Cat Tales 17
The headache had started the night before. By the time my two-and-a-half-year-old son, Nathaniel, had awakened from his afternoon nap, I was shivering with fever and barely able to stand upright. “Oh, honey, be a good boy until Daddy comes home.” I handed him an opene d box of Cheerios and a sipper cup of milk. “Maybe there is something worthwhile on PBS.” Literally crawling to the television, I fired it up under the watchful eye of our youthful and recently rescued-from-the-animal shelter tuxedo, Oz.
Although my husband, Art, had grown up in a house full of cats, Ozzie was my first feline experience. In fact, I considered myself a dog lover, and influenced by my mothe r’s belief in the old wives’ tale that cats were dirty, unruly beasts that sucked the breath out of little, helpless babies, I hadn’t really wanted to get a moggy at all. Of course, logically, I dismissed my mother’s archaic view of cats. But deep inside, I secretly had my doubts. As a result, I’d formed no warm, fuzzy cama raderie with our ne w addition. Quite simply, I didn’t trust him.
Now, the agile young tom leaped silently onto the TV set, his nose twitching at my odd scent. He batted playfully at my hand as I flipped the dial in search of an educational prog ram. But, as usual, I brushed him away. Not that it matte red; at this point, I was too weak and ailing to care about the ca t or to expl ore the channels for long. I soon gave up, content to let some mindless cartoons rot Nathaniel’s impressionable young mind, while I, wrappe d in an afghan, collapsed, shivering, onto the floor’s heating vent.
With my son settled, I alternately prayed I’d get warm before I died and that Art would get home soon. My face hurt so badly that I could scarcely see straight. Knifelike pains shot through my eyeballs every time I coughed. On top of everythi ng else, I kept passing out. This sinus infection had come on so quickly, so devastatingly. Except for a pre -baby kidney infection, I had neve r in my life felt so awful, been so feeble. And though I had left an urgent message at my husband’s Chicago office, I knew that even if he’d started for home the very instant he’d received it, it would take him nearly two hours to reach us here in the suburbs.
At the rate I was fading, I feared I wouldn’t last that long. Still, my main concern was for my son. Naturally, at his tender age, he had a healthy curiosity and a high activity level. He didn’t understand that Mommy was too ill to keep him out of harm’s way.
The television’s babysitting services seemed to be working well for Nathaniel. Eventually, howe ver, the cat seemed to have gotte n bored. While I lay tre mbling under the blanket, Oz began flicking my earlobe and pawing at my face. His intense meowing was really getting on my nerves. “Shut up, you stupid cat!” I growled groggily. “Can’t you see I’m dying?” Apparently, he coul dn’t, because Ozzie continued to relentlessly scratch at my inert form, making all kinds of loud cat noises into my overly sensitive but clogged ears. Finally, in desperation, I bolted up from my hand-croc heted cave ready to boot the cat all the way back to the Humane Society from whe nce he came. Howeve r, before I could lash out at him, Ozzie scampered across the room to whe re my son’s toy box was stashed inside the closet.
Even in my blurry-eye d, cotton-hea ded state, I could see that Oz was trying to comfort my frightene d little boy while attempting to get my atte ntion. It took a moment for my eyes to focus, Nathaniel had somehow managed to get completely stuck inside his toy box, trappe d by an avalanche of cars and his Little People Garage. My son was truly distressed and crying. When I tried to stand, the room began to sway and I nearly toppled ove r. Landing on my hands and knees, I fought to stay conscious. “It’s okay, Nathaniel,” I called, using all of my strength and a good deal of adrenaline to creep toward him. All the while Ozzie paced back and forth in front of the toy box, gently mewing. He’d flip his long furry tail into the box, caressing Nathaniel’s flushed cheek in comfort. As soon as I reached the scene, grappled with the fallen toys, and pulled Nathaniel to safety, Ozzie, purring like a locomotive, leaned in close to my son, sniffing him all over. Satisfied that the boy was okay, the cat leaped back onto the television and began cleaning his fur. Now that all was well, Ozzie and I exchanged glances. “Thanks, cat,” I offered sincerely. “I owe you one.” Ozzie gave me that superior look tha t cats like to give fools and then me rely resume d his grooming.
With my last ounce of energy, I corralled Nathaniel with his many cars and garage on the floor near my bed. Again, I promptly passed out. I must have become delusional as well, because the next time I came to, I was huddled on my side. In a dreamlike trance, I thought I heard my mother’s far-off voice warning, “Danger! Danger! That cat’s sucking your breath away!” I figured it must be real, I could feel fur on my nose and a warm kitty body near my mouth. Openi ng my eyes, I realized that part was true. Ozzie’s furry back was just inches from my mouth and face. His paw was stretched around my head and his slightly twitching black tail was curved over my chest. I rolled backward, sure I was being choked to death by that monstrous feline.
Seeing I was awake, Nathaniel cried cheerfully, “Ozzie play!” Despite a sudden bout of brain-jarring coughing, I flipped onto my stomach. To my surprise, instead of having tried to suffocate me, Oz was indeed playing with Nathaniel. In an attempt to protect me from flying cars, the poor animal had turned hi mself into a retaining wall, molding his torso around my face, head, and throat so that the smal l metal cars Nathaniel aimed at me woul d bounce along the cat’s body. Though Ozzie’s expression was far less than happy, he’d none theless stationed himself between me and the danger zone.
“Looks like I owe you two, Oz.” I reached out to stroke Ozzie’s hea d, but he had already raced off to his roost on the television, determine d to clean the nasty toy gunk from his immaculate coat. This time I was able to stay alert long enough to inte rest Nathaniel in Sesame Street before I keeled over once more. With luck, by the time the educational prog ram was over, Art would be home. I crossed my fingers . . . and blacked out.
When a frenzied paw smacked my face, hard and strong, and Ozzie ’s near howl assaulted my ears, I wasted no time on silly cat-fearing notions. I struggled to clear my brain, the n followed Ozzie’s genuinely frightened gaze. My son sat silent and secretive next to the electrical outlet. The unplugged lamp cord was draped over Natha niel’s leg, and he held a metal paper clip in his right hand. Concentrating as only a toddler who knows he’s doing something wrong can, Nathaniel was about to stick the metal clip into the wall socket.
Suddenly, Ozzie abandone d his attempts to roust me and leaped, hissing frantically, to the arm of the sofa. “Nathaniel!” I screamed, as my head exploded and my throat bled. “No! No!” As if to help me make my point, Ozzie rapidly swatted Nathaniel’s head with his curled paw. Frightened by the sound of my voice and by Ozzie’s disciplinary assault, my son jumped, dropping the pape r clip harmlessly onto the floor. Scuttling over on all fours, I retrieve d the clip and re-plugged the lamp. As I hugged Nathaniel and explained the dangers of his actions, I smiled at Ozzie. But he was already on the TV, smoothing his ruffled fur.
Moments later, Art walked through the front door. Nathaniel ran happily to his dad, and I collapsed again while babbling about antibiotics and hero cats. Satisfied that a compe tent babysitter had arrived, Ozzie gave a relieved sigh and slinked out of sight, no doubt anxious to give himself a thorough cleaning after all that.
I’ll never unde rstand how Ozzie sensed that he had to protect Nathaniel from those living room pe rils on that awful day. I shudde r to think what coul d have happene d if he hadn’t bee n the re to do it, and I am infinitely grateful that he did. So, after a doctor’s visit and plenty of me dicated bed rest, I recove red enough to make a trip to the local pet shop. Arme d with a toy mouse stuffed with catnip, I stroked Ozzie’s chest and gave him a proper thank you for his services. “Welcome to the family, buddy. I’ll never doubt your intenti ons again!”
Ozzie purre d, bumpe d my chin, and then gave that mouse a meticulous tongue bath!