by Connie Cronley | Photos by Anna Norberg
In theater costume terms, a headpiece is any hat, crown or tiara worn on the head.
I saw thousands of them when I worked for a ballet company — floral, feathered, glittering, bejeweled. A headpiece is a perfect accessory for a cat I know named Cleopatra. She has many of them, which is only fitting because she is a very theatrical cat.
Each cat has a unique personality. I think it is our job to recognize and appreciate that. I feel the same about a cat’s name. Our task is to discover the cat’s authentic name, not impose a name on it. Until we do that — recognize the personality and discover the name — nothing quite fits.
For a cat, the greatest challenge is landing in its exactly right home. Many homes may be pleasant and comfortable, but the exactly right home is different. That’s the way it was with Cleopatra, finding the right home and her true name.
Cleopatra is rightfully my cat. Here is how I found her and how I lost her:
One Saturday, I discovered her at the veterinarian clinic I was visiting regularly at the time. I fell in love with her at first sight: a golden-brown kitty with a flamboyant coat — part circles, part stripes.
This glitzy kitty was a Felis catus, domestic shorthair cat, a breed known for being affectionate and playful. More specifically, she was a tabby cat, which is not a breed but a reference to the cat’s two identifying characteristics: its coat pattern, derived from an ancestral wildcat, and an “M” mark on the forehead. Some people believe the M refers to mau, the word for cat in Ancient Egypt where cats were sacred. All tabby cats believe this.
The word tabby, from the French word tabis, is an allusion to watered silk cloth and a reference to the design on the cat’s coat. Tabbies can be mackerel (striped), spotted, ticked, tortoiseshell and more, but this particular kitty was a classic (or blotched) tabby, a coat pattern of artistic swirls and stripes. She was dramatically beautiful and alone.
She was the last of a litter. All the rest had been adopted. The clinic was about to close for a long weekend holiday, and my heart went out to the beautiful little unwanted tabby. I adopted her on the spot. Home we went!
What a mistake. My dog Bucky was fine with the two cats already living with us, but he put his paw down at the thought of a new cat. He began barking maniacally and didn’t stop for 24 hours. The little kitty fled to the back of a closet. I rescued her periodically for food, water and litter box, but we could both hear Bucky barking in another part of the house.
I have adopted many cats and dogs over the years. This was my only failure. I was sitting on the front porch, morose and weeping, when my friend Anna dropped by. A tiny light of hope flickered. Anna’s cat had died about a year before. Anna needed a cat. This cat needed a home.
The next day the kitty and I made a trial visit to Anna’s house. As I set the carrier down, I explained to Anna that the kitty might not come out of the carrier at all, or if she did, she would run straight into that closet or under this chair to behind the sofa.
“She will hide for hours,” I said, as I opened the carrier door. The kitty peeped out, looked around and seemed to say, “Now this is more like it.” Instead of my cluttered, funky cottage, here was a spacious home in a soothing palate of white and pale gray, better to highlight her flamboyant coat. The kitty stepped out of the carrier and — not walked — processed across the thick carpet.
Anna is a pianist, a classical musician, so her home is full of the echoes of great music. The kitty strode with such grandeur, I knew she was hearing the regal sounds of the “Triumphal March” from the opera “Aida.” And just like that, the kitty found her rightful home, and Anna found her new cat. “I’ll name her Cleopatra,” Anna said. She knew the kitty’s theatrical nature. I would have named her Polly or Florence.
That was six years ago, and she has never spoken to me since. Cleopatra, I mean. She can’t forget the dreadful 24 hours in my home. Anna is still a friend. I have visited them many times and have seen how Cleopatra reigns, pampered and applauded. I see her drifting languorously from room to room to the sound of her personal soundtrack. Sometimes she slinks across the room sinuously, clearly hearing the “Habanera” from “Carmen.” When I try to pet her, she throws herself into the mad scene from “Madama Butterfly.” I’ve seen her eye me coyly as she floats to the romantic strains of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” as if to say, “Don’t you wish you had a cat as artistic and emotive as I?”
Anna understands Cleopatra’s need for theatrical headpieces and provides them for every holiday and special occasion. There are theatrical props, too — every cat toy imaginable. The only thing Cleopatra still needs is a tiny follow spot to track her every dramatic move.
