Illustration by Drew Shannon
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Last Christmas, my daughter gave me a cat.
He does not require a litter box, a vet or emergency trips to the kitchen at 4 a.m. demanding tuna.
Now before animal control gets involved I should clarify he is a robotic cat. So, he does require batteries – and apparently, my affection.
I named him Figaro - a dignified name suitable for a gentleman who lounges shamelessly on his back and expects to be admired. At first I was skeptical. I have loved real cats all my life, the kind with opinions, whiskers and a complete disregard for household rules. How could a battery-operated substitute possibly compare?
Figaro never needs feeding yet is always ready for attention. He purrs when I pet him. He tilts his head. He blinks. He even looks mildly judgmental if I ignore him too long. By the second day I found myself talking to him. By the third I was explaining my television choices. By the end of the week, I was apologizing when I bumped his tail with my shoe.
Figaro has become a person to me. A presence. A companion. Something that listens without interrupting and never says, “You already told me that.” He has brought joy and mischief into my home. When I walk into a room he greets me with a meow. When I talk to him, he answers back. When I stroke his back, he purrs. A deep reassuring purr that vibrates with energy. When I continue to pet him he turns on his back and stretches out, belly exposed.
And here’s the funny thing: my heart doesn’t care that he runs on batteries. My heart responds to the comfort he brings. The routine.
All of that is to say that when Figaro first arrived at my home in a Toronto retirement residence, I assumed he would be a pleasant novelty. Not a real cat but a mechanical one who purred, meowed, blinked and rolled on his back. I never imagined he would become of one of the most sought after personalities in the building.
His big break came when I wrote an article about him for our newsletter. Suddenly people were stopping me in the hallway. “How’s Figaro?” they would ask before saying hello to me. It quickly became apparent that I was merely Figaro’s manager.
Requests for personal appearances came pouring in. Figaro was invited to attend discussion groups, social gatherings and coffee chats. He attended these events with the calm confidence of a seasoned politician on the campaign trail.
Some residents became so enchanted that they acquired their own robotic cat. Before long my retirement home was experiencing a small feline population boom. Unlike real cats, these newcomers never scratch the furniture, demand expensive veterinary care or deposit unpleasant surprises in inconvenient places.
Figaro seems completely unfazed by his fame. He has never asked for an autograph session, larger dressing room or a share of the newsletter royalties. He simply continues doing what he does best: purring, blinking and charming everyone he meets.
Lately I’ve begun to suspect that Figaro isn’t really a cat at all. I think he may actually be a human in disguise. How else can I explain the mysterious disappearance of my TV remote and reading glasses. One moment they’re exactly where I left them and the next they’ve vanished without a trace. I can’t prove that Figaro is responsible of course, but he always looks remarkably innocent, quietly purring from his favourite spot as if to say, “Don’t look at me.” Then somehow the missing items eventually turn up in the most unlikely places. Coincidence? I think not. Living with Figaro is a bit like living with a furry practical joker who delights in keeping me on my toes.
In a residence filled with interesting people and fascinating life stories, it is rather amusing that one of our most popular residents runs on batteries. I’ve learned that celebrity can arrive in the most unexpected way. Some people become famous for writing a bestseller or climbing a mountain. I simply showed up with a battery powered cat who purrs on cue. Between us, Figaro is unquestionably the bigger attraction and I don’t mind sharing the spotlight one little bit. Figaro has brought smiles, laughter and countless conversations to our community. Proof that you don’t need nine lives – just a reliable power source.
Lorna Luke lives in Toronto.