Post by Mark on Aug 26, 2006 21:23:55 GMT -5
By a friend of mine...
February 1991. Operation Desert Storm is raging; our country is at war. Here at home, my house is strangely silent - the result of both the absence of my eleven-year-old son, Zach, who is spending the weekend with his father, and the void left by the death of my mother, who will never again interrupt me with an ill-timed phone call. As if war, separation and death are not enough, Valentine's Day lurks around the corner, with no lover or beloved in sight.
This is the clincher. At age thirty-seven, I have yet to experience a
Valentine's Day that comes through on its Hallmark promise. For whatever reason, when February 14 rolls around, boyfriends take a hike or I receive valentines from admirers I wish had stayed secret. This year, my sense of abandonment is profound.
Out of this mire of despair, I have an idea: Forget the man. I will get a cat.
A long-haired, pink-nosed, calico female cat is what I have in mind. But, suddenly, the image of a black male cat pops into my head. Just as suddenly, I reject the thought. No black cats and no males, I decide. Black cats are too mysterious, too sleek and aloof. And male cats, too independent and too likely to spray. Bottom line: A black, male cat doesn't seem cuddly enough.
And so, on this fateful day in February, I call the local humane society and ask if they have any calico female cats. "You're in luck!" the voice at the other end of the line says. "We have a calico female kitten just waiting to be adopted."
"Great!" I say. "That's just what I'm looking for."
After hanging up, I immediately launch into a nest-making frenzy-vacuuming, dusting, cleaning and organizing. It never occurs to me that a little kitten wouldn't know the difference or even care. Mothers nest, so that's what I do.
With the home fires now burning brightly, I launch my blue Mazda in the direction of the animal shelter, all the while thinking about my mother. My mother always occupied a lot of my time, but her recent death has made her an even more frequent companion, unlimited now by the constraints of time and space.
My mother hated cats for as long as I could remember - until, that is, one walked into her life. It was Christmas in northern Michigan, and my brother Michael, my son Zach, and I had convened at my mother's house to celebrate the holidays.
There was a scratch at the door. My mother opened it. In walked a cat, a huge presence of a cat with long, black-and-brown-mottled fur coated with a dusting of snow. He entered the house like he had been there before. He had an enormous head with round yellow eyes and a broad, flat face. Looking up at my mother, he meowed, as if to say, "Merry Christmas" or "So nice to
see you again." His face reminded us of a mug shot on a most-wanted poster, so we named him Muggs.
He was the only cat my mother ever loved, and he only stayed the week. When my brother and I were getting ready to return to our own homes, apparently, so was Muggs. My mother was convinced that he embodied the spirit of my brother Ricky, who had died at the age of five. Who were we to argue?
Somehow, it made sense. Muggs returned the following year, same time, same place, only to leave at the end of Christmas week, this time never to return.
Driving up to the humane society, I decide to name my new cat Muggs, in memory of my mother and in deference to her hope that death isn't the end.
Right now, I want to believe that, too.
I park my car in the shelter's circular driveway and crunch through the snow to the door. A spry older man in a light-blue shirt greets me at the reception counter. "Hi there! What can I do for you?"
"I've come for the calico kitten," I announce.
"I'm sorry, miss. The calico was just adopted about an hour ago."
I feel as if I have been sucker-punched. That cat was supposed to be mine. Why didn't I run over the minute I got off the phone?
"Hey!" the attendant said, brightening. "Her brother is still here."
"No," I say. "I don't want a male cat." My despondency is as thick as quicksand and just as slippery. "Okay," I say finally. "Do you have any other cats I could look at?"
"Do we have other cats?" he replies with a wry grin.
He guides me down a long narrow hallway to a room with cage after cage of cats: sleek cats, fluffy cats, dainty cats and chunky cats. Tigers, torties, white ones and gray ones. And they all just sit there, or lie there plastered against the back of their cages, staring coolly at me with complete indifference.
Cats are so good at that, I suddenly remember. What was I thinking?
And then I hear something: a strange, low vibration and the tinkling of a bell. As I proceed down the row of cages, the vibration and bell get louder, until I finally identify their source. There, in the last cage at the end of the line, is a tiny black kitten, batting a plastic jingle ball around its cage and purring at the top of its little kitty lungs. Ah, I think, this must be the calico's brother. Imagine that, a black male cat.
His antics amuse me, and I find myself stirred by his show of life. But then, as if propelled by some counter-magnetic force, I turn abruptly away from his cage, searching in earnest for what I really want.
Except that, now, compared to the vibrant little one, the other cats seem even more lifeless, like four-legged zombies or feather dusters on sticks.
The purring and jingling black kitten emanates a presence that tugs and beckons, reeling me in. Come see! Come see me! And so I do.
"Oh my, little one. What are we going to do?" I ask out loud, quietly, as he rubs against the bars of his cage, leaning toward my touch. As if on cue, the attendant appears and says, "Want to hold him?"
"Okay," I breathe, knowing all the while that I am losing my grip on something and sinking fast. Not into quicksand this time, but into something softer, darker, more comforting, like the sleek black velvet of this little one's body in my arms.
As the kitten crawls up my jacket and against my neck, purring loudly into my ear, I read the sign at the side of his cage:
Black male cat.
Purrs like a motorboat.
Name: Muggins.
I am not making this up.
"So, what do you think?" grins the attendant, holding the cage door open.
"I think," I say through my tears, "this is my cat."
February 1991. Operation Desert Storm is raging; our country is at war. Here at home, my house is strangely silent - the result of both the absence of my eleven-year-old son, Zach, who is spending the weekend with his father, and the void left by the death of my mother, who will never again interrupt me with an ill-timed phone call. As if war, separation and death are not enough, Valentine's Day lurks around the corner, with no lover or beloved in sight.
This is the clincher. At age thirty-seven, I have yet to experience a
Valentine's Day that comes through on its Hallmark promise. For whatever reason, when February 14 rolls around, boyfriends take a hike or I receive valentines from admirers I wish had stayed secret. This year, my sense of abandonment is profound.
Out of this mire of despair, I have an idea: Forget the man. I will get a cat.
A long-haired, pink-nosed, calico female cat is what I have in mind. But, suddenly, the image of a black male cat pops into my head. Just as suddenly, I reject the thought. No black cats and no males, I decide. Black cats are too mysterious, too sleek and aloof. And male cats, too independent and too likely to spray. Bottom line: A black, male cat doesn't seem cuddly enough.
And so, on this fateful day in February, I call the local humane society and ask if they have any calico female cats. "You're in luck!" the voice at the other end of the line says. "We have a calico female kitten just waiting to be adopted."
"Great!" I say. "That's just what I'm looking for."
After hanging up, I immediately launch into a nest-making frenzy-vacuuming, dusting, cleaning and organizing. It never occurs to me that a little kitten wouldn't know the difference or even care. Mothers nest, so that's what I do.
With the home fires now burning brightly, I launch my blue Mazda in the direction of the animal shelter, all the while thinking about my mother. My mother always occupied a lot of my time, but her recent death has made her an even more frequent companion, unlimited now by the constraints of time and space.
My mother hated cats for as long as I could remember - until, that is, one walked into her life. It was Christmas in northern Michigan, and my brother Michael, my son Zach, and I had convened at my mother's house to celebrate the holidays.
There was a scratch at the door. My mother opened it. In walked a cat, a huge presence of a cat with long, black-and-brown-mottled fur coated with a dusting of snow. He entered the house like he had been there before. He had an enormous head with round yellow eyes and a broad, flat face. Looking up at my mother, he meowed, as if to say, "Merry Christmas" or "So nice to
see you again." His face reminded us of a mug shot on a most-wanted poster, so we named him Muggs.
He was the only cat my mother ever loved, and he only stayed the week. When my brother and I were getting ready to return to our own homes, apparently, so was Muggs. My mother was convinced that he embodied the spirit of my brother Ricky, who had died at the age of five. Who were we to argue?
Somehow, it made sense. Muggs returned the following year, same time, same place, only to leave at the end of Christmas week, this time never to return.
Driving up to the humane society, I decide to name my new cat Muggs, in memory of my mother and in deference to her hope that death isn't the end.
Right now, I want to believe that, too.
I park my car in the shelter's circular driveway and crunch through the snow to the door. A spry older man in a light-blue shirt greets me at the reception counter. "Hi there! What can I do for you?"
"I've come for the calico kitten," I announce.
"I'm sorry, miss. The calico was just adopted about an hour ago."
I feel as if I have been sucker-punched. That cat was supposed to be mine. Why didn't I run over the minute I got off the phone?
"Hey!" the attendant said, brightening. "Her brother is still here."
"No," I say. "I don't want a male cat." My despondency is as thick as quicksand and just as slippery. "Okay," I say finally. "Do you have any other cats I could look at?"
"Do we have other cats?" he replies with a wry grin.
He guides me down a long narrow hallway to a room with cage after cage of cats: sleek cats, fluffy cats, dainty cats and chunky cats. Tigers, torties, white ones and gray ones. And they all just sit there, or lie there plastered against the back of their cages, staring coolly at me with complete indifference.
Cats are so good at that, I suddenly remember. What was I thinking?
And then I hear something: a strange, low vibration and the tinkling of a bell. As I proceed down the row of cages, the vibration and bell get louder, until I finally identify their source. There, in the last cage at the end of the line, is a tiny black kitten, batting a plastic jingle ball around its cage and purring at the top of its little kitty lungs. Ah, I think, this must be the calico's brother. Imagine that, a black male cat.
His antics amuse me, and I find myself stirred by his show of life. But then, as if propelled by some counter-magnetic force, I turn abruptly away from his cage, searching in earnest for what I really want.
Except that, now, compared to the vibrant little one, the other cats seem even more lifeless, like four-legged zombies or feather dusters on sticks.
The purring and jingling black kitten emanates a presence that tugs and beckons, reeling me in. Come see! Come see me! And so I do.
"Oh my, little one. What are we going to do?" I ask out loud, quietly, as he rubs against the bars of his cage, leaning toward my touch. As if on cue, the attendant appears and says, "Want to hold him?"
"Okay," I breathe, knowing all the while that I am losing my grip on something and sinking fast. Not into quicksand this time, but into something softer, darker, more comforting, like the sleek black velvet of this little one's body in my arms.
As the kitten crawls up my jacket and against my neck, purring loudly into my ear, I read the sign at the side of his cage:
Black male cat.
Purrs like a motorboat.
Name: Muggins.
I am not making this up.
"So, what do you think?" grins the attendant, holding the cage door open.
"I think," I say through my tears, "this is my cat."