The Cosmic Quartet: Four Cats, Four Vibrational Frequencies, One Chaotic Universe

How did I come by not just one but four cats? I honestly don’t know. I have some theories, but like the origin of the universe, nothing that can be definitively proven scientifically. All I know is, I have four, which probabably proves I have no idea what I’m doing with this whole manifestation thing.

What is indisputable is that I share a household with four wildly different feline personalities, each strutting (or skulking) around like their own mythic archetype. And recently I realized—these cats are not just roommates. They’re my inner committee. My shadow parts and survival instincts.

All in fur.

They say your pets reflect who you are. But I didn’t expect mine to be so spot on. Even though none of mine are spotted.

All the same, I see them every day.

In any case, without further ado, let me introduce you to the Cosmic Quartet, otherwise known as

Newbery: The Righteous Worrier

Newbery is the eldest, the original cat, the founding member of the Feline Order with the sleekest, shiniest black coat. Because she spent her first six months or so on the wild and hungry streets of San Jose until Animal Control picked her up, she’s got a tight grip on the steering wheel of scarcity. She worries. Constantly. Food might run out. The existential fear of homelessness looms like a feline ghost on the stairwell.

She is also the only cat who spends any time thanking us for the food we serve when we feed them in their respective rooms. Instead of diving right into her food bowl, she beams up at me in utter delight, vibrates her tail in excitement, bunts, purrs, weaves between my legs in a dance of gratitude.

Maybe because of her early days on the streets, she’s a bit high-strung and stressed out. Her neuroticism seems to lead the other cats to pick on her, no matter how many times I remind them that we run a harassment-free household with zero tolerance for bullying.

Even Hugo, who’s the only one who grooms and cuddles with her, will occasionally turn against her. Though more often than not, it’s Newbery who’ll decide that she’s had quite enough of his ministrations and kick him out of their shared nest.

And yet, when it comes to food, suddenly, Newbery is the fiercest cat, growling menacingly, shoving aside everyone else, snatching food almost literally from the jaws of the other cats. Cowed, the others step aside. Even Nebula doesn’t contest her reign in this one dominion.

Strangely, Newbery, it seems, also cares about the undercat. Callie, specifically. I don’t know why because Callie bullies her relentlessly. Often, he backs her up into the corner while she spits and spatters. And yet, whenever Nebula harasses Callie—a daily occurrence, in fact—she will often race over and defend Callie, hackles raised, blocking Nebula with her own body, occasionally even thwacking the Cosmic Queen. Nebula is so taken aback by the turn of events, she backs off, mumbling to herself about places to go, things to do.

Hugo: The Sun Prince Diplocat

Hugo wears many hats. The middle child, he’s the peace-keeper, the mediator, the people-pleaser. He distributes affection like he’s running for office.

On the occasion that he comes to bed with us, he makes sure that he spends 50% of the night on my part of the bed and the other 50% on John’s side.

Likewise, when I’m working at the computer, he shoves his face into mine, blotting out everything else from my field of vision. He then repeats the process with John. Or vice versa.

Hugo is all about diversity and inclusion. He’s the first to welcome every visitor we have, regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, or party affiliation. If tradespeople come to fix a problem, he transforms into a Quality Control Inspector, ensuring that everything is done per spec.

He’s the only cat to schmooze and snuggle with the other cats. When Callie joined the household, instead of hissing, growling, or threatening the scared, tiny 6-week old kitten the way Newbery and Nebula did, he welcomed the newcomer with open paws. He became Uncle Hugo, wrestling, rolling and palling around. He was Callie’s “Safe Cat.” (Nebula the planner, decided to instill the fear of Nebula in Callie while he was still small enough to intimidate. Prescient, since Callie grew into the largest and longest of our cats. He outweighs Nebula by about three pounds, and yet he spin-cringes in a crouch when she whacks him around.)

When visitors come, Hugo is the one everyone goes ga-ga for. They can’t get over his eyes, his even coat, his compact frame, the tiny tongue tip peeking out from his lips.

He inherits his charisma from his dad Spencer, champion show cat and Burmese breed stud. Hugo always acts like he’s an understudy (under cat?) for the leading role in a cat show. A true pro, he’s always prepared.

If I wanted to have only one cat, he’d be the closest thing to the “all-around” feline. The strong, silent type, he rarely vocalizes. When he does say something, it sounds less like a meow and more like a hinge, making me wonder if I ought to oil him.

He may be the most enlightened cat in the crew, able to see beyond the illusion of the laser dot that others chase after. When I wield the laser pointer, he gives me the cold stare, as if to say, “Disseminating fake news, are you?”

Nebula: The Cosmic Queen

Nebula, a pure Turkish Angora, is convinced she is divine. She assumes the sun rises and sets for her pleasure. And no wonder. In Turkey, where her breed originated from, these long-haired, plume-tailed cats are cherished as a national treasure, and active efforts are made to preserve her kind.

The ballerina of the bunch, she’s the mostest—the most vocal, the most energetic, the most demanding, the most athletic, runs the fastest, jumps the highest, and is quite possibly the most intelligent. (Nebula herself would say that that’s it’s more than a probability, it’s a given.) She’s the one that everyone oohs and aahs over for her beauty, her elegance, her poise, her silken fur. Totally justified, she says.

She’s also the embodiment of embodiment: the one who wants to move, dance, climb, and stretch just because it feels good.

She zooms through the house in athletic bursts, leaping, lunging, and twirling for no reason except that movement is joy. Even when going for a wand toy, she has choreography in mind. She doesn’t just jump, she adds a little flourish mid-air. She’s fast, fierce, and fabulous. Like a race car, she bounces off the wall as she makes a tight turn.

The self-appointed queen of the household, she makes sure that each cat paws the line. She has it in especially for Callie—his chief crime being his mere existence—but she doesn’t hesitate to discipline the others as called for—or uncalled, as the situation may be. Only Newbery deigns to fight back. The boys have resigned themselves to their fate. Callie actively cows, whereas Hugo remains calm, impassive.

She has the most sensitive nervous system. Which may be why she holds a grudge the longest. Should John and I ever go away for a while, we know that we’ve become persona non grata—at least as far as Nebula is concerned—for at least 48 hours upon our return. The other cats may come sniffing around, mewing and pawing, but not so Nebula. She scoots just out of reach at any attempt to touch her. But always remains within sight. Because what’s the point if we can’t see that she’s ignoring us? Were I to sit on the sofa, she’ll make sure to jump on the coffee table—tantalizingly close but moving further and further away like a mirage.

But she’s anything but mist-like when she wants in to the master bedroom. She leaps up to the full height of the door, then slams against it with her full weight. Then rinse and repeat.

Her sleep, on the other hand, is sacrosanct. On any given morning, were I to stumble into a room where she happened to be in repose, she immediately ups and leaves. Her body language suggests that I had interrupted her cosmic musings and contaminated the very air with my presence.

Not to suggest that she completely ignores me. Turkish Angoras typically bond with one human, and as her designated human, if she comes to bed with us she’ll sleep with me, on my right arm, burying her head in my armpit. She directs her midnight arias at me, and every hour or two, goes into full-blown ecstasy, into full-throated meows as she purrs and purrs and purrs.

Callie (a.k.a. Caldecott): The Movement Minimalist

Callie, the youngest, was mistaken for a girl by two different vets—hence his name—but whatever lasting imprint this may have had on his impressionable psyche, he seems unperturbed.

When we first got him he was so small he literally fit in the palm of one hand. But today, at around 12 pounds of weight—and fluffy fur that makes him look twice his size—he is by far our largest cat. We were for sure that he was a Maine Coon mix, but once again, he thwarted expectations. He was a hodge podge, a mix of various cats, including Russian blue, ragdoll, a tiny bit of Maine Coon, according to a DNA test we ran. No pedigree to speak of. In other words, a Muggle.

But here’s the thing: I remember distinctly that the first time I saw the results, the test showed that he was at least more than 50% Maine Coon. The rest of him was a mix of various breeds. I know this because I know I remarked to John how interesting it was that our conjecture was confirmed. And I reported the results to several friends. I know it’s not wishful thinking because it doesn’t matter to me what jumbled mixture of DNA he has, just as it didn’t matter to me whether he was a girl or a boy. I would have adopted him regardless.

It means that he—or I—or both of us—somehow ended up in a different timeline than when we first ran the DNA test for him. That’s all I can say. And I’m sticking to it.

One thing I can say for sure is that of all our cats, he seems the most movement averse. When he wants us to let him in to the master bedroom, he typically lies on the floor, and uses one paw to scrape on the door. Scrape, scrape. He doesn’t bother sitting up.