Ulises the cat was not vengeful. That she scratched her owners while they slept, that she played innocently with dying little mice; that she stole the marinated fish from the counter (though she actually preferred them fresh and unseasoned) – these things hardly said anything about her character.
Sometimes, already with a full belly, she would abandon the remains of her meal and climb to the window to watch the neighborhood cats who came in search of the scraps. Ulises the cat would drop down on them from the height of the window like lightning, like an unexpected hawk descending upon the poor, hungry cats. Immediately, an uproar would break out: the roaring of cats, a tangle of claws, which would startle Ulises the cat's owners and make them leap from their comfortable armchairs where they were watching the tame soap opera of the moment.
The cat liked to sway her hips, stretch her legs in a sign of satisfaction, yawn, and raise her tail when her frightened owners arrived at the scene of the brawl. Immediately, Ulises the cat would return to the window, satisfied, settle herself into a ball, and, incredibly enough, would fall asleep in no time. Ulises the cat had never had a bad dream, except for one; and we shouldn't label her as vengeful or resentful because of it. She dreamt that her owner, a high school girl, when she was younger, say about five years old, told her father: "This kitty will be called Susana, and we'll call her Susy."
Ulises the cat didn't like vengeance, but she did feel a little grudge, a slight inner tingling against the sloppiness, because her owner decided to name her Ulises. She did nothing to deliberately keep her owner nervous, on tenterhooks. It was a barely perceptible little grudge.
El ejército furioso (La gata Ulises)
La gata Ulises no era vengativa. Que arañara a sus dueños mientras dormían, que jugara inocentemente con los ratoncitos moribundos; que robara de la meseta los pescados adobados (cuando en realidad los prefería frescos y sin sazón), apenas decía algo de su carácter.
Fuente
En ocasiones, ya con la panza repleta, abandonaba los restos de su comida y subía a la ventana para vigilar a los gatos del vecindario que entraban en busca de las sobras. La gata Ulises les caía desde lo alto de la ventana como centella, como halcón inesperado que desciende sobre los pobres animalitos hambrientos. Enseguida se formaba el escándalo, rugir de gatos, enredo de garras, que sobresaltaba y levantaba a los dueños de la gata Ulises de sus cómodos butacones donde televisaban el manso culebrón de turno.
A la gata le gustaba contonearse, estirar las patas en señal de satisfacción, bostezar y enarbolar la cola cuando sus dueños, asustados, llegaban al lugar de la trifulca. De inmediato, la gata Ulises volvía a la ventana, satisfecha, se acomodaba haciéndose un ovillo, y por increíble que pareciera, se dormía en un dos por tres. La gata Ulises nunca había tenido un mal sueño, salvo uno; y no por eso debemos calificarla de vengativa o rencorosa. Soñó que su dueña, una chiquilla de secundaria, cuando era más pequeña, digamos de cinco años, le decía a su padre: “Esta minina se va a llamar Susana, y le diremos Susy”.
A la gata Ulises no le gustaba la venganza, sino que sentía cierto rencorcito, un leve cosquilleo interior contra la chapucería, porque su dueño decidió nombrarla Ulises. No hacía nada para mantener nervioso a su dueño, sobre ascuas. Era un rencorcito nada perceptible.
