by Amy Newmark
~William Hardwin
Kit Cat was a lovely calico cat of medium build and size who I’d found as a two-day-old kitten in a packing box full of kitchen towels on our back patio. She had a disposition as lovely as her face, and she was so sweet that anyone who met her instantly adored her. She became my mother’s constant companion and best friend, and at times, my mother referred to the cat as her third child.
In addition to being very sweet and loving, Kit Cat was crazy about string. If string came into the house, she’d mew plaintively and beg for it until it was given to her. Light brown twine was her favorite kind, and she would run through the house with it in her mouth, letting out trilling meows for a good fifteen minutes straight.
After happily running about with her string, she’d settle down in the middle of our long front entry hall and just stare at it. During this string-staring stage, no one was allowed to touch or move her string — not my mother or the other cats in the house. If anyone came near the string, they’d get a paw swipe and a dirty look.
After a long period of analysis, Kit Cat would begin to arrange the string on the floor, sometimes using her right paw, sometimes her mouth. She would slowly arrange her string into intricate circle designs, often taking over an hour to do so. When she was finally satisfied with her design, she’d sit back and meow loudly until everyone in the house came to examine and praise her creation.
The finished string creation couldn’t be moved or touched, or Kit Cat would become visibly upset and go sulk under my mother’s bed for several hours. As a result, the family learned to tiptoe around her string-art creations until Kit Cat became tired of them and dragged the string off to her special hiding spot behind the sofa. After a few months of string art, my mother began taking photos of Kit Cat’s masterpieces, and would display them on the refrigerator next to my brother’s or my art. If a friend or neighbor stopped by and spotted one of the photos, my mother would simply say it was a photo of her third child’s artwork.
~Leslee Kahler
A Series of Miracles
How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven.
~Robert A. Heinlein
My mom was diagnosed with metastatic cancer this summer. She was happy and full of life the day my daughter graduated from college. She walked two miles, navigated the tortuous hills at Lehigh University, and took pride in her granddaughter graduating as the first Engineering-Psychology major at Lehigh.
The next day, my mother had a CAT scan. The results showed that she had a large tumor in her lung. The following morning, she bled into her kidney, and we were in the emergency room. She had metastases in her kidneys, liver, and hip. One day later, the PET scan confirmed the devastating final blow: she had metastatic lesions in her brain.
Almost immediately, she said, “Aim, I need to put the cats to sleep. I don’t want you to have to deal with this. You can’t take them, and you won’t be able to find a home for them because they need to be together.” My mom loved animals, but she loved these two cats desperately. They were her “girls.”
I begged her not to put them to sleep. I wanted her to have as much time and happiness with them as possible, and somehow I convinced her to wait. And, honestly, changing my mom’s mind was no easy task.
My mom passed away only five-and-a-half weeks later. We watched her lose her ability to drive, her strength, energy, and independence. Every day, she lost another small piece of herself. What she didn’t lose was her dignity, her pride, and her ability to speak her mind. She spoke openly about how there is “no blueprint for how to die.”
She spent time with us, loved us, and cried and laughed often. She taught us many things, but perhaps the greatest lesson she taught us in those few weeks was that even in the most horrific of circumstances, one can find a reason to get up and get out of bed in the morning. Everyone deserves to be treated with dignity, in life and in death. She modeled true bravery and courage. She was the family matriarch, the family comedian, and everyone’s greatest supporter and champion. We miss her profoundly each and every day.
As predicted, we tried endlessly to find a home for her adored cats. We asked everyone we knew, advertised, e-mailed, and called at least fifty nonprofits all over the country, often with no response. What I didn’t know was that seventy percent of cats and sixty percent of dogs are euthanized when their owners pass away.
At the time, our beloved fifteen-year-old cat, Chocolate, was being treated at the Veterinary Specialty and Emergency Center. I asked one of the vet techs if she knew of anyone who might take my mom’s cats. She suggested contacting Tabby’s Place in Ringoes, New Jersey, although she thought they only rescued cats from shelters. I wrote an earnest, heartfelt e-mail to Angela Townsend, the Development Director, telling the story of my mom and her “girls.” Angela doubted they would be able to take my mom’s cats, but offered to speak with her board of directors. The thought of not being able to find a home for my mom’s cats was unfathomable, and we were close to losing all hope. A true miracle happened a few days later when Angela called and informed us that Tabby’s Place would be willing to take “the girls.”
My husband and I brought them to Tabby’s Place. What an amazing facility! Tabby’s Place is a cage-free sanctuary that provides impeccable care to cats coming from otherwise hopeless situations. Most of the cats are adoptable, but they may stay there and be cared for their entire lives if not adopted. In a true collaborative effort, volunteers make a huge contribution, and each cat is a cherished member of the Tabby’s Place family.
A few weeks later, I was in my living room when Angela called. She asked if I was sitting down. My heart sank: Was something wrong with one of my mom’s cats? She told me the following story.
A woman had walked into Tabby’s Place inquiring whether they had a pair of cats whose owner had recently been unable to care for them. It was not a common question, for sure. The staff informed the woman that they had three sets of cats meeting that description, each coming from very different circumstances. The woman then asked, “Are any of these cats both female? All my life, I have wanted to have two female cats and name them Thelma and Louise!”
As hard as it is to believe, my mom’s cats were named Thelma and Louise!
The woman did not know this! How could she have? The odds of this are seemingly astronomical. It was improbable that Tabby’s Place would take them at all, doubtful that seven-and-a-half-year-old cats would get adopted, unbelievable that they would be adopted together, and astronomical that the amazing couple who adopted them would be looking for two female cats to name Thelma and Louise!
I hung up the phone with tears streaming down my face and looked up. As I did, I felt my mom say, “You did a great job. I’m so proud of you, honey. I wanted Thelma and Louise to be together in a loving home.” Yup, this was definitely my mom’s work from up above.
In the blockbuster movie Thelma and Louise, the title characters are both strong women, just like my mom. At one point, Thelma says to Louise: “You’re not gonna give up on me, are ya?”
This story is about not giving up. I will forever be thankful that somehow I convinced my mom to keep Thelma and Louise with her for those short weeks. A few days before she passed away, I helped lower her to the floor so she could lie with them and say goodbye.
I am forever grateful to the many people who never gave up on us: To Brooke from VSEC for telling us about Tabby’s Place. To Angela, for being an actual angel and offering Thelma and Louise a new home. And to the anonymous couple who opened their hearts and home to give Thelma and Louise their second act.
~Amie Gordon-Langbein
Harley and the Angel
You are my cat and I am your human.
~Hilaire Belloc
On a rainy spring day about ten years ago, there was a knock at my front door. A very small boy stood there holding an extremely small ball of fur under his chin with both hands.
“We can’t keep him. My mother said to bring him here becau
se you love cats,” the boy said. “If you don’t take him, she’s gonna give him to the dog catcher.”
I looked at the boy’s sorrowful eyes and saw his little heart was breaking. I had just rescued two litters of kittens, and my house was currently overflowing. I needed another one like I needed a migraine — but what difference was there between fourteen cats and thirteen? I took the tiny tom from the boy and promised I would find him a good home.
The little tom was barely weaned, but he was a fighter. From his extensive fur and coloring, he looked like a baby Maine Coon cat, which meant he would eventually be a huge tom — if he made it. The problem was that he was younger than the rest of the kittens in the house. He was so small that I could hold him in one hand.
The little guy got along with every animal in the house — kittens, dogs, and grown cats. As the weeks went by, I slowly found homes for all the other “rescues,” but at the end of the month, there was no taker for Little Tom. He still had not grown much in size, only in girth and fur. I was just beginning to think he would become a permanent resident of our house when I got a call from a friend.
She asked if I had any kittens left because a friend of hers had just lost his twenty-year-old tomcat and was devastated. He wanted a new cat, but he was — well, how did she put it? “Special. He’s sort of rough around the edges.” She said that I had to meet him to understand. But if I had a kitten, she could guarantee this man would be the best pet poppa ever. She added, “Don’t judge by appearances.”
Now, I was curious. I told her to tell her friend about Little Tom. If the kitten was what he was looking for and he could guarantee a good home, I really did not care what he looked like. Since she also rescued animals, I knew she would not recommend him if he was not a viable pet person.
He was set to come see Little Tom the next evening after he got off from work. I was curious. What could be so different about this man?
The questions all ended with a roar in my driveway the next evening. When I came to the door to see what the noise was, a huge bear of a man in biker leathers was walking up the path to my porch. I stood in awe as he approached. He had to be a minimum of 6 feet, 4 inches tall and 240 pounds. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his beard covered his chest. His arms were a living display of tattoos. He held out his hand, and I shook it tentatively.
“Hi. I’m Jake,” he said. “Sara told me you’ve got a kitten.”
I invited him into the house and told him to wait in the living room. I went to get Little Tom, debating whether to go through with this or not.
Everything changed in one second when the tiny tomcat met the giant biker. The man melted like an ice cream cone in July when he took off his sunglasses and laid his blue eyes on the tiny tom. He reached for him, and the little cat virtually flew out of my hands and immediately snuggled in Jake’s beard, purring like a motorboat and kneading his paws into the man’s chest.
If there was ever love at first sight, this was it. It was probably the strangest pair I’d ever seen, but love knows no reason. We sat down and had some coffee, and Jake told me about his cat who had recently passed away. He went out to his bike and brought in a small cat carrier for Little Tom, and we exchanged e-mail addresses with promises to keep in touch.
Jake named the kit Harley, and sent me photos over the years as he grew into the giant Maine Coon tomcat that I predicted he would be. I could see the cat was healthy and happy.
Then two years ago, I got a call from Jake. He told me that he had a job that took him away from home for long periods of time, and Harley was getting lonesome. Did I have another kitten that could keep the old guy company? Preferably a female?
As luck would have it, one of the feral cats next door had kittens that season, and they were ready for adoption. Two little girls were extremely friendly: a gray who I called Honey Bear and a beautiful, white-and-black Angora girl who I called Angel.
When Jake roared up, it only took one look for him to know that Angel was the one. He scooped her up and told me Harley would love her. He wouldn’t be lonesome in the daytime anymore. After promises to send updates, he was gone again, roaring away with his new addition firmly secured in a cat carrier.
He’s e-mailed photos of Harley and Angel twice since then. All is well with the two cats and their biker dad.
~Joyce Laird
Sushi to Go
Cats tell me without effort all that there is to know.
~Charles Bukowski
“I think our next cat should be a longhaired, black-and-white tuxedo kitty,” my wife Judy said out of the blue one day, long before our Maggie left us. Elderly and much loved, our sweet, silver tabby was going to be hard to replace.
“What? Why?” I stroked Maggie’s silky head where she lay in her basket, a place she rarely left anymore. I couldn’t imagine holding out for a specific type of cat when the time came. I knew whoever it was would need to be longhaired, like Maggie. Shorthaired cats tend to make Judy wheeze. But I wasn’t even sure I’d ever met a longhaired tuxedo cat.
She shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I just like them.”
“Well, we don’t need to think about that now,” I said, listening to Maggie’s faint purr.
Of the two of us, I was the one who required a cat in my life. Judy had come to love Maggie and tolerated the previous cat — an ornery fellow I’d brought to the relationship — but she was happy to live without a cat, too. So it was funny to hear her muse prematurely about our next cat.
I put the conversation out of my mind, thinking, We’ll just find a good one at the shelter when we’re ready. One Judy’s not allergic to. That’s how we’d gotten Maggie years ago, when she was just a year old. And for now, she still needed all our love and care.
After she died, I was too busy grieving to think about another cat. “I don’t know if we’re ready,”
I told a friend who stopped by about a month after Maggie’s death. We hadn’t even talked about visiting shelters yet. But she wanted to tell us about a homeless cat she had befriended.
“He’s been hanging around our porch all winter,” she said. “I can’t take him in. We already have too many critters to take care of.” With a dog, cat, guinea pig, and flock of chickens — not to mention two young children — she was tapped out. “He’s such a nice cat, and we’ve tried and tried to figure out where he belongs. But no one in the neighborhood has claimed him.”
She told me that her kids and husband adored the cat because he was sweet and funny. Both cuddly and playful, she said. “Not a mean bone in his body.” The kids had christened him Sushi because he sort of resembled a sushi roll.
“Won’t they miss him? Sounds like he’s your outdoor cat.”
“I think he’d love to live in a house,” she said. “He’s always sitting on the windowsill and looking in with these big, green eyes. He has the most enormous eyes I’ve ever seen on a cat.” She assured me that her family would be on board because a loving home would be the best thing for Sushi.
“Well, he’d have to pass Judy’s allergy test,” I said. I remembered our search for Maggie. The long-suffering Judy held cat after cat in the shelter while I fell in love left and right. It took weeks to find one that didn’t make her instantly sneeze. “He’s longhaired, you say?”
The next Saturday, Judy and I drove over to meet the cat. “Just call ‘Sushi-kitty,’ and he’ll come,” our friend had assured us. I started down the path to the back yard, calling “Sushi-kitty, Sushi-kitty.”
“Now don’t get your hopes up,” said Judy for the umpteenth time, settling in on a wicker porch chair.
“Here he comes!” A feline shape had materialized. I saw intelligent green eyes, a crisp white blaze between them. I gasped. Sauntering up the path was a black-and-white tuxedo cat with luxuriant long fur.
I looked up at Judy, who stared down from the porch. “Sushi?” she said, dumbfounded. “That’s Sushi?”
I burst into astonished laughter. “Honey, I think that’s
the cat you ordered.”
The dapper fellow walked up the porch steps, climbed onto Judy’s lap, and draped his white paws over her leg as if he’d been there all his life.
“I don’t think you’re going to be allergic to this one,” I said, plopping down across from her and grinning.
She wasn’t, of course. Not to this cat, whom she’d seemingly invoked out of thin air.
I call Judy his favorite human now. Whenever she comes home, no matter where he is in the house, he comes running and makes his way onto her lap. He loves me too, of course. But he and Judy have an unshakeable bond because, after all, she called for him. Or maybe he called for her. Who knows?
~Shawndra Miller
Kindred Spirits
If purring could be encapsulated, it would be the most powerful anti-depressant on the market.
~Terri Guillemets
I hadn’t worked at the animal shelter long when an old cat, probably around thirteen, arrived. She had been declawed on all four paws, had an odd color in one eye, and a litter-box problem, which was why she was being surrendered to the shelter. This cat was absolutely beautiful, though. We named her Sally.
Sally was a sweet cat from the beginning. I took great pains to make sure she was well cared for. She always had a blanket to lie on and got a special kind of food. She would play sometimes, and that cheered me a little. She got a few looks, of course, but her inability to properly use a litter box always warded people away. Not to mention, she was old. How many more years did that cat really have left? Some days, I worried she’d never see daylight again.
Then one day, a glimmer of hope appeared in the form of an older lady. Her hair was white and her hands were wrinkled, but her eyes shone with such liveliness. She asked immediately about the old cat, never once looking at the others in the room. I’m not sure how she had heard about her, whether she had seen the cat in the paper or a friend had informed her of the feline’s precarious situation.