"Jennifer Lowery tried to take Frankie for a walk this morning," I posted on Facebook in the middle of May, referring to the first time I tried to take him outside. "Fifteen minutes and a few dozen scratches later, we uneventfully arrived back at my apartment because he couldn't handle all the noise and sights of people, moving cars, buildings, and storefronts. Apparently, the concrete jungle is no place for a cat, either." At the suggestion of one of his previous owners, I had decided that taking Frankie for a walk would ease his restlessness. A friend in Chungju walked her cat just like you would walk a dog, so thought I, too, would give the idea a try. I bought him a leash and collar set as a way of apology for keeping him cooped up inside for so many months. I knew that just letting him outside would be disastrous, since I didn't know if he'd ever come back home. "For the record," I commented to my friends that day, "he was on a leash."
The day I chose to experiment was a Saturday morning, a time I thought would be peaceful. I had stumbled upon a beautiful sports park about a ten-minute walk from the apartment and was certain that Frankie would enjoy frolicking there. Unfortunately, it was a place we never quite made it to. I confessed on Facebook to not "ever put[ting] him down because I wanted him to calm down a bit first, a thing that sadly never happened. We didn't even get halfway to our park of choice before the decision to take him back home [was made]. If he spooked with just [the] one or two cars [that he saw], I knew he wouldn't have been able to handle crossing the busy street that lay between us and the park." In hindsight, it's a good thing we didn't get very far because, guaranteed, there would have been many more people at the park where those on the street had come from. If anything is certain about Korea, it's a place where you'll never be alone, especially in the Great Outdoors.
After that fitful episode, I didn't take him out again for several weeks. One night around 9p.m., however, dressed in a short-sleeve sweater and sandals, I had the urge to try again. "Want to go ou'side?" I cooed to Frankie as I lifted his leash off its hook and clasped his collar around him. "I wan' go ou'side--you wan' go ou'side?" I scooped him up and off we ventured. I should have gotten the hint when he tensed up as I opened the apartment door, one with an electronic locking mechanism that whirs curiously as you unlock it. Timidly, I tiptoed down the stairs with him, Frankie still a contracted ball of muscle in my arms.
This time, he lasted just until the front door, another electronic piece with unfamiliar noises ebbing from it. He was already uncomfortable with the strange noises pulsating through the closed doors and walls of other apartments. He had already watched the hall light just outside my door turn off as we descended the first flight of stairs, witnessing what was no doubt a mystery to him. The corridor, which served as the front foyer of the building, had been dark until we reached the bottom step, which triggered an unseen light sensor and set off more of Frankie's suspicions. Perched uneasily on my shoulder as the automatic door opened politely for us to step through to the outside, the motion triggered more fears in him and Frankie dug into my flesh, scrambled down my back, and ran as fast as he could to get away from it.
He couldn't escape, as he was still tethered to my arm with the leash. I scrambled to reach him and pull him back into my arms. Each time I tried, he struggled to free himself and hissed at me loudly, baring his sharp cat fangs. He pulled so hard, I thought I would choke him. I was finally able to grab him and carry him back to the apartment. We reached it breathless and panting, our hearts pounding and our bodies exhausted, safely home. My left shoulder throbbed as I examined what Frankie's sharp claw had left behind. I vowed to myself that, scared of the outdoors as he was, I wouldn't try again.
Sometime after that, Frankie started a curious habit: Late in the evening he would sit alternately at the door or near his leash and meow loud enough for it to become annoying. At first I ignored it, not quite understanding the nature of his pleas. Slowly I began to figure it out. "You really don't want to go outside," I cautioned him one night. "You think you do, but you really don't." As a way to prove it to him, on two occasions I hooked up with the leash, set him down on the floor (having learned my lesson!), and slowly cracked open the door. He instantly tensed up and each time, he pulled hard on the leash and backed up past my sliding glass entryway door, about two feet. He still meowed at the door, though--so one night I donned a long sleeve sweater and strong-armed him outside. He squirmed in my arms for the five minutes we were outside, but at least he didn't claw me this time.
The most recent blunder to add to Frankie's growing collection came last Tuesday, the 13th. "I tried taking him for a walk tonight," I wrote to Brandon that night, "which almost ended in disaster." The rest of the email recounts the feel of the attempt:
I held him tightly as we walked out the apartment door (that has a new-fangled electronic lock that makes all kinds of noise), down the stairs, and through yet another noisy electronic door. He made it about two blocks: We crossed two lightly-trafficked streets (one which had all its traffic go by at once just so Frankie could get an authentic feel for city-life) and headed towards a park-like patch of grass. "Look," I cooed at him, "there's some green." We turned the corner towards the patch and suddenly he started squirming nervously to be let down. To our left were mysterious-looking Korean men chit-chatting on a nearby bench. I suspect he saw them and his fears instantly arose. I tried putting him down (holding onto his leash), but that only served to aggravate him more. He was so upset that he ran so fast I almost couldn't catch him--and he was tethered to the end of the leash! When I finally reached him, he hissed violently at me. For a moment, I thought I would lose him and feared that I would somehow let go of the leash and he'd be gone. Just about the time I was able to grab him, it started sprinkling. As I clutched him even tighter and walked home, I noticed more and more people on the street. We finally made it safely back and he calmed down, but each time I try to take him out, it's a bit of a misadventure.
Brandon agreed that the excursion was definitely a misstep. Given our many uncomfortable outings, South Korea doesn't seem a good place for a cat; at least, not South Korean suburbia. "I wonder if Frankie would do better in a wilderness area with less people?" Brandon pondered. I replied that the cat might do much better in a place like West Texas--or even San Antonio, provided he had enough frolicking space. In my email back to Brandon, I affirmed that whenever I leave Korea for good, Frankie would be coming with me.
For a while now, I've been considering keeping him. After all we've been through, the least I could do is not to leave him in a place so hostile to felines. I've even considered taking him on other international assignments I may take in the future. He may yet prove to be quite a savvy traveler, if a highly sedated one.
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