Cat Tales 22
I hallucinated for weeks in the hospital. Pink and gray cats climbed onto the windowsills, leapt the bedrails, and settled themselves heavily on my chest.
During my months in an intensive care burn unit, my mothe r visited daily. She told me about the animal shelter near the medical center whe re she often stoppe d to walk the overjoyed dogs, as much for her the rapy and relief as theirs. She mentione d the rows of large, mature, pouting cats peering out from be hind wire mesh. Often left by infirm or deceased owne rs, she said you could read the bewilderme nt in their glaring faces. Stuck in my bed, all but moti onless, I felt a kinship with those confused, scared cats down the road.
During my long recove ry, the same nightmare recurre d. I ca me upon a house with a grand wrapa round porch covered with me wing cats flicking their tails. More cats tumbled out of the rooms inside, but I held only a single can of tuna. The source of the cat dreams remained a mystery. Then a wise friend clued me in. “Those crying cats are your unmet nee ds.”
In the drea m I had two good hands, but in reality all ten fingers had been claimed by the fire. Now, securing a leash onto the dog’s collar ended in wrestling matches. But my mothe r’s dog never reacted to my scarred face; he only wanted to romp. Once I moved out on my own, I missed the balm of animal presence. I felt abandoned by friends from my forme r active life and rejected by most people afraid of my looks. My face, a quilt of skin grafts, would require years of reconstruc tion. I was disabled.
I had trouble repotting a plant. How could I manage an animal? How would I open the food cans? At a Boston animal shelter, I found myself prowling the stacked cages. Though I feared kittens’ claws on my delicate grafted skin, I hoped to find a placid older cat that had already been declawed. Yet, I am normally against this procedure that robs a cat of its essential joy and defense. Cats use paws as hands. I identified with losing that dexterity.
In the chaos of barking dog s and slamming doors, kids and couples cooed over the kittens. I rubbe d a fuzzy head pressed against the bars, asleep. The gray sprawled in an unruly pose, nothing like the memory of my refined tuxedo, Gatsby. This cat was the color of lint. One paw extended upside-down in full body stretch and hooke d onto my sweater.
“Anything ove r six months is hard to move he re,” said the woman refilling water dishes. The card above the gray read: Two years. Given up for allergies. After pulling me closer, the claws retracted. I had been chosen. As I wrote out a check, the washed-out calico shrugged off her yawns and strutte d on the counte r, flashing her white legs and one bar of orange tiger stripes. A white bib set off her faded colors. Her green-gold eyes fixed on the loose cockatiels behind the counte r, while I stared at the lavish tattoos of dogs and cats decorating the clerk’s forearms. “What will you name her?” my friend and driver Lily asked. When we’d hit the tunnel on Storrow Drive, a crystal voice erupted from the carrier. As the volume swelled, her timbre said it all: opera. The plain-Jane gray with the high-tone voice would be Carmen.
Carmen changed my pe rcepti on of cat style. The force of her diva persona rescued me with her zest and spirit. She works a room. The repe rtoire: the swagger, the growl at any footsteps in the hall, the staccato chatter, questions in tonal mews, trills, and the lament. Whe n I head out the door, the drama ensues. On cue, the actress races to the center of the living room rug, piroue ttes, and topples with a wail or a pitiful eek, one paw draped over her face.
I must plan ahead for helping hands for nail trims and carrier excursions. Needing cat assistance or cat-sitting helped me meet neighbors, and to conve rt those unfamiliar with cat grace. Pets connect people to conve rsations and community. Amazed at how many pe ople asked if I carry a wallet photo of my cat, I now do. Carmen anchors my day.
At dawn, I feel the press of a paw on my face, gently hinting at the daggers beneath. From the window we watch the skyline come into color, and Carmen chirps through the screen to the pigeons that coo under the eaves. I manage to feed her, brush he r with a wire curry, and scoop litter, because I must. In return, I live with a psychic roommate tune d to my every mood.
Following my many surgeries, Carmen selects a bed corner and appoints herself nurse - cat sentinel. I had sought out a calm, older cat, but Carmen re mains full of zest at eight years old. All feline acrobats possess raw talent. Like the spring release of a taut rubber band, in a single fluid bound she uses the door ledge as a balance beam. She plays a jaguar, raking her six-foot scratching tree. Still, though she wraps her four legs around my arm, she never claws me. I reme mber visiting a man whose cat rubbe d on his wheelchair each time it passed by.
Cats are agile in their loyalty, recognizing and expressing love in its myriad shapes and unconventi onal forms. My charismatic diva with the seemingly plain-Jane coat is, to me, as lovely as she is loyal. Call her diluted, but I prefer pastel. In sunlight and in moonlight, my cat wears the plush sheen of pussy willow. A tricolor treasure who shimmers in her pale
frosty coat, Carmen adds color to my days. And every evening, she settles heavily on my chest, my serene feline dream.