The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club

by Nic Tatano

  I’m frankly still amazed at the attention this is getting considering all the important stuff going on in the world. I mean, compared to moms with real babies who get up in the middle of the night and provide round the clock care, what I’m doing is nothing. But it has somehow struck a nerve with the country, and cat videos do rule the internet. As my boss put it, “You’re someone in a glamorous job with never a hair out of place who seems to have life by the tail, and yet you’re doing something incredibly kind and out of character for a hard-nosed network reporter. Completely different from the image you project on the air. It’s a perfect storm of unselfishness.”

  I don’t see it that way, but whatever. If it will create more awareness for homeless pets and raise a few bucks for shelters, I’m happy to be the poster child for a while.

  As for the hair never being out of place, that reputation is about to be blown up as well. I’m wearing the roll-out-of-bed summer collection. Hair by eggbeater. No makeup. Sweatpants and a New York Giants t-shirt. The freckles will make their debut. Screw gravitas.

  I’m the real me these days.

  I hear the commercial ending in my ear piece and get a “stand by” from the photographer. I look at the monitor that’s been set up with the sound off and see the unfamiliar view of the network morning show set. It’s unfamiliar because I’m never up this early and hate morning shows anyway as the perky attitude of the female anchors would give me a cavity. (Which is why Rory usually stays out of my way in the early morning hours. I think she was a morning show host in a previous life.) The network’s morning anchors, Kayla and Sherman, fill the screen as I hear them talk about “an amazing story” involving one of the network’s own reporters.

  “Let’s go live to Staten Island,” says Kayla, “where we check in with political reporter Madison Shaw, who is standing by with the four new members of her household. Good morning, Madison, thanks for getting up early to join us.”

  “Not a problem, guys, it’s feeding time anyway.” I take a quick glance at the monitor and see myself sitting next to the kittens, curled up in a ball. The tortoiseshell is waking up.

  “Your story has gone viral,” says Sherman. “So tell us how you came to be a foster parent to four orphaned kittens.”

  “Well, viewers of our evening news might remember a story I did a while ago on the demolition of a stadium. While we were touring the place before they blew it up, the foreman heard these kittens crying and found them in an office. The mother cat had died. So I put them in a box and tried to give them to the foreman, but he was tied up at the project. It was Friday night and there were no animal shelters open. So I took them home and luckily a very nice veterinarian lives next door and showed me how to take care of them.”

  “So, originally you didn’t intend to keep them?” asks Kayla.

  “No, so people need to stop calling me a saint. But I couldn’t just leave these helpless little guys and within a day I grew attached to them.” The tortoiseshell meows. “Ah, it’s feeding time, and I’d better not be late.” I pick up the kitten and hold it in front of the camera as it continues to meow. “This one’s my favorite, and he’s always up first. He’s not gonna shut up until he gets his bottle.” I pick up one of the bottles of formula and hold it in front of the kitten. It latches on immediately with its paws and begins draining it. I hear both anchors say, “Awwww.”

  “That is absolutely adorable,” says Kayla. “So how often do you have to feed them?”

  “Every few hours. So while I’m gone during the day my best friend Rory who lives across the street takes care of them. Kitty day care without the expense or car seats. She’s literally been a lifesaver to these kittens.”

  “Has this been hard for you?” asks Sherman.

  “Well, I’m single and don’t have any experience with children, so getting up in the middle of the night takes some getting used to. I have new respect for all parents out there. What I’m doing pales in comparison to real child care. But it’s not forever, since they’ll be old enough to feed themselves pretty soon. Though since cats are nocturnal, they might want me to play with them in the middle of the night anyway, so sleep is not necessarily an option.”

  “The network has been deluged with calls wanting to adopt them,” says Kayla. “Have you already found their furever homes?”

  Oooh, I like that term. “Well, I’m keeping this one and three of my friends are each adopting one. But there are plenty of animals at your local shelter that desperately need a home, so I would encourage those people wanting to adopt to go and save a pet’s life.”

  “There’s more to this story than meets the eye,” says Kayla, “as it came out yesterday that you had turned down the assignment to cover the Presidential campaign to stay home and take care of the kittens. Was that a tough decision for you?”

  “Absolutely. That was a dream assignment as it would be for anyone who covers politics, but when it was offered to me I’d become attached to the kittens and couldn’t bear to leave them for weeks at a time. And this little one has become very attached to me as well. The vet says kittens this young can imprint on humans. Basically they think I’m their mother.”

  “That’s a wonderful story,” says Kayla. “So, since you’re keeping that one, does it have a name yet?”

  “I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. And I’m told you have to wait for a cat’s personality to reveal itself before you give it a name.”

  Sherman nods. “I’ve heard that too. Now, Madison, did the fact that you grew up as a foster child weigh into your decision?”

  My fists are tight and teeth clenched as I fight to hold in my emotions until the photographer heads out the door.

  The minute he does, the dam breaks and the tears flow.

  Rory quickly moves toward me and gives me a strong hug. “Go ahead, Freckles, let it out.”

  I hang on for dear life, the demon that is the memory of a mostly horrible childhood dancing in my head. “How the hell did they find out?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie.” She leans back, breaks the embrace and leads me to the couch. We sit and she takes my hands, giving me a soulful look. “It doesn’t change who you are. But I know it’s something that still haunts you and pushes your buttons. You need to focus on what you’ve become, what you’ve accomplished. The obstacles you’ve overcome. The friends who love you now. You’re the sister I never had.”

  “And none of it would be possible if you hadn’t befriended me in high school.” I give her another hug, the harsh memories starting to subside.

  I’m laser locked on my news director’s office, eyes filled with fire. I power-walk inside, shut the door and stand next to him, stretching to my full height so that I look down my nose at him.

  He looks up at me, then backs up a bit. “Uh-oh. I know that look.”

  I follow him, going full Amazon warrior on the guy, folding my arms as I tower over him. “I cannot believe you broadcast the fact that I’m a foster child to the entire world.”

  “I didn’t think you’d have a problem with it. It sort of explains why you did what you did.”

  “And what you’re not saying is that it makes for a better story. You know, I didn’t take those kittens in just for the purposes of promoting this network. I didn’t want any credit for doing it. Maybe you remember that Bible passage about charitable acts and the right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing. And by the way, how the hell did you know I was a foster kid?”

  “Remember when you were an intern here and one of the anchors was considering adopting a child? I overheard you telling him your story and encouraging him to do it.”

  The memory comes back. “Oh. I forgot about that. But still—”

  “You need to return this call.” He grabs a couple of pink message slips from his desk, in an attempt to divert my anger. “Catholic Charities called. They have a ton of kids that need homes and were hoping you might be a spokesperson.”

  He locks eyes with me as his words instantl
y drain my anger, the thought of homeless kids killing my argument. “Sure. I’ll be happy to help them out.”

  “And a United States Senator called asking if you’d testify in Congress. They’ve got hearings coming up about funding some new program for children who need homes. Basically it would provide free college for any child that is actually permanently adopted. And, you know, that would encourage people to, you know …”

  I slowly nod as I look at the name of a prominent politician on the slip. “Yeah, no problem. I know about this bill they’re trying to pass. It would do a lot of good.”

  “Madison, I understand you’re upset with your story getting out and I do apologize for not checking with you first. But right now you’re a role model, whether you like it or not. Your story shows how someone who grew up under tough circumstances can make it to the top and use your position to influence people in a good way. Do you remember what I asked you during your job interview? About why you wanted to be a reporter? Most people say they always wanted to be on TV or they were inspired by some great journalist. Do you remember your answer?”

  “Yeah. I said I wanted to tell great stories and along the way make the world a better place.”

  “Well, here’s your chance. The only difference is that you’re the great story.”

  Chapter Seven

  Generally on Saturdays I’m so fried from work I spend the morning and afternoon recharging before doing something with my friends (or, before Jeremy was exiled to the Hamptons, something with him.) But today’s schedule is jam packed, thanks to the kittens. Later this morning I’m taking them for their first full checkup at the vet’s clinic. This afternoon I’m part of a fundraiser for the local shelter.

  And tonight, the uncle of the girl with the lost cat is taking me out.

  But I have an hour to kill before Jeff the veterinarian opens his office, so I’m unpacking the box of cat toys to give the little guys some exercise. I take a few items that look like fun into the spare room, where I find the kittens already running about. I toss a catnip mouse in their direction and two of them immediately pounce. Then I jiggle a wand that looks like a fishing rod with a stuffed fish on the end over the other two. The tabby jumps to get it and misses, while the tortoiseshell simply gets up on his hind legs and swats at it. The tabby gets distracted by the mouse and turns his attention to it, so I hold the stuffed fish over the tortoiseshell. Again, he doesn’t jump, so I lower the wand to let him catch the thing.

  I bring out a few more toys and toss them on the floor. The kittens are now in a frenzy, high on catnip as they race around chasing things.

  And then the tortoiseshell runs face first into a piece of exercise equipment. I immediately pick him up and hold him close. “Poor little guy. Watch where you’re going.” He meows and seems unfazed, so I put him back down. He joins the chase with his siblings, and once again runs face first into the leg of a chair. I pick him up again, but he seems okay.

  Still, I sense something is wrong and I want Jeff to check it out.

  Jeff shines a light into the eyes of the tortoiseshell. “I can tell you why he’s running into things. This kitten is blind in one eye. So it has no depth perception and can’t judge where things are.”

  “Oh no.” I reach out for the kitten.

  He nods as he hands it to me. “And one of his back legs is deformed. That’s why he’s not jumping. Because he can’t.”

  “A cat that can’t jump or see?” I hug the kitten close. “Poor thing.”

  “That’s a special needs cat you have there. But otherwise it’s healthy. And it obviously likes you.”

  “Can you restore his vision and fix his leg?”

  “I’ll have a specialist look at his eye, but I don’t think so. Nothing can be done about the leg. He needs to be an indoor cat, and can live a normal life, but there are some things you can do to make it easier. Don’t move furniture around, as eventually he will create his own pathways. And you can’t take him outside unless he’s on a harness.”

  “Huh? Are you saying that I can walk a cat?”

  He laughs. “Yeah. If you want really strange looks from your neighbors, go for a walk with a cat on a leash. So, you still want to keep this one? The others are perfectly healthy.”

  “Yeah, this one’s mine. Oh, is he a boy cat or a girl cat?”

  Jeff lifts up the kitten’s tail and takes a look. “He’s a guy. And that means later this year I’ll have to do something to him that will seriously piss him off.”

  “What?”

  He makes a scissor motion with two fingers. “Snip, snip.”

  My jaw drops as I pull into the parking lot of the shelter.

  There’s a long line of people with cats from the front door and around the block.

  All, apparently, to get a picture of me with their kitty.

  I agreed to spend an hour doing this for the shelter, which is taking ten dollar donations for each photo, but it looks like I’ll be here awhile.

  The manager of the shelter greats me as I get out of my car. “Miss Shaw, I’m Ginny. We spoke on the phone. Thank you so much for helping us today.”

  “Not a problem. And please, call me Madison.”

  She’s a petite blonde, maybe forty, wearing a red polo shirt and jeans. “We’re all set up and ready to go. But I don’t think we’ll be able to get to everyone in an hour.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll stay as long as there are people who want a picture. I’m sure you can use every dollar you can get.”

  She opens the door to the shelter. “You really are a saint.”

  “Oh, stop it.” She leads me past a bunch of cages, all filled with cats. “Wow, you got a lot of cats that need homes.”

  “Hopefully we’ll adopt some out today with you here.”

  She leads me into the lobby where a photographer is set up, his camera pointed at a chair. “So this is like getting a photo with Santa.”

  “Basically.” I take a seat as she opens the door.

  Cat people pour in.

  Four hours later we’re done. I have been licked, hissed at, pawed and clawed, but enough about last night at a bar. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) I have cat hair from dozens of different felines covering me. Most of the cats were friendly, but a few (I’m looking it you, neurotic Siamese with the rhinestone collar) were obviously those one-person cats and I was not their person. Many of the owners donated more than the required ten bucks. To say my ego has been built up is putting it mildly. When one person after another tells you how wonderful you are, well, it’s a nice way to start the weekend.

  But the best part, I saw people adopting cats.

  Ginny closes the door as I get up from the chair. She takes my hands. “Hear that?”

  I listen but all is quiet. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “That’s because every single cat was adopted.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Even found a home for that fat thirteen year old ginger cat. Every cage is empty. Which is more important than the ton of money we took in today. And all because of you.”

  She smiles and I feel my eyes well up a bit. “Happy to help. Next time you need a fundraiser, just give me a call.”

  As first dates go, Jonathan is okay.

  While the chemistry isn’t off the charts, he seems to be a decent guy, though I carried the conversation during dinner since he wanted to know everything about television news, which is an occupational hazard for those of us making a living in the public eye. Fortunately the movie we saw afterwards gave me a chance to stop talking. He’s nothing to write home about yet, but I’m reminded of past relationships that started out just okay and then blossomed. So a second date is doable.

  As for the physical part, Jonathan is definitely doable, as A.J. would say. Though not tonight. I made it a point not to say “I can’t wait to get out of this dress” when I brought him in for coffee.

  Kelly has already fed the kittens and just took off, so I head into the kitchen to make some java
. Jonathan is in the living room playing with the kittens.

  At least the guy likes animals.

  “Madison, you need any help in there?”

  I finish loading the coffee machine. “I’m good. This isn’t rocket science. Coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “You stupid cat!”

  I quickly move to the living room and see him holding the tortoiseshell at arm’s length. “What happened?”

  “This damn kitten clawed my cashmere sweater! Look, there’s a thread pulled out!”

  Oh, this isn’t good, and I’m not talking about the sweater.

  Annddd … cue the red flag. “It’s not ruined. I can pull the thread back in from the other side. Take it off and I’ll fix it for you.”

  He glares at the tortoiseshell. “Damn cat!” He reaches back with one hand and swings it toward the kitten.

  I manage to grab his wrist before he hits it. “What the hell? You don’t hit animals! It’s just a little kitten.”

  “Your kitten needs to learn a lesson. If you don’t teach it when it misbehaves—”

  I grab the kitten, which is now shaking from all the yelling, and pull it close to my chest. “Get! Out!”

  “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape—”

  “And I suppose you’d have no qualms about hitting a woman if she misbehaves. Get out, now!”

  He gets up and shakes his head. “A two hundred dollar sweater, ruined.”

  “Send me the friggin’ bill. And if you paid two bills for that ugly thing, you got taken.”

  He storms toward the door, slamming it on the way out.

  Between the yelling and the door slam the poor tortoiseshell is still shaking. I gently stroke his head, soften my tone. “It’s okay, little guy, he’s gone. You’re safe. No one can hurt you when I’m around.”

  The phone rings. (Guess who.) I answer, still holding the kitten. “Rory, do you have a State Department drone maintaining surveillance on me, or what?”

  “What was wrong with that one?”

  “He was just okay until the tortoiseshell pulled a thread out of his sweater and he was about to hit it.”