off topic because I segued into a whole other line of thinking but was STILL about cats? It’s because I’m trying to distract us all with a little bit of literary anesthetic before the teeny discomfort. Actually, I was probably just distracting myself and maybe my mom, who has the most compassionate heart and gets quite invested in her grandchildren. “Grandanimals,” but she treats them like grandchildren. Sweet, sweet lady. 

Okay here’s the deal: I have written a few posts about Mo, or Mo-adjacent, or have involved photos of Mo. Let’s face it, he’s 1000% photogenic, he’s around 80% of the time and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m glad I did some adventuring before landing here, that way I am just really happy being a homebody with the cat by my side. For a few pretty legitimate reasons, Mo cannot return to the US with me in a few months. (It’s actually weeks not months, but I’m not ready to admit that to myself yet. One excruciating pain at a time, please). First, given Mo’s track record with male cats, and Pesto’s checkered past as a feral male tomcat before I tamed him thus turning him into “Catty Warbucks,” those two would never work. Ever. Second, Mo hates being picked up off the ground so don’t think about holding him. I do have a few photos of this but the few seconds after that photo was taken should also have been recorded. My attempt either resulted in him doing a quick turn around, trying to bite off one of my appendages, or, he miraculously didn’t attack which meant he had probably just smoked a joint and was mellowed out. Most of the time it wasn’t that second version. He did let me get the porcupine quills out of his paw but he didn’t so much “let” me as I snuck up on him. That time was one of the worst sets of cat scratches he’s ever given me too. Transport would require an elephant tranquilizer and then what happens when he wakes up and goes feral again? Nope. Mo is really comfortable and familiar with his current surroundings. I trust he will always find a home.

After the end of March, possibly early April, I will most likely never see Mo or hear about him again. It would be too painful to know, most likely, even if I could. For me to want to invite that kind of roller coaster of emotion would require another reliable crazy cat lady on this end, feeding Mo and spoiling him constantly and sending me daily – twice daily – photos and videos. While there are a lot of us out there, it would be a pretty unique and special circumstance that someone would slide in and take over. The resort is being sold in two months and most likely some construction will follow. That alone should scare away the current neighborhood cat population. The workers certainly aren’t going to stop and talk to this cat and love on him 80 times a day like I do.

I’ve always known in the back of my mind that when I return to the US this time, that will most assuredly be it for me and Mo. I don’t think too hard about that because I want to live in the present and enjoy every moment, every day I currently have with him. I also attribute the current attitude to this second chance the cat and I had already. If you’ll recall, I was supposed to return to the US right after my birthday in January. I was miserable. That is an understatement. I was in no way ready to go back and spending the last three weeks in the cooler, windy city of San José away from the jungle and Caribbean Sea was not great for me mentally. I just wasn’t ready to return, nothing in me was ready. To top it off, I said goodbye to Mo the night before I left and the morning of, and the look on his face was gut wrenching. You’d think since it was a cat they wouldn’t have a facial expression that could grab you like a dog or a human or even a monkey, but holy shit he does and it did. The combination of missing Playa Negra and Mo was almost completely unbearable. Wondering if he was alive, if he was being fed, if anyone stopped to pet him, was eating me alive. 

Mo being a stray outdoor cat (at nighttime anyway) has taught me so much about living in the present moment. I still hold my breath every morning coming down the stairs if he hasn’t already jumped over the five foot tall door to come in and wait for me. If he isn’t already inside the house, he hears me walk toward the front door and meows loudly, waiting for me to unlock it so he can stroll in the conventional way. He then saunters in completely dry, even if we’re having a hard morning jungle rain, and looks up at me as if he hasn’t been fighting for his life all night.

Once a day or night, or both, there’s at least one loud tomcat fight that can be heard in our little jungle barrio. It’s safe to say that Mo is probably one of the participants at least 50% of the time. At least. I recognize two or three other cats that come around and are even so bold as to walk through the resort. As my new neighbor put it, “They all see Mo eating like a king and are trying to move in.” No truer words were spoken, as the little tabby and white cat – I think it’s a girl – came into the house on the roof through my second floor patio door TWICE last week. Mo was downstairs napping in his usual red chair! The first time I asked her to leave she was feeling skittish and left the same way she came in: on the roof. The second time she carefully but calmly walked past me and down the staircase, past Mo and out the front door! I was astonished. 

This morning at 3 am I heard one of the loudest, scariest cat fights ever. I can quantify that because the fan I currently use sounds like a jet engine and I can’t hear anything over it. The guests could be breaking tequila bottles all over the pool edge while blasting gangster rap and I’d never know until the next morning. Not feeling well and very tired, having been woken out of a dead sleep by this, I really didn’t want to get up to see what kind of shitshow was occurring but I knew Mo was involved. I swear I know what his meow sounds like up close, far away and even if he’s yelling. Also, Mo thinks he owns the resort and he’s territorial so odds were good that even if my hearing was off because of the fan, he’d still be involved.

Of course he was, but before I even got downstairs, I had to throw on some shorts. While I did that I saw the little wild tabby and white kitty on the fricking roof right outside my bedroom. This chick likes heights – she’s always up here! I raced downstairs and luckily the front door was unlocked. That’s an entirely different story, but we’re grateful it was unlocked…this time. Right in front of me was Mo and the huge, light gray tomcat – definitely male – that shows up here often. Mo looked incredibly pissed off and lucky for everyone involved the big gray cat was a little more afraid of me than Mo. I followed him down a path to make sure he was far enough from the main house. The little cat on the roof had made her exit off the back of one of the adjoining casitas and I returned to have a chat with Mo. I wanted to make sure he was okay, tell him I loved him and to quit fucking around with that nonsense. He had that post-fight adrenaline going and chaos in his eyes so I doubt he heard any of my words. Even if he did, they were in English. We’ve established he probably only speaks Spanish, or a little Norwegian, since the rightful owners of Casa Vikingo are Norwegian and they are the ones who have employed Mo from kittenhood as their CMO (Chief Mousing Officer).

Since I can’t pick Mo up and hug him on a good day, there was certainly no point trying after he’d just gone three rounds with his competition. He was all jazzed up. These fights happen so often. I used to hear them a lot more often in December when I was living in the casita on the far end. I would lay awake and pray that Mo was safe and that he’d be protected. Each morning he’d stroll in between 5 and 6:30 am and expect breakfast, like nothing had happened. That’s when I realized Mo, the tiniest tomcat in the jungle, may not be starting all of these fights but he sure seems to be finishing them. 

I had another realization a few days ago: Mo reminds me more and more of the wild jungle cats here in Central America, especially with that attitude! The more research I do about these exquisite surroundings on the flora and fauna, I get this sneaking suspicion that Mo is a tiny little wild cat cross breed. (It can probably happen, can’t it?) Hear me out. I don’t think he’s a full-blooded jaguar or anything but you can’t tell me based on the photos below that he might have a mama that’s a domestic cat and a daddy that’s maybe, say, a tigrillo/oncilla or margay?! With his tiny size but indomitable bravery and fierceness, the boy’s a legend! It’s just a thought.

These homeless cats are transient, yet they almost seem to belong to everyone, which is what gives me hope about Mo’s situation. I am operating with the assumption that someone will fall head over heels in love with him, love at first sight, like I did and just start feeding him and being kind. I believe in the magic of this place, this land and what it does to the hearts of so many people that have ended up here. Someone will let Mo be theirs, but in my heart and soul, he’ll always be mine.