Cat Tales 24
I don’t know why I called my stepfather “Papa.” It was probably because that’s what my daughter starte d calling him as a child and the name stuck. Before, I’d always called him Stanley, the Americanized ve rsion of his Lithuanian name, Stani slaus. When my sister and I were eleven, Stanley married our mother. He was renowned for his skill in using a boning knife in the meat-packing plants that had made Sioux City, Iowa, a thriving town. We saw our stepfather as a strict, hard man. Certainly, we neve r imagined he’d be the sort who woul d love and care for a tiny cat.
Long after my daughte r, my husband, and I left Iowa, a neighbor approached my mothe r and Papa. She had a litter of kittens to get rid of. Some how, a child had gotten hold of one and squeezed its neck so hard that the poor thing couldn’ t make a sound.
The mute kitty was the runt of the litter. No one would take a puny kitten who couldn’t even purr. The woman didn’t want to kill the little thing, and wonde red if Mama and Papa would consider giving her a home. “No,” my mothe r said at the same time Papa said, “Sure.”
Misha went home with Papa, starting a love affair that extended into old age. I first saw the m togethe r whe n my daughter and I visited during a summe r vacation. Misha, even at five or six years, was scarcely larger than Papa’s huge hand. A tabby with beautiful coloring, she had hazel eyes rimmed wi th gold and medi um-length hair. Small as she was, she had a fierce tempera ment and a mind of her own, both of which she displayed often, to eve ryone except Papa. The big, gray-haired man and the tiny, silent cat unde rstood each othe r. They spoke a language that needed no sounds. To anyone who entere d the house, there was never a question whose cat she was. She gave my mothe r the cold shoulder, a feeling my mother returne d. Even with Papa, Misha wasn’t the most de monstrably loving cat. He built a house for he r in the yard unde r the front living room window, and she was happy spending her time the re. She ate outside and played outside and demanded little in the way of human attention.
By then, Papa had given up the packing houses to build and manage two apartment buildings in town. Each morning he’d leave for work, stopping first to feed and greet Misha. “Good morning, Mishila,” he’d say, scratching behind her ears. She’d twist and wind around his legs, rubbing against him, craning into his fingers. He’d give her breakfast, she’d wave her tail good-bye, and he’ d go off to work.
Misha rarely ventured inside. Only when winter snow covere d the door to her little house did she reluctantly enter the big house, and then spent most of her ti me on the bedside table where she could see outside. When the snow abated, she turne d up he r nose as well as her tail at any invitation or coaxing to rema in indoors.
The big house sat on a steep lot. The front was street level, with a basement apartment located down a flight of sixteen concrete steps beside the house. From there, the yard droppe d away on a sharp grade for anothe r hundred yards or so. Near the bottom of the hill, an apple tree needed to be tri mmed, and one spring day Papa set off to do the job. The afternoon air was still and hot. Papa walked outside and spoke to Misha with his usual mix of Lithuanian-English. He dropped a spot of leftover l unch, what he called a “slobovian” meal, a blend of leftover vegetables and meat mixed with ketchup, into her bowl. “I see you later, Mishila,” he murmure d, stroking her back. She preene d under his attention, looked up with big eyes, and licked her chops. Then, as usual, she turned back to he r own world.
Papa retrieved a saw from the back of his truck and hefte d a ladder onto his shoulder. Jostling the ladder into a comfortable position, he headed for the backyard. The row of bushes hiding the neighbor’s yard was full of white, bridal wreath flowe rs, and roses bloomed on the strip of land leading to the stairs. Roses and peonies forme d islands of color and scent in the backyard near the clotheslines. He ignored the bees flitting from bloom to bloom as well as the nodding heads of pansies and petunias along the back of the house. In his mind, he’d already climbed the tree and planne d how to trim the dead branches and whe re to stack the brush. He was used to working alone, even when the job involved dange r. It never would have occurre d to hi m that no one was home or that the tree would be hidden from street view. He gave no credence to the opi nion that a man who’ d reached his sixties had no business climbing trees or easing out onto limbs weakened by age and weather. Call a professional? What for? This, taking care of his own place, his own business, is what he did, what he’d always done.
It was quiet at the bottom of the hill. A thick stand of lilacs along with a variety of other bushes and trees blocked nois e from the next stree t down, and the road on which Mama and Papa’s house sat, was too far off for noise. The ladder made a thunk whe n Papa dropped the top against the solid trunk of the apple. He pulled the ladder’s feet away from the base of the tree and then shook it to make sure it was steady and firm. He looked up through the branches to the sun far overhead, barely discernable through the limbs, thick with leaves. He spotted the first area of deadwood about te n feet up. Focused only on the knowledge that the work had to be done, he grabbe d the saw handle and climbed up.
How long had he been at it, an hour? Two? He swept his arm across his forehead, letting his shirtsleeve soak up the sweat that had beaded his face and run into his eyes. Since starting work, he’ d scrambled another five or six feet higher. Heat spiraled up through the branc hes. Papa’s breath came heavy. He sat back and examined the amount of work left. Wiping his brow again, he decided to keep at it a little longer and then stop, finished or not. Scooting out, he expertly gripped the limb with his knees. He sawed, then leaned back to kick the wood off the branch and to the ground. Sweat drippe d into his eyes. Heat swamped him. Before he knew what was happening, he slipped. He tried to release the saw, but couldn’ t seem to let go. His free hand sought purchase on the bark, but the branch was too thick. His leg hit a limb; his arm scraped anothe r, knocking the saw from his hand. He fell nearly sixteen feet, landing on his right leg and then hitting the ground hard with his arm and head.
Mercifully, he blacked out.
When he ope ned his lids, soft hazel eyes peered into his. Why Misha had come to find him or how she knew to, he didn’ t know. She nudged his forehead with he r nose and licked his face. He took a breath and the n took stock. Shifting his right leg sent waves of pain roiling through him. Spots danced before his eyes. Misha patted his cheek with her paws and stared at him with intent. He fought nausea. Not only we re his leg, foot, and a nkle useless, he’d also rolled farthe r down the hill when he fell and had no way to get to help except to crawl his way up to the house. He pulled himself a few feet. Tears competed with the sweat pouring down his face before he passed out again. When he woke, the sun beat down on his back and Misha’s raspy little tongue was bathing his face. She bent her head and nudged his forehead. With superhuman stre ngth stemming from the knowledge that he wouldn’ t be found for hours unless he moved, Papa clawed severa l yards uphill before giving up consciousness. Once again, when he came to, Misha was there, licking the sweat from his face and imparting her own brand of silent encouragement. Wake up. Move. Climb. Several times more, Papa crawled and passed out on his s low ascent to the house. Each time, the little cat was there, letting him know he wasn’t alone. The tiny, quiet animal kept hi m going. Up the hill, up the steep flight of concrete steps, along the sidewalk, and up more steps into the house, Misha never left his side.
For some reason, Papa called my mothe r at work instead of an ambulance. She couldn’ t drive, so her boss brought her to the house, where the y found a ferocious Misha sitting on an unconscious Papa’s chest. The little cat turned tiger, bristling , arching her back, and swiping, claws out, ready to fight anyone or anything who might harm the vulnerable man. Only when she was convinced they were the re to help di d she relinquish her defensive position.
Though not as devastating as they could have been, Papa’s injuries were extensive, a concussion and five broken bones in his right leg, foot, and ankle. He’d worsened the damage greatly by dragging himself up the hill and into the house, but again, not as much as he could have. Regardless, Papa was convinced he would have died lying unde r the big apple tree at the bottom of the hill had it not been for Misha.
A few years later, when Papa wasn’t nearly old enough but when Misha was long past her prime, he died unex pectedly. The night after his burial, a clear June evening, Misha tapped at the front door and sat patiently. I let her in. She wande red from room to room. I lifted her onto Papa’s bed, which she explored for a while, and then she went to the door and waited to be let out. The next morning a ne ighbor came to tell Ma ma that the cat was dead in her yard. I buried her unde r a peony bush unde r the front window of their house. Papa rescued Misha when she was a young, damaged kitten. She returne d the favor many years later by giving Papa the strength and encouragement he needed to save himself. When Papa was forced to let go of life, so did the cat he loved.
Misha, the silent little tabby with the heart of a tigress, lived her life well. I think Papa did, too. Ve ry well, indeed.