Cat Tales 39
The plane ride felt bumpy, but eve ry bit of disturbance was inside me. I was flying ac ross five states to see my widowe d mom, hoping to some how comfort he r after he r cat ’s death.
When she’d lost my dad to cancer five years earlier, Genji, an orange -and-white ring-tail tom, became Mom’s only companion.
During those years, Genji followed her from room to e mpty room until they’ d finally curl up together in that painfully large king -sized bed. Over sixteen years of visits, I’d come to love Genji almost as much as Mom did. And I never got to say good-bye. My grief didn’t matte r, of course, not when I longed to help her heal by choosing anothe r cat.
The drive to the Humane Society in a violent thunderstorm took us down unpave d roads. We were both ne rvous and edgy by the time we pulled into the parki ng lot. Fortunately, unlike the surrounding territory, the inside of the building seemed normal, if not welcoming.
Assuming Mom would follow, I rushed over to the cat cages. A sand-colored male with a muscular body nuzzled forward, clawing at the bars, trying to reach me. I pette d him until the hefty gray in the next cage yowled for atte ntion. I was wishing I had a third hand to respond to the pure white cat below my hips, when a pleasant young volunteer approached.
“Did you want to complete an adoption application?” she asked. Absolutely. But I wasn ’t sure about a question on the application—For what reasons might you return your pet to the Humane Society?—and I turned to catch Mom’s eye. She wasn’t watching me or looking over my shoulde r at the application. Her focus was on the cages and cages of cats and kittens lining the walls. She didn’t run ove r to them or say anything, but the faintest smile played on her lips. This was cat heaven, and Mom looked almost happy. “Absolutely no reason to re turn a cat.” The volunteer smiled and invited us to explore. “There are more than 700 cats here. You’ll find the right one for you.”
Gently, I steered my mother toward the first of many corridors crammed with cages of cats stacked to the ceiling. Many cages housed two, even three cats. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s try to find one that looks like Genji.”
Both of us stopped walking when we approache d the first cat room. Yes, a room wi th rugs and baskets and scratching posts and five-runged cat castles where cats of every color, texture, and size slept, roamed, washed the mse lves and each other, or crowded against the door, mewing, Look! Someone’s here. Maybe I can get petted.
Not sure whe the r I was allowed in, I reached for the door handle. Ah-ha. Only someone with an I.Q. of 190 or, alternatively, very clever with levers could enter. Failures in both categories, Mom and I wistfully contemplated the cats through the closed door until a woman pushing a cart with water, dete rgent, and bags of clean and used litter smiled and asked, “You want in?” I nodded, and she opene d the door. Pulling on Mom’s sleeve, I murmure d, “Let’s go.” Mom studied the linoleum. “I’ll wait here. Pet the ora nge ones for me.”
Then I realized it. I might be in heaven, but I was the only one there. “Mom? What’s going on?"
"I’m fine,” she insisted, though s he obviously wasn’t.
Mom taught me to love cats, to treat the m not like people but inti mate friends. She’d insisted that it’s silly to think you can’t talk to cats or unde rstand the m. Now, the woman who had taught me all this treated the cats like a bunch of silent creatures. Scary creatures. “You go,” she repeated. So I did. I even mastered the skill of opening the door, failure in front of so many judgme ntal felines felt too embarrassing. But in each room every orange cat I petted said, No. Thanks for asking, but I’m fine where I am.
Mom could tell from my face what the y’d said. Outside the third room, the volunteer caught up to us. “Were you looking for an older cat?"
"Not at all,” we answered almost simultaneously. Then Mom smiled, finally, then she asked, “Why?"
"Because you keep going in the rooms where the olde r cats are.” So that’s why they declined petting, playing, and even conversation. “Tell me what you’re looking for,” the voluntee r suggested. “Maybe I can help?”
Mom explained that she wanted a slender cat, so it wouldn’ t be too heavy to lift, with a pretty face. Orange would be good, but it couldn’t look exactly like her poor Genji. That would hurt too muc h. After several tries, Susan offered Mom a kitty named Akhiban. We settled on the sofa so they could get acquainted. Unfortunately, Akhiban fell instantly in love with me and wasn’t subtle about his infatuation. Mom noticed. What I noticed was that Mom hadn’t fallen for him. “I don’ t like his name,” she admitted. “Name him anything you wa nt. Don’ t you think he’s gorgeous?"
"He’s okay. Genji was prettier.” In truth, Genji wasn’t, but cat love, like every othe r kind, is in the eye of the beholder. So Susan got back to cat shopping for Mom. Susan started with orange cats. Apparently, these are dis proportionately male, which equals disproportionately large. Mom needed a cat she could easily slide into its carryall for vet trips.
Susan advanced from orange cats to smaller females. Quite a few of them joined us on the couch. But Mom complained that the black eyes of a mostly white one looked di rty. The Siamese was too old, and a gray one had a nicked ear. Every time a cat seemed perfect, it was part of a pair that couldn’t be split up. Unde rstandably, the staff made no exceptions to that rule. Mom did n’t think she could handle two, not at her age. Then it was closing time and they wanted us out of there.
Determined to learn from the various setbacks, we returne d right after lunch the following day. We could get Mom a cat. We knew it. First we went to see Akhiban. This time he didn’ t like either of us but provi ded no information why. As the hours passed, Mom’s standards slipped lower and lowe r. The cat just had to be pretty, not gorgeous and certainly not necessarily orange. If it liked her okay and didn’t weigh too muc h, she’d take it. That’s what she said. Was that true, though? Some thing else was going on, and I hadn’t figured it out.
Maybe the vari ous cats I cuddled or jingled my car keys for knew the answer, but the y weren’ t saying. Susan was off today, so Karen, who was less patient, helped us. Like me, she seemed unsure that Mom really wante d a cat. “She’s seen a lot of them,” Kare n whispered. “Is she serious?"
"My mothe r hasn’t found the right one. Now she’s interested in Akhiban again, but he was so unfriendly.” Mom, who’d wande red down the corridor by he rself, returne d in time to hear Ka ren explain, “Oh, that’s not the same cat. They took Akhiban upstairs to rest, because you spent so much time with him. I guess they didn’t bring him back.” I was about to ask whether Ka ren could get us the real Akhiban, but Mom interrupted. “No."
"You don’t want Akhiban?” Mom turne d away from Karen, who realized that we needed a mome nt of privacy and disappeared.
I guess working with all those cats taught Karen a thing or two about listening with your eyes. There in the Humane Society, in a long corridor of cage after cage of cats scratching at the doors, begging us to notice them, to choose them, to love the m, I folded my mothe r into my arms. She was careful not to make a sound, but I knew she was crying. She’d lost her husband. She’d lost the cat who’ d kept he r company and filled the empty be d a little bit after his absence. And her daughte r lived a thousand miles away. Mom wept because, like all those caged cats, she couldn’t have what she wanted. I rocke d her as we stood there, thinking about the gift and the horror of this place. Some cats were here because people had abandoned the m. Others hissed or spit; both Susan and Karen had noted those. Several had the loveliest markings, came in the pearliest shades of gray. They would live out their lives here without starvation or euthanasia. There was that.
But except for curling up into a ball, sleeping too much, declining to eat, or driving off every connection, their choices weren’t their own. Just like Mom. “You know what?” I stooped so we could look into each othe r’s eyes. “There’s no hurry. It’s not that you don’ t want a cat.” I watched her exhale with relief, realizing that I’d unearthed the secret. “The cat you’re supposed to have will find you. The way Genji did.”
I took my hand off Mom’s shoulder to scratch the fore head of an orange -and-white kitten. The little guy reached out both paws and cupped my fingers, tight. Satisfied with the capture, he purred, loud and secure. Mom and I we re both seeing Genji and his brothe rs and sisters crawling up the sides of the carton whe re some person, hoping for the best, had left them outside my dad’s store all those years ago. Genji capture d my Mom’s hand and heart that day, and he held the m still. I could see her watching the cat and not wanting any othe r paws on her arm, not now, not ye t, not any more than she’d want a man othe r tha n my dad resting his cheek against hers.
A cat would choose Mom. She had to wait for tha t. Howeve r long it took, well, that would be just long enough.