Yin and Yang

Yin peers out the lower right pane of the French door; she moves to the cat door, muscles tense, and tests to see if it is safe. Back again. She goes to the French door and again looks for danger. Her brother, Yang, arrives. Yin moves to the cat door and egresses through it. Yang looks longingly out the French door, but makes no move to leave the safety of his home. After all, there is an intruder within barking distance. Yin comes back inside, leaving me to wonder if her excursion outside to the screened-in porch was an act of torment directed at the dog next door.

Yin is a twelve-week-old black and white Manx kitten. Her brother Yang is similar in markings, but Yang has a tight muscular body whereas Yin’s is softer, more womanly. Yin’s fur is like silk; Yang’s is a little coarser, more masculine. Yang is the lover, Yin the aggressor much of the time. Yin gives way to Yang when there is wet food; quite the opposite when dry food is served.

Yang often lies in wait to pounce on Yin as she strolls by his hiding space. There are times when they move as one, reminding me of the syncopated swimming in the Esther Williams movies. I love watching them play, rolling over together, biting and scratching until one, usually Yin, gets mad and stalks off. Shortly after, I find them curled up together, paws intertwined and grooming each other before they fall asleep, looking much like the symbol for which they are named.

September 28, 2007