The Opurra Singer Next Door

Ever wondered why your cat doesn’t share your appreciation for Beethoven’s Für Elise or isn’t thrilled to rock out to an old Rolling Stones record? Turns out, it’s not our style. So no matter how hard the beat drops don’t take it personally if we flee the room when you turn up the volume. Now don’t get me wrong. Cats love music. But what really tops the kitty charts for us is the tempo of rustling leaves and chirping birds.

But last Tuesday, I was rudely awoken from my post-lunch siesta by the sound of shrill, sharp shrieks that almost shattered the crystal chandeliers. “Laaa, laaa, laaaa, laaa, looo!”

Oooh! The sound was so repulsive. It made my ears flatten and the tips of my whiskers frizz. Could it be the new neighbor who moved in two days ago? I leaped in for a closer look of the next door nuisance from my purrterre box (aka the windowsill). 

Clad in a long fur coat, with large gold bracelets, and heavily mascaraed eyes blazing with passion was the source—Madame Pussini. Her hour-long soprano went on for what seemed like an eternity. It must’ve been hard work ramping up all those decibels to such an unbearable volume because several times in between Madame Pussini had to rest and fan herself with magazines while her thin, wiry pianist in pinstripe trousers—Mr. Maestro—spritzed her throat with mineral water. That’s when I was treated to softer, piano notes—“La, di, da, di, dum, dum”—which I must admit were rather delightful. But even then, these short-lived serenades did nothing to quell the agony of those day-long arias.

Now I know what you’re thinking: lots of cats have tonal deficiencies and screech oddly when they’re in a tussle. But hey, many of us have musical talent too. Take me for instance. Every morning, I perform a short serenade in front of my parents’ bedroom door to remind them that I’m hungry. A fancy, high-pitched undulating “miiiiaaaoooo”—the feline equivalent of a "figaro”—usually gets me that diced chicken liver pronto.

But by the weekend, I’d lost a few of my whiskers. That’s when Mum decided it was time to quieten Madame Pussini. So off she went with a basket of cookies and a bottle of wine. I ambled in the hallway to catch a glimpse of Madame Pussini up close. As soon as she opened the door, I could tell she looked different. Perhaps it’s because she wasn’t wearing her customary mascara or her percussion set of bracelets. As the murmuring between her and Mum continued, a tension came over her face and concern clouded her eyes. For a brief second, her eyes met mine. Then, she gave me a half-smile as if to acknowledge that I was the tattletail before shutting the door. 

As soon as Mum got home, she plonked herself on the dining chair. I immediately jumped onto her lap to offer her my gratitude in the form of a gentle purr. Meanwhile, Dad decided it was time to soothe all the tension with some music. Now most of the music we listen to at home lives on round, flat, black disks that Dad keeps in stiff cardboard holders which have colorful pictures or drawings on them. He usually puts them on a special silver table, then presses some buttons, and the disks begin to sing. Sometimes we listen to one or two songs during dinner, but there are times when Dad makes the black disks sing all day especially when Mum’s not home. This time around the song was Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York.

♫ ♬ I want to wake up in a city
That never sleeps
And find I'm king of the hill
Top of the heap♫ ♬

It had all those little crackles and popping sounds in the exact same places I remember, and I finally began to relax.

At dinner, I learned that Madame Pussini was in fact an opurra star. She’d won the Luciano Pavarotti International Voice Competition, sung at Rome’s Teatro dell’Opera, and even wowed critics at The Metropolitan Opurra, and around the world. However, she failed to impress one important audience member: me.

Now, if you’re keeping score and guessed that Madam Pussini immediately lowered her volume and limited her practice hours, you’re right. But wait! The story doesn’t end here.

My midday Zs are still interrupted. Usually by the distant wailing of an ambulance or the garbage truck enjoying its afternoon feed. Or by the subway rumbling, taxi honking, and insistent car alarm a few blocks away. Occasionally I’ll even hear a saxophonist at the 1/2/3 station whose smooth jazz music melds with the subway’s tin-can acoustics. And almost always, the din hum from the hundreds of human conversations weaving in and out of one another all playing out like a grand symphony.

There’s no way to escape the quintessential sounds of New York City, but at least it’s the music that I’ve come to love most.