Cat Tales 13
My daughte r, Alice, traveled home to be with he r dad on his sixty-third birthday, carrying his birthday present close to her chest. She ente red the family room, whe re he now spent his days confined to a battery-operate d reclining chair. Peeping out from just above her arms were the frighte ned eyes and furry ears of a very young, very tiny, black-and-white kitten.
“Happy birthday, Dad.” She grinned, plopping the furry ball into his lap as she leaned in to kiss him. I’m not sure which of us was more startled, my husband, Richard, or me. I glared at Alice. The last thing in the world we neede d in our lives at this time was an animal to take care of. Richard was still coming to terms with the reality of his continui ng decline and the terminal cancer that would claim him in the end. Why me? was written on his face as he sat, day after day, staring i nto space, feeling powerless and useless. The birthday present tre mbling on his lap went unacknowledged.
Later, out of earshot of he r dad, I pointed out to Alice the inappropriateness of her gift.
“Mom, don’ t you keep up with the research?” was her reply. “Ani mals are very therape utic for shut-ins. Nursing homes use them all the time.” I wasn’t impressed with the comparison. She would be gone after the weekend, while we would still have the kitten. Before leaving for work, I always placed Richard’s pills, liquids, and lunch on the table beside his chair. What if the cat knocked the m down after I’d gone ? I left the walker within easy reach for his trips to the bathroom. What if the kitten tumbled under foot when he rose and tripped hi m? Alice dismissed my f ears and said I worried too much. We we nt through the motions of a happy birthday dinne r. Richard managed a weak smile as we helped him blow out the candle on his cake. I tried to draw his attention to the kitten by asking for a name. He didn’t answer.
“Her name is Lincoln,” Alice said, and Richard laughed.
She was referring to he r father’s fascination with our sixteenth president. Richard loved history, and the last meaningful piece of research he had been able to complete was for a soon-to-be-published piece on Abraha m Lincoln. Its acceptance had brought him great satisfaction. Lincoln is an odd name for a cat, especially a female one, but no othe r suggestions were made, so the name stuck. And at least it had made Richard laugh.
Later, Alice went out to spend he r last evening home with friends before leaving for the airport, and Richard and I settled in to watch our Sunday night television shows, he in his chair with the cat on his lap, I on the couch nearby. Halfway into the second -hour show, the kitte n began to shake violently, then convulse. I located a twenty-four-hour emergency vete rinarian service in the phone book, wrapped little Lincoln in a bath towel, and raced out to seek help. The veterinarian was not optimistic. He said the kitten had bee n left at the animal shelter at too young an age and had caught an illness she might not have the strength to withstand. The next seventy-two hours would determine he r fate. If she could survive that long, she would make it. Howeve r, the kitten would need f reque nt me dication, administere d through an eyedropper. It was too late to return he r to the shelter; they would not accept a critically ill animal. I put the me dicine in my purse, paid the bill, and drove home with Lincoln, now stabilized and no longer convul sing but still a very sick cat.
I gave Richard the grim prognosis and said I would arrange to take the next couple of days off from work. His response surprised me. He reached out for the towel -wrapped kitten still in my arms. “I can take care of her. You don’t have to stay home,” he said. It was the first time in many weeks that he had shown an interest in anything. I placed Lincoln back on his lap and handed him the medicine bottle, explaining the frequency and size of the doses she needed. He nodde d, ca refully removing the dropper, checking its fullness, and gently coaxing it into the kitte n’s mouth. That done, he went back to watching television, interrupting his focus only when it was time to medicate his patient again.
I was consumed with dread the next day, worrying about what I would find when I returne d. I shouldn’t have left, I told myself. Yet Richard had wanted to take care of the cat, and not to have let him try would have furthe r diminished him. I raced home, hoping I’d done the right thing. I entered as quietly as I could and headed toward the family room. I stopped short and stood in the archway unobserved as I took in the scene.
Richard was once more coaxing the medication into the kitte n’s mouth, speaking encouragement to her as he worke d. “You’re going to make it, Lincoln, don’ t you worry. I’m not going to let you die. You’re going to get well.”
I retreate d back outside, wiped my tears, took a deep breath and re opene d the door, closing it more loudly this time. “I’m home,” I called, and s trode into the family room. “How are my patients doing today?” Richard smiled up at me. “We’re okay. How was your day?”
He hadn’t asked me that in a long time. Something had changed. Fighting to keep the kitten alive had brought him back to life. Alice ha d been right; Lincoln was excellent therapy for he r dad. The kitten gave him purpose again. But even Alice could not have predicte d what happened nex t.
As Lincoln grew stronger, so did the bond be tween man and cat. All our pre vious pets had gravitated to me, the lady who filled the food dish. Not Lincoln. She was Richard’s, and he was hers. Where did this leave me? I was soon to find out. Lincoln grew into a healthy cat. Her antics amused Richard and kept him entertained. Even whe n off his lap, she stayed close, keeping an eye on him. As she grew stronger and he grew weaker, their roles seemed to reve rse. If she sensed a sadness coming over hi m, she returned to his lap, nuzzled her head unde r his chin before settling down, knowing how stroking her soft coat could calm him. She knew how to make her man happy, and Richard was her man. I was seen as the other woman.
I was reminded of this daily in many ways, some more deadly than others. At first, it was the get-your-hands-off-my- man-you-hussy message I got whenever I leaned ove r to kiss my husband, and a paw would come up beside my face, claws extended, to plant a slap upon my cheek as my lips touched Richard’s.
My troubles multiplied when it was time to sleep. I’d get Richard into bed and snuggle in beside him, but not for long. Sudde nly Lincoln was in the bed too, plopping herself down betwee n our heads, biting my face and pushing me until I inched farther away and she could settle in between our heads.
I wasn’t getting the message, though, and clearly stronger measures were neede d if Lincoln was to succeed in removing me from the picture. Ambush was her next tactic of choice. I learned to look around corne rs when approaching a room or hallway, but I was never quick enough. She always knew when and whe re I was coming into range and would leap out from behind the nearest wall to bite my ankles or grab my nylons with her sharpene d claws.
Ruined stockings and bloody, scratched legs didn’t seem to dissuade me either. I continue d to come home from work, and worse yet, I continued to greet Richard with a kiss, in spite of the furry inte rfere nce. This was more than Lincoln could stand.
She became more sinister in her plotting.
When Richard became too ill to climb stairs, we re -arranged where we slept, but his study and much of our clothes and othe r items remaine d whe re they we re. If either of us needed something, I’d go get it. It was still dark out when I would go upstairs in the mornings to dress for work. I didn’t turn the hall light on going up or down, because I didn’t want to wake Richard before I had to. Lincoln realized that if she hid her white paws unde r her and flattened her black body against the dark carpet of the next stair in my descent, I could easily be tripped, tumble down the long staircase, and break my neck. Once the unde rtake rs left with my body, she’d have Richard all to herself.
She nearly succeeded. I took many a stumble whe n my foot hit and slid from he r back, but a quick grip of the banister always helped me regain my balance. Surprisingly enough, she never gnawed at the banister’s slats to make the railing too weak to hold my weight. At least, not that I know of.
Sadly, we both lost him in the end. Shortly after Richard died and the re was just the two of us alone in the house, Lincoln went out and neve r returned.
Perhaps she went looking for he r man. In any case, she had no desire to live there with me. I wished she would have stayed. I missed that jealous, homicidal cat.