« Previous      Home | Waltz | Tango | Links | Contact      Next »

Oliver

Chelsea Eng

A few years back, a study found that cats prefer tango over other kinds of music.  I can confirm that my cat, Oliver, did not particiate in the study.  For him, tango has been an acquired taste.

I fell in love with Argentine tango about seven years ago during my first trip to Buenos Aires.  I returned toting a new pair of shiny black T-straps and a pile of tango videos shot on my handicam.  Ever curious, my parents became engrossed in this marathon of movement from the waist down — legs cutting intricate patterns to such foreign, yet intriguing music.   Before long they, too, were taking lessons, practicing steps in the aisles of Safeway, and converting the basement into a dance studio.   Oliver, however, was not such an easy sell.  "Please turn that off!  You're disturbing my nap and invading my space," he seemed to say with furrowed brow and a swift exit from the studio whenever I was wont to dance.  But he could not escape the stuff.  You see, he's an indoor cat.

In the early days, though he was hardly fond of their music, he took a liking to the Argentines who came to visit, especially Florencia.  She bothered to remember his name, where most others made the egregious error of calling him Oscar.  Florencia would scoop him up and scold sweetly in Castellano, "No, gatito," as he kneaded her sweater with his wide paws.   He understood her, of course, as he boasts fluency in several languages.

Given his appetite, "gordito" would have been more apropos, despite my mother's insistence that he's just big-boned.  He's been that way since he was a kitten.  When seated upright, Oliver is a fluffy 15-pound pear but black as an olive — hence his name.  

We hadn't even wanted any more cats — least of all a male, a longhair, or a black cat.  Until all-three-in-one showed up in our backyard and decided he liked the place.

That was, of course, in the pre-tango days.  Now his home was inundated with the melancholic drone of the bandoneon — morning, noon, and night.  He already had to endure the insipid vacuum cleaner twice a week!  Now a steady diet of tango?  Good grief.

Day by day, from sheer exposure, without quite intending to, Oliver came to recognize many of the songs.  He practiced a more polite form of tolerance.  He would listen without scowling, linger a bit before making his predictable exit.  Piazzolla still rattled him but Di Sarli was gaining ground.

One day I walked into the studio to find that Oliver was not in his usual spot.  The rocking chair in the far corner was unoccupied.  Figuring he'd relocated to a quiet nook upstairs, I changed my shoes and popped a D'Arienzo CD in the player.  Closing my eyes, I let my feet mark the rhythm.

Bah-da Bum bum Bum buh Dum bum...  And-uh shift, shift-shift, and pause...  Within seconds, my reverie was interrupted.  I was suddenly asked to dance by a most wonderful partner.  A robust meow signaled his sprint into the studio; a firm nudge at the ankle minced no words.  "I'm here to tango," he announced.  "And," he added, "I came dressed for the occasion."

« Previous      Home | Waltz | Tango | Links | Contact      Next »

Chelsea Eng, professional tango performer, teacher, director, and choreographer, holds a M.A. Education - Dance Specialization degree from Stanford University.  She has performed and taught in national and international venues.  She is a featured dancer with MonTango.   You can visit Chelsea's website at tangochelsea.com

Copyright © Chelsea Eng, 2003  

nightworkpress.com