Taro the Zen Cat

Chapter

One

The shopkeeper ran out the door, red-faced, jowls quivering. He slammed the broom down on the pebble walkway, missing Taro’s tail by a hair. Get out of here! This food is not for you. Get out! You’re fat enough already!

Sachi, Taro’s younger sister by a minute or two, became a blur of gray fur as she sped past him, snatched the burlap bag of food out of his mouth, and headed for safety under a bush. Then she turned and waited for Taro, anxiously scratching the ground as she encouraged him to run faster.

Taro felt a whoosh of air as the broom came down again hard behind him. He tucked his tail in as far as it would go and bolted to safety.

Taro’s eyes were wide with fear. Oh, Sachi! I almost didn’t make it!

Sachi licked her brother’s ginger face. It’s okay. Catch your breath. You’re safe. Let’s just stay here for a while.

Taro panted, I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore!

Taro, stop saying that. You can do this. You can. Just calm down. Don’t talk right now.

Sachi rubbed her head under her brother’s chin. Just because it’s expected of you to provide like this, it doesn’t mean it always has to be this way. She already knew how difficult it was for Taro to reconcile their father’s and baby brother’s deaths. His entire future had instantly changed. The tragedy had occurred in early spring and here it was already the end of the year. But it still felt like yesterday for Taro. Sachi continued to purr and rub under his chin until she felt his body begin to uncoil and relax.

When Taro’s breathing slowed to normal, the two cats hunkered down, side by side, under the protection of the bush. They watched the people, dogs, and other cats roaming around the open-air marketplace. Years ago, this addition to their little village had brought the community closer together. There was an open fire pit in the center for cold winter days like today. A food court circled the pit where café owners had placed outdoor tables for their customers. For Sachi, this was as good as handing food directly to her. Once she realized the food was brought outside on plates and put on the tables, she became a master of the grab and go. She was an agile jumper and lightning speed runner.

Taro, on the other hand, lumbered. He couldn’t jump high, and his body type was best suited for staying low and picking up scraps dropped on the ground. The shopkeeper had called him fat. Sachi thought of him as dense. Either way, he was a bottom-dweller and not fit to be the provider his mother expected him to be as her first-born now that Papa was gone.

As Taro and Sachi watched the comings and goings in the marketplace, a prolonged, rich, guttural monotone "Hōoooo . . ." caught Taro’s attention. Coming from deep within the belly and extending out for as long as possible on a single length of breath, it was contrasted by the sweet jingle of bells. Taro had never heard anything so oddly beautiful. He turned in the direction of these new sounds and waited. Something was coming.

A procession of five monks stopped at a near-by shop. The guttural monotone and the tinkling of bells ceased. Nothing happened. Then, shopkeepers in nearby stores filed into the street, putting their offerings of food into the monks’ bowls and money, jewelry or other valuables into the satchels that hung around their necks. The monks waited.

On impulse, Taro said, Sachi, is it okay if I put some food in their bowls?

Sure. I can always get more.

Taro took a tentative step away from the bush, looked in both directions just to be sure, and hesitated. Then, stepping forward more confidently, he approached the lead monk and placed some string beans and a half-eaten baked potato into his bowl.

The monk, wearing a wide brimmed straw hat that obscured his vision except for the ground in front of him, bowed in Taro’s direction. Then the monks began to chant several verses of Gratitude and Giving, blessing Taro and all those around him. When they finished, the five monks moved on to the next block, announcing themselves on a continuous vibrant echo of "Hōoooo . . ." accompanied by the jingling bells.

What was that all about, Taro? What just happened? Sachi asked, glancing between Taro and the backs of the monks who began to turn the corner.

It was like that monk was waiting for me.

You think so? I don’t understand, Sachi said.

Me either, Taro said as the last monk faded from his view. But I felt a connection, almost like a memory I can’t quite place.

But something happened, Sachi said.

Yeah, something just happened.

Well, watch me! I can make something happen, too. Her fierce green eyes shining, Sachi jumped onto a nearby table in the open-air marketplace and grabbed the remains of a pork chop from a plate before the diner even knew what had happened.

As the two cats walked home along a dirt road, Taro turned to Sachi. Let me carry the bag. It’s my job. He took the burlap out of his sister’s mouth, stopped walking, and sat down. Sachi waited.

I need to talk about this, Sachi. I hate that I’m not keeping up with you.

You don’t have to! We’ve been over this before. I thought we were done talking about this months ago, Sachi said.

You’re so good at what you do, you know, getting food for the family. It just keeps reminding me of what a failure I am. I can’t see my way through Mama’s expectations, and I know I can’t go on much longer like this, barely outrunning the shopkeepers.

What are you saying, Taro? Sachi tasted the fear at the edge of her words.

I’m saying I need to find my own place in the world. You’ve found yours. Now I need to find mine.

Taro and Sachi shared a secret. A lie, to be honest. But thinking of it as a secret softened the edge for Taro enough to allow him to live with the hard truth. Everything Sachi snatched off the plates of unsuspecting diners, she gave to Taro to take home to Mama and their two other sisters. Mama never suspected, assuming her beautiful Taro was responsible for the livelihood of their family.

Ever since Taro’s father and only brother, Shiro, were killed by an out-of-control horse last spring, Taro had struggled. He jumped between rage and grief. He couldn’t provide for the family like his late father. After all, he wasn’t his father, and he didn't want to be. And he certainly wasn’t anything like his sister. Sachi had the gift of grab. No one else could do what she did. Even their father couldn’t have snatched so much meat on such a short stroll through the village marketplace.

At the time of their deaths, Taro’s mother, Reiko, looked to Taro, her eldest, to keep the family going. It was tradition. But Taro feared the bustle of the marketplace. He was not agile enough, and he worried someone might trample him. Accidents happened. He was more aware of that than anyone.

Taro hated being shouted at by the storekeepers and diners. He couldn’t grab a morsel of food without someone seeing him do it. Unlike Sachi, Taro was unfit for this type of activity, and he knew it. But the family’s hunger drove him out to the marketplace every day. He watched food come and go, but he lacked the nerve or the agility to make a snatch. He only ended up with what remained in the breadbaskets after the customers left. Pathetic. It was bad enough that his family was grieving without having them go hungry, too.

Earlier in the year, a week after Taro’s father and brother had been killed, Taro was wandering alone in the marketplace when he saw a gray velvet bag on the ground near a table. He snatched it up and ran under his favorite hiding bush where he examined the bag in private. Inside were eight shiny black buttons studded with rhinestones. Oh! These buttons were beautiful. His mother would like them. They would sparkle in the light whenever she held them up. Finally, he had something more than stale bread to offer her. A gift to help his mother feel better. He was so excited, he forgot why he was in the marketplace and went home without any food.

Mama, look. I brought you a present, Taro said, pushing the bag forward.

Reiko opened the bag. Taro waited for her to look up and smile.

Taro! his mother hissed. These are buttons. They won’t feed the family.

Taro lowered his eyes, unable to look at his mother’s face. He had failed her again, and was grateful that Sachi, who had been there to witness his encounter, had the decency to turn away.

Taro silently left the house, feeling shame and embarrassment by his mother’s reaction. Sachi followed him out.

I can help you, she said once she knew they wouldn’t be overheard.

What do you mean? What can you do?

Come here. She walked over to a nearby tree and dug near the roots. She brought out a burlap bag. Inside were a piece of fish, a chicken breast, and three rice balls.

Why is it hidden there? It’s all dirty, Taro said.

We can wash it off. You give the food to Mama. Everyone’s hungry, so take it. Say it’s from you.

Taro knew exactly what Sachi was proposing. You want me to lie to Mama that I was the one who got this food.

She expects the food to come from you. There’s no other way. It’s either that, or you figure out how to do it yourself, Taro. We can’t just live on bread. But I can help you.

But it’s not your responsibility.

You’re missing the point. It’s not about me. It’s much bigger than me or you. It’s about our family, Sachi said.

He knew her loyalty to the family was her deepest virtue. She always said she did not need to fight for any recognition of her skills. She did not want the credit. Her offer to Taro was the only way she knew to contribute to the family and to protect their mother from the truth, even though it meant lying. If Mama were to find out Taro wasn’t the eldest she thought or expected him to be, it would be too much for her. Sachi needed to keep their mother safe from any more devastating news.

So? Taro? Are you going to give the food to Mama?

In the silence of his next breath, the lie between Taro and Sachi was born.

Taro fell victim to his life being dictated by circumstances he believed were beyond his control. He lived in what felt like an ever-narrowing tube, unable to turn in any direction. Yet, had he been able to look beyond himself, he would have seen that Sachi’s skills went unrecognized and, therefore, unappreciated. Even though she never indicated any need for acknowledgment, ultimately, he didn’t see how her life fulfilled her either. He never believed she would have been completely satisfied if all she did was give him food to take home to their mother for the rest of their lives. There was so much more she could offer.

Taro did not know or understand how to change his circumstances. But it was something he desperately wanted. To have at least some choice in the matter. He, of course, always thanked Sachi for everything she did for him. Every time Taro did this, Sachi playfully pounced on him. It felt to her like wrestling with a big, squishy puffer ball.

Gratitude’s great, Taro, but it ain’t yummy like a hot dog, Sachi would always say. Besides, it doesn’t matter who gets the food, as long as we have something to eat. Just keep taking it to Mama. This was Sachi’s way. To work in the shadows.

Come on, Taro. I know it’s been hard, but we must keep going. I can show you how it’s done. Come on, Sachi encouraged.

But Taro never took her up on her offer.

Yet claiming Sachi’s catch as his own became more and more shameful for Taro. Her kindhearted intentions made him feel even worse about the lie and about himself. If he couldn’t provide daily meals to the family on his own, what then was he good for in life? He felt inadequate. But he did feel grateful. Because if it hadn’t been for Sachi, the family would have starved.

Taro’s was now a family of five: himself, his mother Reiko, and the three sisters – Sachi, Nori, and Mika. Of all of them, Sachi had a unique gift. When she was on the hunt for food, she knew where to look, which people to avoid, who were easy targets, and when to make her move. She was smart and infinitely patient, almost as if she willed the food to her. Whatever Sachi wanted, she was guaranteed to have in the burlap bag that Taro carried for her every day to and from the village marketplace.

Sachi looked exactly like her mother. Long dark gray fur and fierce, sparkling green eyes. Her sister Nori had medium-length, lighter gray fur and amber eyes. Quiet and demure, she preferred to stay close to Mama and Mika. Mama needed all the help she could get with Mika, and Nori gladly assisted in Mika’s care whenever she could. Mama, how can I help you? was something Nori asked her mother all day, every day.

Mika was a long-haired tortoiseshell tabby, a mixture of her mother and father, and the smallest of the litter. She had grown into a gentle but rather dim cat. She would forget where she was going or what she was doing. She would have forgotten to eat if not for Mama or Nori placing the food directly in front of her and staying with her until she finished. No one knew why Mika was the way she was.

Once, when Mika was about four months old, she was chasing a butterfly in the field next to their home. Following the fluttering creature, she just wandered off. Frantic, everyone spread out until Taro finally spotted her, days later, sitting atop the roof of a shoe repair store on the edge of town, looking up at the sky. It wasn’t easy to get her down, mainly because Taro had no idea how to get up to her on the roof. He made several attempts to hoist himself up, but always landed on his back on the ground. Mika, in her own world, was more interested in looking at the footprints of birds in the sky. Finally, the kind owner of the shop heard the commotion, got a ladder, and rescued the little tortie tabby. Mika didn’t even know to put up a fuss when the man reached for her. Taro carried Mika home by the scruff of her neck like a newborn. It was the only way.

From then on, Mama and Nori never let Mika out of their sight. She required full time help and supervision.

And then there was Taro. He was a long-haired ginger who looked exactly like their father, only much larger. Of all the siblings in the litter, he was the one whose life had changed the most by the family’s tragic loss, having been so quickly thrown into the unwanted role of provider.

Taro’s family lived on the outskirts of the village in an abandoned farmhouse about half a mile from the edge of the forest. Taro loved everything about his home, especially the spacious field next door for running and playing. The farmhouse allowed them to lounge or explore for long periods of time. The family usually stayed beneath the farmhouse together in the hot summer months because it was cooler. Best of all, no one bothered them there. They roamed throughout the house wherever or whenever they chose. They had each other, which meant they still had everything.

Taro, his mother called out. We’re going upstairs to the living room. Would you go out and find some kindling so we can have a little heat tonight in the fireplace? I would love for us to be able to welcome in a toasty New Year.

Taro, grateful she hadn’t asked for more food, immediately trotted off in search of kindling.

New Year’s Eve was cold and windy. Taro kept his paws moving on the frost-encrusted dirt as he made his way up to the edge of the forest and entered. Here, he would be able to collect some dry kindling and run back home to his family. Usually, he didn’t venture this far out, but tonight was different. Soon it would be the beginning of a new year. And for that reason, he had given himself permission to wander out beyond his usual limits.

Taro immediately adjusted to the darkness of the forest. Fully alert, he felt bold and excited.