Cat Tales 14
There are times in life when reason, despite all of its, well, reasonableness, loses out to something more abstract. Call it pure emotional response, if you will, but I prefer to think of it as spontaneous affirmation of life, or just saying “Yes” when logically, one should say “Keep walking.”
It’s not like I woke up one morning and said to my family, “I think we should get a cat today.” Instead, it was evening when the cat found us, as some of the bes t pets do. My son and I were taking a walk around the neighborhood, as we often did before he got too old for that to be cool. We climbed the hill up to a small stretch of unpave d road where there was a no-through street and lots of trees. From the corne r of my eye I spied a miniature mess, a feline foundling. He was an average black- and-white shorthair with the requisite white paws to match. Hunche d on the far side of a puddle, he was wet and bedraggled from the first rains of autumn.
His stark green eyes requested me rcy, and the look was accompanied by the pitiful meow of a creature who was tired of mousing for survival when most animals of his kind could be found conte nte dly crunchi ng Friskies in someone ’s sunny mud room. “Just keep walking,” I said to my son. Oh, don’ t get me wrong. I adore cats. In fact, I was still healing from the loss of my twenty-yea r-old cat, who had seen me grow up from a dreamy poet/waitress to a mothe r of two and now a new stepmother of two. That type of loyal companionship is not easily replaced.
But I’d learned my lesson about animal rescue the hard way. While in college, my friends and I would adopt stray cats and then struggle to pay the unanticipated veterinary bills.
Roommates would bring the “alley cat from be hind the restaurant” home only to have it run away from unconscious youthful neglect. After too many of those botche d rescue missions, I’d learned to keep my eyes on the road and walk faster when a stray tried desperately to latch on. Despite my cool and detached de meanor, the kitten quickly analyzed me as a long-dormant sucker. Meow-rrrrow, meow, mew . . . it followed us down the hill, past the first block and almost to the stop sign. “Just ignore it,” I firmly advised my son. He kept looking back. Finally he stoppe d and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, hands on hips. Then he turned to me and said with a firm tenderness, “Mom, it’s obvious he’s sending out a rescue signal.” That did it. My heart, so carefully folded shut, broke ope n. “Yes, I believe he is.” I scooped up the stray and turned my sweatshirt up like the kitten rescue sling it was obviously meant to be.
When we ente red the house, all the other childre n crowded around. “Can we keep him, can we, can we?” they begged. So great was the excitement that my fifteen-year-old valiantly offered to skip soccer practice that evening to care for him. “This is an exceptional situation, Mom. I’m sure Coach would unde rstand."
"Um, I think not, but the cat will be here when you get back.”
There was the small matter of convincing my logical new husband about the obvious benefits of this unexpected adoption. Were n’t we already struggling to adapt to the newness of our marriage, the blending of the families? What about the added expe nse of a pet? My husband is a no-nonsense guy. I wasn’t sure this was going to meet with his approval.
Oh, but this was the first lesson, among many, that the kitten would teach me. It turned out my husband could be just as much a pushover as I was for a fur ball in need of shelter.
The name for the cat was voted “Boots,” despite its utter lack of originality. The name was easy. Given all the new challenges of learning about getting along together as a family, we needed easy! Boots became an unlikely liaison, an ambassador for family unity. He didn’ t play favorites. He could be found lazing on any of our five beds. He leapt indiscriminately on any lap that would have him. Everyone wanted to feed him, find him, play catch -the- catnip-mouse on a string with him, and talk about how funny he was. Al l the simplest things that bring joy into a home, Boots seemed to represent. Boots taught by example: Relax, you don’t have to try so hard.
The first time my new mother-in-law came to visit from out of town, there was a bit of a lull in the conversation. Just then Boots trotte d into the middle of the room and licked his paw. Suddenly, we we re leaning in, swapping stories about her many Siamese cats and talking about how cats could easily rule the planet if they wanted to.
The lessons of Boots were at times humbling. Our first Christmas, the entire family went out to chop a tree and, instead of agreeing on one, we argued for an hour about whether we should get a traditional scotch pine, like “we” had always gotten, or a noble fir, like “they” always had. We compromised with a plain fir. In the end, Boots re minde d us that none of this matte red whe n he brought the fully decorate d tree crashing to the floor after trying to catch the singing bird on the top. Boots liked to go sit out on the top of my car at night and look at the moon. I’d bought that used Volvo with the notion of trying to “upgra de my ride,” but also because it was a logical and safe choice for the family. Despite my efforts to keep it clean and in good soccer-mom style, I’d usually wake up in the morning to find cat prints all over it. Ah, lesson learned: get over yourself already!
After almost a year together, all the boys lobbied hard for us to get a dog. Never in my life would ithave occurre d to me that a three- month- old puppy could push Boots out of the house, but that is precisely what happene d. Within a few days of getting the puppy, Boots, visibly upset, vanished.
Despite lost cat signs and searches, we never saw Boots again. Everyone took the loss of Boots very hard. In an attempt to soothe scratches on hearts that were having trouble healing, I found myself saying, “Maybe he had a mission, and his mission was complete d.” Boots brought us closer as a family. He was a teacher and a healer who just happene d to love licking the bottom of tuna can.
I really do believe Boots had the charm and whe rewithal to find a new home for himself. He certainly knew how to charm the logic out of me. The rational side of me understands that letting go when you’re not ready is a part of life; it’s the irrati onal side that rescued that little kitten and rejoiced in giving him a home and now mourns his absence.
Occasionally, when I go out to get the newspape r in the morning, I glance over at the car and imagine cat prints, smudged like little hearts, running up and down the Volvo.