Dinky, the Rock ‘n’ Roll Kitty, Lands on Her Feet at Last : As her owner became more gregarious, Dinky became more companionable.

This is a story about life and death on the streets, about cataclysm and freedom, first love and fatal play.

This is a story about Dinky. A cat.

The Northridge earthquake brought many blessings and curses to my neighborhood in Studio City.

Dinky is one.

Of both.

A rather elderly tabby cat with big green eyes, she led a life of quiet desperation for years at the home of the nice lady across the street.

Dinky was one of those sad-eyed felines that you see sort of skulking around the porch of someone else’s home. She didn’t seek out the companionship of passersby. She didn’t meow when the kids screamed by on roller-hockey skates. She perched on the roof and blended in with the trees and clouds. You might have thought she was a plastic statue that someone picked up and moved around from time to time.

Then came the quake--and Dinky’s life changed forever.

Actually, it was her owner who changed first.

*

A rock ‘n’ roll star who prizes her privacy, Dinky’s owner seldom appeared in public.

In a neighborhood where couples and kids wander the streets on a summer night, walking their dogs, chatting in clumps, bragging about their latest studio coup or fretting about their chances for a Grammy, this woman was practically a recluse.

A lovely musician of enormous talent, she was the Greta Garbo of Woodbridge Street.

Then came the quake.

In an instant, Dinky’s owner became a celebrity refugee who threw herself on the mercy of neighbors.

An expatriate from the East Coast who has never made a native’s peace with our grumbling ground, she bolted from her house that morning and refused to sleep there for much of the rest of the week.

She joined neighbors on the curb to hash out her feelings about the temblor, and she slept on the floor of a home across the street for a few days.

Suddenly she knew everyone and everyone knew her. We learned that she had been stalked by a crazed fan. She holed up in her home studio to write songs and avoid contact with the public. And we discovered that her career, which had plateaued for a while, was ready to skyrocket again.

That was big news for Dinky.

As her owner became more gregarious, Dinky became more companionable. Tentatively, cautiously, she started to come down from the roof of her house. When my 18-month-old son approached, she welcomed his outstretched hand--even if it occasionally dealt a playful swat instead of a pat.

Still, until one bloody day last autumn, Dinky hadn’t come all the way around. And the reason was the dog next door.

Samantha had arrived on our street as a stray. A darting bolt of golden Labrador lightning, she was adopted by one homeowner’s roommate and became famous for her amazing running, jumping and ball-chasing prowess.

She also terrorized Dinky and half the people on the block.

Often tethered to a stake in the front yard in the daytime, Samantha leaped and growled at every passing person or animal. She was a pugnacious pooch, but she had heart and character, the bad girl you instinctively liked. She didn’t want to bite your ear off; she just wanted you to throw her a ball.

Veteran dog owners on the block repeatedly attempted to teach Samantha’s owner how to rein her in. They left angry notices on her door. They threatened to call the pound, SPCA, the LAPD--even the FBI.

But Samantha would not be curbed. She was a free spirit who dug under any barrier, slipped out of any leash, took any opportunity to bound after Dinky and scare her up a tree.

Naturally, my son loved her beyond words.

When he heard her bark outside in the morning as he woke up, his first words were “Doggie! See ‘Mantha!” And my wife or I would bundle him up, carry him across the street and let him view his first love over the fence for a few minutes before breakfast. When they played in the afternoon, Samantha would knock him over.

She never bit him, but he loved the thrill of coming within inches of her flashing incisors.

Ultimately, however, it would be Dinky who would inherit the street.

*

One bitter October afternoon, another neighborhood dog named Brittany came to play in Samantha’s yard. As they rolled and tussled, Brittany’s teeth jammed in Samantha’s leather collar. Samantha flipped forward and, we presume, broke her neck. She died minutes later in her owner’s arms.

It cannot be a coincidence that this second catastrophe brought Dinky into her own.

Today she struts the street as if she owns it.

As her owner’s old rock group has reunited, reignited and returned to touring, Dinky has apparently decided to spend the twilight of her life on the road too.

Freed from old demons, she sleeps on a couch at our house, then gleefully disappears during the day into the neighborhood’s demimonde.

Her owner calls to check on her occasionally from New York or elsewhere--particularly when CNN broadcasts news of an aftershock.

But Dinky doesn’t really need her, or anyone, anymore.

A symbol of the resilience of our community, she is a fur-and-blood metaphor of survival.

It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.

Just right for cats.