I needed to have an important talk with Camino, so waited until he was in a relaxed, receptive mood before perhaps upsetting him with the news. After a lengthy romp in the shower’s puddles, he had just returned to the foldout sofa/bed in our Paris studio, curled comfortably on his polyester “mink” throw, and heavy-eyed was fighting off sleep when I thought, now is the time. I tried to sound excited.
“Guess what, my kitten, you get to go to sleepaway camp!” He gazed at me as if I were talking nonsense about nothing. “In Turkey!” I tried to make it sound exotic and intriguing, though it wasn’t exactly Turkey, where he’d be spending almost three weeks over the holidays; instead, it would be Geneva, with a cat-sitter who hailed from Istanbul. “You get to camp out with Fatma and her family!” My heart broke at my own words, to imagine my baby cat now three months old away from his home with me; he’d be boarding with strangers who had who knew what odd habits and who knew what home life. Could I really hand over this precious boy – the Camino gift entrusted to me until he could be in his forever home, with his forever mom, Gina – and trust he would not fall into a world of weird rules or frightening ideas of how a kitten should be treated? Would the Turkey within the walls of Fatma’s two-room apartment be so bizarre with foreign smells and unfamiliar sights, with caretakers baffling in their strangeness, that my kitty would never, ever forgive me for his trauma? Would Camino believe I had abandoned him there, forever?
“It’s just for a couple of weeks, my kitten.” Trying still to make it sound thrilling, I shared what I knew. “In Turkey, they really, really love cats – orange ones, too, just like you.” Camino blinked at my nonsense as if he had no comprehension. Perhaps I needed to switch to Spanish. Le ciudad de Estambul, por ejemplo, se considera un Paraiso para los gatos. Google Translate helped me tell kitty in his native tongue that Istanbul, for example, was a cat paradise, that since way, way back – the Byzantine and Ottoman empires, to be exact – felines had been loved, respected, and revered not only for their pest-control talents, but also for the affection and admiration that Islam’s Prophet Muhammad held for them.
“And you, my darling gato, get to experience an authentic Turkish family that will show you how, by historical tradition and cultural attitudes, even a Spanish kitten plucked from the Camino – like you – can enjoy the same regard as would a sultan.” I had no idea if harem life would greet Camino in Fatma’s home, so didn’t want to make that a selling point in convincing kitty he would be okay, he would be safe, at sleepaway camp, but a sultan’s lavish meals served in opulent surroundings? Well, that was a treat I knew he could get excited about. “Just think, my kitty, in Turkey, where you get to go, once upon a time kitchens of 500-1,000 chefs and helpers created feasts for the sultan’s friends that featured – can you imagine? – kebabs that recalled armies of Turkish warriors who ate grilled meat from their swords.” Camino, with his Zorro heart and love of canned kitten paté of grilled anything, looked pleased. He gave a little stretch of pleasure as if to say, go on, Mami. “You probably wouldn’t like the baklava served at the Imperial Palace of Istanbul in 1473 – too sweet for a kitty conquistador like you – or the börek that Mehmet the Conqueror made popular around the same time, stuffed as the pastry was with lamb, cheese, or vegetables.” No, Camino appeared to agree; he again closed his eyes for a nap.
“At camp, you’ll have fun!” I continued, trying to hide the tremble in my voice that gave away my terrible trepidation at the very idea of handing Camino over to people culturally known to be extremely hospitable, with tight family bonds – people whose attachment to cats is summed up by the Turkish saying, If you kill a cat, you need to build a mosque to be forgiven by God. Istanbul’s “no kill, no capture” policy for its estimated 750,000 stray street cats, which residents feed, shelter, and care for as a feline-loving community, reflect the fact that, to be from Turkey means you just might think you know a lot better than others – me, for instance – the life that’s best for Camino. Fatma, I learned, had a son. “You’ll have a little boy to play with!” Kitty looked at me like, Mami, I cannot comprehend what you mean. Again, I tried Spanish, and Google Translate helped tell him, “Don’t worry, my precious gato. I’ll make sure the boy has all your favorite catnip mousies.” What if Fatma and her family love Camino so much they won’t want to give him back? How would I ever tell Gina I had lost him? I dreaded the necessity of sleepaway camp, but my sister Candice – Candy – would soon arrive in Geneva and had planned for us a holiday ski safari where lots of driving in the snow and cold of the Alps, plus comings and goings in hotels possibly not pet-friendly, would not be best for Camino’s safety and comfort. Leaving him with Fatma, snug and loved in a Geneva apartment, was the risk I had to take. And after camp when Fatma returned him to me – if she would! – should he cling to her with his killer kitten claws, meowing and howling in torment that he would be torn away from a home where the breakfast sucuklu yumurta was shared – he certainly would love those tastes of sausage and eggs! – and the evening scent of rich Turkish coffee promised well-being…well, I would have to remind him: I’m sorry, Camino, I know you’d love to go off with Fatma to Istanbul, formerly Constantinople, and before that, Byzantium. I know that becoming a Turkish cat seems doable, and desirable – all the kabobs you want! Yes, you could become a symbol of good fortune and protection, respected and revered all your nine lives. But my darling Camino, you are destined for America!
My “little boy to play with” comment perked Camino’s ears, and it appeared to be working, my (fake) enthusiasm for the idea of weeks spent at sleepaway camp rather than, say, even more dull days endured in our tiny Paris studio, where kitty was not allowed outside to pounce on the birds that taunted him at the window. Intrigued, he leapt up and dashed to the door and looked at me like, Mami, let’s go! Like, he already could taste the Turkish köfte and could hear the sweet voice of the Turkish anne who would treat him like a sultan. “Hold on, my kitten,” I said. “Your Turkish mom who promises to plump you up with Turkish meatballs cannot have you for another few weeks.” He stalked away from the door like I had told him it all was a joke, that talk of travel to Turkey was just a ruse to make him afraid I would give him away unless he behaved. How else could I keep him from tip-toeing around the stovetop while the burners flamed and the dinner pots boiled? How else to prevent him from hiding deep within the mechanical works of the foldout bed when I levered it back into a sofa? A kitten burned or a kitten squashed: did Camino really suspect I’d go so far as to risk this for an empty threat?
“But!” I wanted to emphasize to kitty that yes, Turkey was happening and it’s not too soon to get excited. “We can start packing now, if you like, and you can decide which among your feather wands, cat dancers, bread clips, hair ties, drink caps, catnip balls, puzzle feeders, laser pointers, paper bags, and cardboard boxes you would like to pack.” Camino regarded me with his cool, inscrutable gaze. Señorita, he then seemed to say in a withering way, as tail held high he turned and padded back to the shower for more puddle-play and left me with the view of his undulating rear end, my new Turkish mother no doubt will know exactly the toys I like best.
“Kitty!” Shaken by his attitude so cavalier, I called after him. “Camino!” I called. “I am not giving you away! This is just a little time at sleepaway camp. After a couple of weeks, I will come and get you, I promise!” I could hear the kitten slip-sliding around in the shower, chasing drips. I felt sick. We had never before spent a night apart, and the very idea of handing Camino over to people who believe felines are cherished spirits, nearly sacred, and who call any stray that comes to visit “God’s guest…” well, I couldn’t bear it – the thought that all this could potentially so turn the kitten’s head that I might never see him again. Me and my stupid chopped grill from a can. Me and my ridiculous rule of no playing in my hair in bed.
“It’s okay if at camp you learn you’d rather live with Fatma,” I called. I didn’t mean it, but wanted my kitten to believe I, too, was willing to honor and revere and respect and absolutely recognize his position in the sacred realms as a deity – God’s orange blessing who of course had a say in his own destiny. Camino peeked out from the bathroom, like mami, that’s more like it. I held out my arms and he came into them running, with a purr as hearty as a sultan’s satisfied snore.
I plucked him up and held him to my heart fiercely beating with love and fear. Don’t you ever, ever worry, my precious kitten. I would never, ever give you up before you’re home, not for all the delight they serve and sell in Turkey.
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