Cat Tales 12
Cat people are weird. At least that’s what dog people say. Well, they don’t say it to your face, but they think it. You see, I used to run with dog people. In fact, I was raised in a dog-people home. That’s whe re I first learned the rules —dog people are mellow and easygoing like their animals, and cat people are uptight, finicky, merc urial, and, well, catlike. This impression influenced me to such a degree that I hardly paid attention to a cat for the first forty-three years of my life.
When my husband and I moved several years ago (with our dog), we joined a local church and began to make new friends through a home Bible study. Our hosts were what you might label the bookish type. They were undeniably bright, well -read academics with a penchant for dissecting and analyzing Old Testament passages. They were so well versed in all things intellectual that I quickly felt like a simpleton in thei r presence. My only chance at keeping my head above water might have been in a game of Trivial Pursuit, were I to draw t he entertainme nt category.
Given the chance, I proba bly could cancel out their Ivy League educations with my extensive knowledge of “Hit Sitcoms of the Seventies.” Anyway, they we re really smart college professors who talked a lot about thei r cat, hence s olidifying my preconceived notion of the cat person. It’s not that their tales about Scooter we ren’ t mildly interesting; it’s just that nothing they shared could compete with the amount of enthusiasm with which it was imparted. They practically would faint with excitement over his most recent antics, only to be me t with a mere cordial reception by their audience.
Cat people, I thought wi th disdain.
Our dog died last year. We loved her so much that I couldn’ t even think about bringing anothe r dog into our home. This, however, did not stop my children from campaigning for a puppy. They were full of empty promises to train, bathe, feed, and walk the hoped - for, begged-for new dog. It was obvious our house felt empty without Daisy, but I just wasn’t ready.
One day we were at our local pet store getting food for Lola, the goldfish, when my son noticed several cages filled with adult cats and some kittens.
The Animal Rescue League was visiting and inviting people to adopt a cat.
“Mom! Mom! Look!” my kids exclai med. “Kittens! Can we get one? Can we? Can we? Huh, Mom? Awww, the y’re so cute! Look, Mom, look!"
"I see them,” I replied. “And they are very cute, but you guys have never even me ntioned getting a cat. You just want a cat because we are here right now. Wha t happened to the puppy campaign?” They quickly grew silent as we agreed to stay for ten minutes to admire the cats, make a donation, and be on our way. My daughte r was skipping from cage to cage, remarking on their differe nt colori ngs. I was admiring the mother cats from a distance, those poor mommy cats, found in alleyways with litters of mouths to feed. My son, howeve r, was experiencing something far different.
Crouche d on the floor at the very end of a long row of cages, he sat holding the paw of one sprightly, engaging, six-month-old kitte n name d Diego. Each time he wiggled his fingers through the cage, Diego would answer with his paw, curling it around my son’s fingers, as if beckoning him to come closer. They were, in essence, holding hands, and Diego would not leave my son’s side. A volunteer noticed this bond immediately and offered to let Diego out for a visit. I reluctantly agreed. My thoughts were racing. What am I doing? We don’t want a cat. We don’t ever even talk about cats. Oh mygosh, look at that adorable cat in my son’s lap. Slowly, my daughter approache d Diego. As with my son, he reached for her with his snowy white paw. She scooted closer, and Diego curled up in her lap. I sat on the floor near my children, and we we re silent in unison.
We were a captivated audience, beholden to this creature, utterly smitte n and charmed. He purred with delight at the slightest touch, nestling his head in our hands, directing our strokes, lifting his chin, as if he were smiling. We left the store with a new family member.
He explored the house for five minutes and assumed his rightful place. There was no adjustment pe riod, nothing tentative. Diego had simply come home. It has been five months now. To say we are all in love with Diego is an understatement. We wait anxiously for him to choose one of us as we gather to watch a television program. Who will be the lucky one to have Diego sit in his lap? We argue over which is his favorite toy and who can coax him to spring the highest after a feather on a stri ng. We call each othe r to come have a look at him during one of his sun baths, sharing our admiration for his luxurious poses, twisted and contorted so as to match a particular patch of sun. We laugh uproari ously at his antics, like the time he shot down the hallway like a bullet, bounding from the couch to the air hockey table and across the living room again, landing in a bowl of popcorn. We wave at him from the car as he perches atop the desk that sits under the front window, his paw pressed against the glass. We feel a tinge of sadness driving away and often cushion our re morse with lively discussions of how Diego might pass the time in our absence. My daughter imagines he drives around in her Barbie Bus, while my son envisions him logging on to Wikipedi a or reading the newspaper.
These things may seem unlikely, but then you don’t know our dea r Diego, who frequently serenades us with piano concertos. Once we are all sleeping soundly and the house is sufficiently hushed, Diego will delicately walk across the keys with his nimble paws, striking a dissonant yet somehow soothing combination of chords. They echo throughout the house and gently ring in our ears like a grandfather clock, remi nding us all that someone is keeping watch and all is well. Then he roa ms into corners unexplored before curling up with the lucky some one who will slumber next to his purring lullaby.
I was catching up with an old friend on the phone recently. She asked if anything was new. I couldn’ t wait to tell her about Diego. As I attempted to conve y the utter joy this curious creature has brought into our lives, I suddenly realized it was falling on deaf ears. My excitement ove r his nume rous talents seemed rather fre netic against the backdrop of adult conve rsation, like a child recalli ng a trip to Grandma’s house or Disneyland. I finally gave up and changed the subject, yet I was left with a residual angst. How could someone not understand how delightful Diego is? How could they not appreciate his mischievous ways, his boundless affecti on, his uncanny sense of timing? Why, it’s preposte rous that one could not be forever intrigued by this irrepressible creature. That’s when it hit me. Oh my goodness, I realized, I am a cat person. I have become a full - fledged cat person. What’s next? Will I be one of those middle-aged women wearing cat pins and cat earrings, drinking my coffee from a cat mug? How long before I am attending cat conventions and subsc ribing to Cat Fancy? I’m the little old lady in apartment 9.
Truth be told, the re will always be cats to comfort lonely souls who no one else can. The little old lady in apartme nt 9 is actually in good company. Surely, her libra ry is filled with Hemingway, who was a notorious cat lover. I love the photo of hi m in Key West. He sits among his weathered furniture with books and manuscripts scattered about, feeding one of several cats perched in various places. Did one of them ever drape the mselves across his notebook as he wrote ?
Then the re is T. S. Eliot. Now, we cat people have artful poe try with which to describe our indescribable friends. (“He is more of a Rum Tum Tugger type, definitely not a Mr. Mistoffelees.”) And, of course, we have each other. Cat people find each othe r and make up for all those lonely, lopsided conversations with noncat pe ople. We affirm our mutual observations with a knowing smile or a comparable story, but more important, we appreciate the mystery of it all. Cats are full of surprises, and we secretly envy the m. Wouldn’t we all love to change on a whim as they do? To be loyal, yes, but master of all our pe rsuasions, never questioning our position or stance.
A few days ago my kids and I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way to basketball practice. My son was very anxious that we would be late, and my daughter wouldn’t stop complaining.
“Why don’ t we sing?” I suggested. “It always helps to pass the time.”
“I want to choose the song!” yelled my daughter. The car grew quiet as we waited for her to begin. “There was a farmer had a cat, and Diego was his name -o. D-i-e-g-o, D-i-e- g-o, D-i-e-g-o, and Diego was his name-o. . . .”
We inched our way to practice singing at the top of our lungs. I wasn’t certain we would be there on time, but I was very confident of one thing along the way, we are cat people through and through. There’s no turning back now. But who would want to?