Cat Tales 29
Guess what!” Diane flashed her sweet smile, instantly putting me on my guard. When Diane smiled like that, it meant something was up, usually something I wasn’t going to like.
“I’ve come to Gree ns boro to get myself a cat.”
Her Siamese, Kim, had died five years earlier, and a midlife career change had kept Diane’s life too unsettled to provide a home for a cat. But now with physician assistant school behind her and a good job at a community hospita l in a small town, she was ready.
I was happy for her. The only problem was she expected me to go with her to the animal shelter to pick it out. Besides the fact that I don’t do shelters (I can’t handle choosing just one animal, not knowing what will happen to all the rest), I also didn’t know anything about choosing a cat. It’s not that I didn’t like them —some of my best friends have cats —but I was a dog person. With dogs always in residence, I had refused all chances at cat adoption, figuring they would fight like . . . well, cats and dogs.
Once Diane took a notion I should do something, though, I usually wound up doing it. I’m glad she never wanted me to pursue a life of crime. “No, your Honor, I did not plan to rob that bank. It was Diane’s idea.” Try telling that to the judge. So the re I stood on a cold, rainy Saturday in January, in the cat section of the county animal shelter. The room was clean, but airless, and it smelled of Lysol with an undertone of fear and hopelessness. Since there was no place to put our coats, we kept the m on, and within minutes sweat popped out on my postmenopausal brow. I just wanted to get it over with.
Three tiers of cages lined the walls on either side of a small room with a narrow aisle running down the cente r. Only five of the cages were occupied, and it must not have been kitten season, because all the cats looked full grown. In one cage was a large black - and-white longhair that never moved. In another cage a sable -brown longhair sulked, looking like a disgruntled pasha. In anothe r was an aggressive-looking ring-tailed gray tom. The most promising animal was a solid black male, but a note on his cage said “Hold.” That left the only female, a much smaller cat than the rest. She was sort of all the colors: gray, brown, black, and tan, with a blue sheen. When we stood by he r cage, she stopped trying to open the latch long enough to give us an assessing glance. The contrast between the muted colors of her coat and he r day-glow green eyes was entrancing. Diane looked at the array and asked, “Which one do you like?” It didn’t matte r to me, and I said so. I was just there to rubbe r-stamp he r choice.
We’d been the re several lifetimes (at least twenty minutes) when I finally asked, “Diane, do you see one you like?” I congratulated myself for having kept the irritati on from my tone and my body language neutral. “I don’t know.” Diane’s forehead wrinkled. This wasn’t going well. I realized if I ever wanted to get out of the re, I needed to get a little more involved. “Oo-kay. Do you want a male or a female?” Diane looked undecided. “Long hair or short hair?” No response. “How about color?” I asked in a last -ditch effort to narrow the field. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Diane wandered from cage to cage, not lingering longer at one cage than anothe r, as far as I could tell, and smiling unconsciously at an occupant.
“Maybe today isn’t the day to get a cat,” I suggested hopefully. “Maybe you should come back whe n there are more choices."
"No,” Diane shook her pre maturely white curls, “I want to get a cat today. Which one do you think I should take ?” It felt like she’d already asked me that sixty-three times. I found a tattere d Kleenex in my pocke t and wiped my brow. “That’s not for me to decide,” I answered through gritte d teeth. “It’s not going to be my cat.” Diane resumed walking from cage to cage. Each time she passed in front of the little blue cat, a dainty paw shot out. It wasn’t like Diane to be so indecisive, nor, to tell the truth, was it like me to be so un-opinionated. But I honestly wasn’t cat-wise, and in matters of taste, Diane and I were very different. The re was just one point on which we agreed perfectly: adopting an animal is a lifetime contract that has no backdoor clause.
Trying not to chew on the already frayed ends of my patience, I suggested we take the cats one by one to the get-acquainted room. But thirty minutes and four cats later, Diane had made no progress. The nine-thousandth ti me she asked me which cat I would pick, I told her.
The black-and-white was pretty, but so passive you felt like you ought to check his pulse. The gray cat had a sneaky look that, combined wi th his aggressive stance, boded ill. The sable longhair had a permanent expression of supercilious disapproval. Maintaining an upbeat attitude wasn’t easy for Diane. Having to see that cat’s arrogant sneer every day wouldn’t be good for he r mental health. But the little tabby . . . the faintest hint of a cat-smile adorne d her muzzle, as if she pondered an intriguing question. In the natural light from the window of the get-acquainted room, the bl ue cast to her particolore d coat was even more noticeable. She didn’t shiver like the sable cat or fight to get away like the gray. When I held her on my lap, she settled right down and purre d. I didn’t know anything about cats, but that’s what you wanted a cat to do, right? I jettisoned my nondirective persona and spoke with all the authority I could muste r. “This one, Diane. This is the cat for you.” Diane looked as confused and doubtful as before. “Are you sure?” I put on my sincerest expression, looked straight into her eyes, and lied. “There’s not a doubt in my mind. This cat is perfect.” Diane’s bright blue eyes searched my face. “But do you like her? I mean, do you really, really like her?” Diane was nobody’s fool. I’d switched positions too fast, so now I had no choice but to braze n it out. “A pre tty cat that wants to be held? And purrs? Um- hum!” Diane studied me a mome nt longer, then smiled that sweet smile again and gave a short nod. “Okay, I’ll take her.” Diane named the little cat Crystal.
Her vet proclaimed her to be a blue tortoiseshell, saying her diminutive stature was typical of the breed. I didn’ t see much of Diane through the spring, nor did he r other friends, but in phone calls we noticed she was becoming progressively more erratic. By May the re was unquestionably something wrong. In June she was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a swift and deadly brain tumor. Surgery and radiation delayed the inevitable but damaged the language areas of her brain. Except for an aged mothe r, she had no family, so we moved Diane and Crystal back to Greensboro, into the garage apartment behind my house. At Christmas, Diane was well enough to fly home to Mississippi, but in January a new CT scan showed the disease was making inroads again. Diane died in March, but not before she helped me nurse my thirtee nyear- old Brittany spaniel back to health following a splenectomy. I moved Crystal’s litter box to the upstairs bathroom of my house, but I’ll admit it: I hope d some of Diane’s cat-loving friends would voluntee r to take Crystal. But weeks passed, and they replied to all my hints that Crystal was already bonde d with me. Yeah, right. She looked at me like I was dumber than dirt when I trie d to play chase the feather with he r. Half the time, she threatene d to bite me if I tried to pe t her. She slept on my bed in the dayti me but ran whe n I crawled in it. Several times a day, a frantic “come-save-me!” yip told me she’d cornered the dog. Again. But I noticed that Crystal usually had business that brought her to the entry way, coincidentally, of course, just at the mome nt I got home. I don’t know when she began to butt my hands if I didn’t pet her quite enough. But I do reme mber the first time she purred as soon as I stroked he r. Somewhe re along the line she mastered love bites as delicate as an angel’s kiss. And for reasons of her own, she stopped inti midating the dog.
Crystal still looks like a calico seen through a blue silk scarf. Her eyes are still day -glow green. But since that day in the shelter’s get-acquainted room, she has never, ever cuddled in my lap and purre d again. When I remember that gray January day six years ago, I wonder who pe rsuaded whom to pick out that little cat. But I do know the answer to one question.
Yes, Diane, I do like Crystal. Really, really. I’m sure.