The Power of Cat

Breakfast at Tiffany’s

September 2, 2024

Dear Smythe,

Last Thursday I watched the film “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” and two days later I bought Capote’s original and devoured the volume in a day. The two versions of the story differ; while the film offers a satisfying-if-that’s-the-kind-of-thing-you-like Happy Ending, the book offers ambiguity, and mystery, and the reader is left wondering what ends up happening to the charming, amoral Holly Golightly.

However, both stories contain an essential character: the unnamed Cat. He is, I think, the most important force in Holly’s life as he is a constant reminder that, try as she might, she cannot prevent herself from caring about nothing in the world. In other words, despite herself, she really loves Cat.

Truman Capote surely was aware of the power of the feline presence in our lives, how cats are able to revive in us, however spiderwebbed and rusty, feelings of selfless affection. I wrote the sketch below imagining it was the inspiration for his classic tale. I hope you like it.

I named the cat Tiffany. It suits him perfectly; he’s got a mean old face but you’d never meet a more loving and affectionate creature. He can’t stand to be anywhere but on my lap, even when I’m on the toilet. I don’t even pretend to mind. Jack hates the name; he says it’s an affectation.

“There’s plenty of men named Ashley,” I said. “I don’t see why Tiffany has to be any different.”

Jack sighed, but he never said any more about it so Tiffany it was.

We found him prowling in an alley a few months ago. It was raining that day; we were rushing home from the cinema. I don’t know what compelled me to look over that way considering we were both soaked to the bone, but I did.

He was even meaner and mangier-looking then, but pitiful; he was huddled under a large rubbish bin, shivering. I swear there were tears in his eyes.

I gasped, “That poor creature.”

“Come on, Truman,” Jack said. “It’s freezing, let’s get back.”

But I couldn’t resist, and I walked into the alley, stretched a hand out, and the creature jumped right into my arms. I held him tight and looked at David, who, despite himself, was melting in front of me.

“Let’s take him home,” Jack said. And so we did. And it was when we arrived, and we put our coats and bags and umbrellas away and had a little time to settle in, and the cat curled right up on my lap that I noticed it: a small silver St. Christopher charm hanging from a thick red cord around his neck.

Will you write back soon? It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.

Love,

Marguerite

My own Cat