Cat Tales 20
I backed through the old screen door, a large bucket of soapy water in hand, and turned to dump the dirty water over the deck railing. I had just cleaned the paintbrush I was using to brighten some wood trim in the eighty-year- old cottage my husband and I had recently purchased. That’s the next repair to this house, I mused as I passed through the door and back into the kitchen. The handle requi red a sincere yank to close; otherwise, the door stood ajar about an inch. I’ll remind Bill tonight.
Bill, my husband, was working the Satur day night shift of his second job. It was close to midnight, and I scurried to complete my tasks before he returned home, so we could have a few moments of together ti me before evening ’s end. As I laid the wet paintbrush on newspape r to dry, I heard the metallic ka-chunk of the old door. I dried my hands and gave the door a prope r closing. When I turned toward the living room archway, I spied just the tip of a furry ora nge tail. I shook my head. Did a cat get in through the door, or am I seeing things? I wondere d if I had perhaps sniffed a little too muc h paint that evening. Moving toward the living room to investigate further, I spotte d a fat, fluffy orange tabby with a pink nose the color of bubble gum lying on his side, claiming the living room as his own. He was identical in appearance to my childhood pet, Kiki. Still not totally convinced this was nothing more than a paint-induce d hallucination, I got down on all fours and crawled toward him. He started to purr with the rhythm of a small motor and rolled on his back, inviting me to rub his flabby tummy. I complied, gingerly at first, and the vibration of his purr reached a delighted crescendo. In a mome nt of sponta neous abandon, I kissed his soft belly. His fur smelled of moist earth and pine needles, and I inhaled deeply before lifting my head. Bill walked through the front door at just that moment.
“What’s this?” he asked as he stood over the two of us. “I’m not sure. He just snuck in through the kitchen door."
"Well, sneak him back out."
"Huh? I thought you like cats."
"Not that one.” Bill pointed toward the tabby with more than a hint of disapproval. “He’s so big and”—Bill grappled for the prope r adjective—“and orange.”
We were both too tired to argue, so I lifted the dead weight of the slack cat and placed him on the deck outside. That’s where he remained until I opened the kitchen door early the next morning. I invited the tabby in and reached into my pantry cabinet for the only cat-friendly food I could find, a can of tuna.
“I smell tuna,” Bill remarked as he shuffled into the kitchen wearing his robe and pajamas. He opened his eyes a little wider. “Not that cat again!"
"He decided he likes it here, and I’m not going to argue with hi m.” I turne d toward Bill with a scowl of resolve. “And you’ re not going to argue with him about it either.”
From that day forwa rd, Moo, as the tabby came to be known, neve r left the confines of the cottage or its yard. It wasn’t long before he started to watch evening television with us, curled on Bill’s lap. Soon after that, he joine d us in our king -sized bed, sleeping snugly against the footboard. Moo became an important part of our family, sharing in our ha ppiness and comforting us in our sorrows in the soft, warm way only a cat can.
Nearing the time of Moo’s second a nniversary of adopting us, my aging mothe r suffered a serious accident. Her leg had been badly cut, and she remained in the hospital for months while doctors fought a life-threatening skin infection that had set in. Eventually, victory over the infection was won, but complications from diabetes stopped the wound from healing prope rly for a long time. Walking was difficult for her, and she requi red my help daily. The responsibilities of a job, caring for her and my father, who suffered from a plethora of his own health issues, in addition to my own househol d chores wore on me heavily. I looked forward to the bright mome nt each evening when I returned home to be greeted by my waiting Moo. I could tell him all my troubles, and he always comforte d me with a dependable purr and a sympathe tic look in his golden eyes. Howeve r, the stress of my family situation eventually sent me to my own sickbed. Afte r several days of recuperation, Moo jumped into be d with me and lay across my aching belly. Within a few minutes I had the sensation of the pain and discomfort of my ailment leaving my body, as if it were somehow transferring to Moo through osmosis. I left my sickbed well that afternoon.
Shortly after, my mothe r was pronounced fully recovere d by he r doctor. I re turned home that day full of joy. “Moo, eve rything is all better now,” I eagerly told him. He looked at me with his soulful eyes, and I said a silent prayer of gratitude for the good news and for Moo, too. I opene d the old kitche n door and let him out into the ya rd.
That was the last time I ever saw Moo.
“We just have to get anothe r cat,” my husband said as he rubbed my back while it heaved with sobs. I was heartbroke n. A month had passed since I had last seen Moo, and just the thought of him set me to tea rs. “I don’t know if we’ll ever find another cat like Moo,” I said.
“No two cats are ever the same. Maybe we’ll find an even better one."
"I doubt it,” I counte red, rising from the kitchen chair. I paused a mome nt, noting the almost pleading look in Bill’s eyes. “All right, let’s go to the shelter next Friday . . . just to look.”
Friday came, and we made the short drive to the local animal shelter. Margie, the adoption coordinator, opened the door to the cattery. I scanned the periphe ry for any sign of a fat, orange tabby. Not one in sight. I walked ahead, still hoping to find a suitable replacement for Moo. As I turned back, I saw a small black cat following close behind Bill. “Look behind you,” I pointed. Bill hovered ove r the small black cat with two evenly matched white front paws and crooned, “You look just like my first cat, Bootsy.” Margie remarked that the black cat, Charley, was a sweet little boy who nee ded a quiet home, adding that his owne r had abandoned hi m at the shelter a month before. His paperwork revealed that he was returned to the shelter within a week of Moo’s final day with us. The decision was clear: Charley would be coming home with us.
As we walked out of the cattery toward the parking lot with Charley tucked safely inside a carrier, a shelter voluntee r who was walking a dog called out, “Which one did you take?”
Bill called back, “Charley. He chose us."
"That’s how it is with cats,” she laughed. “You
have to let them choose you.” Yes, that is how it is with cats.