by Amy Newmark
The neighborhood cats apparently received a newsletter stating that a single woman had moved in and was serving posh food to all the other singles. They descended on my house and hung around as long as Edie let them. Regardless of the number of cats that came and went, it remained her territory. Even the neighborhood dogs respected the invisible boundaries. Edie regally sat on my porch railing, presiding over the yard. She never left the property — after all, she wasn’t seeking a mate and had no need to do anything other than hang out and be free. I understood this and found myself adopting a similar lifestyle. I shopped for books, went to movies, and had no obligations to anyone. It was glorious.
Together, we formed a daily routine with minimal effort, even as my house became a revolving door to friends visiting for summer beach weekends, including Andrew, a friend who came into town for a few job interviews. We had agreed that he could stay and share the rent if any of them worked out. Before he arrived, several people asked if I had romantic prospects with Andrew, which I always denied. I had known him for years, but the timing was never right for us, and we remained comfortable friends. Lots of my girlfriends had crushes on him. He was handsome, freakishly smart and had the sort of wit that made you wonder why Jon Stewart hadn’t yet discovered him. He was everything I should have wanted, but I can be guilty of missing the obvious at times.
Two days after Andrew arrived, a hurricane developed in the Gulf that seemed to be on a direct path to my town. Rather than leave, he climbed on my roof to check the durability of my shingles. He also checked the sewage lines, the storm shutters and our cars in case we needed to leave town. He went to the store to buy supplies. When he got back, his mother called to try and convince him to leave.
Andrew was in the kitchen, but I could hear him say, “Mom, I know you’re worried, but I’m not going to leave her. If it becomes clear that we need to leave, then I’ll help her with that, too, but I have to make sure she’s okay through this.” He loved me and had patiently waited for the right time for us. More importantly, he knew I was beyond the fantasies of dating life and spared me the discomfort of wooing me with sappy songs or deep thoughts on Dostoyevsky. Instead, he demonstrated an ability to share my life as couples really lived, completely committed to each other despite potential storms.
I walked over to help with the supplies and found that he had purchased enough provisions for Edie to survive Armageddon. I reached for a can of cat food and smiled. It was the posh kind.
“Andrew, we’re getting married, aren’t we?” I said.
He looked at me and smiled. “I hope so.”
Fortune was on our side, and the storm never came. We married the next year, and Edie remained a fixture at our house long after the birth of our son. She was sitting on the porch with us when we got word that Andrew had a new opportunity that would move us out of town. Edie had become frail that year and she quietly disappeared before we started packing. She had seen me through the aftermath of heartache and helped me learn to embrace myself before I embraced anyone else, and I am a better wife and mother for it.
~Tanya Estes
Angel Kitten
Fun fact: Some cats seem to have an uncanny ability to know when a person is near death, and will lie with him or her to provide comfort.
“Yes, Darren, I agree he is adorable, but the last thing we need right now is a new kitten.”
Our son and his girlfriend had come to visit my terminally ill husband, who was in his final stages of metastatic prostate cancer. On their way out to our place, they had stopped at the feed store to buy dog food and were drawn to the tiny rescue kitten. They couldn’t resist his pleading eyes, but, more importantly, they believed he would be a comfort to my ailing husband.
We had moved Larry’s bed to the living room so everyone could be together when the kids and other visitors stopped by. I didn’t want him to miss out on a single thing during these final days.
Thus, he overhead my comment to Darren, and responded in his weak, toneless voice, “Honey, I think we should keep him.”
Knowing my husband like I did, I knew exactly what he was thinking — the kitten would be a comforting companion for me after he was gone. He was not particularly fond of cats, so I wasn’t about to let him make this sacrifice for me.
But Darren wasn’t about to give up.
“Mom, he shouldn’t be any problem. We bought everything he’ll need. There’s a bag of kitten food, litter and a litter box out in the car. Why don’t you give him a try? If you don’t think he’s a good fit for you guys, Dawn and I will keep him.”
He was pretty adorable, especially when he looked up at me with those big, soulful eyes. I picked him up. He was as soft as silk, and had the most soothing purr I’d ever heard.
“Hon, are you sure he won’t be a nuisance to you?” I queried my husband one more time. He was in a lot of pain, so even a pet as small as the kitten could be troublesome.
Larry held out his thin, unsteady hands, and I gently placed the kitten in them. When he clutched the furry, black-and-gray bundle to his chest, I had my answer — we owned a kitten.
The kids and grandkids loved our new pet. Although he was pleasant to everyone, he was absolutely devoted to Larry. When Jacqui, our daughter, first observed the bond between her father and the kitten, she was in awe — so much so that she bought a little red collar for the kitten with his new name engraved on the tag. From that day forward, he was called Little Larry.
Little Larry left my husband’s side only to eat and use the litter box. If someone picked him up, he became restless after a few moments and jumped right back on Larry’s bed. He didn’t just lie at the foot of the bed; he had to be touching Larry at all times. He preferred to be snuggled up on his chest or resting his head on my husband’s frail shoulder.
There was something almost mystical about the bond they shared. Everyone, including the grandchildren, learned to respect and admire their closeness and didn’t attempt to separate them for even a moment. It was understood that Little Larry’s mission was to be there to comfort and support Grandpa.
About six weeks after the kitten’s arrival, Larry passed away peacefully, surrounded by our five children. Our faithful little kitten remained at his side until his very last breath, imparting comfort not only to Larry, but to the rest of us as well.
Strangely, we never saw the kitten again after the night Larry died. It was as if he had accompanied my husband’s heaven-bound spirit on its final journey. I know Little Larry was more than just a kitten. Maybe, just maybe, angels come to us in our time of need disguised as little, furry bundles of love.
~Connie Kaseweter Pullen
Biofeedback Cat
Fun fact: Studies have shown that people can reduce their chances of a heart attack by having a cat.
Fear-induced aggression. That is what the veterinarian and animal behaviorist called it. Finally, we had a name to describe what could turn my otherwise affectionate cat into a tormented beast.
I first noticed there was a problem when Mindy was a few months old. Arriving home from work, I dropped a bag of groceries and cans crashed to the floor. Mindy, who had met me at the door, now cowered behind the kitchen table. Not thinking too much of it, I reached out a hand to pet and reassure her. The yowl that arose was unlike anything I had ever heard before. I froze. The possibility of being attacked by my own cat was suddenly very real.
I snatched my hand back and quickly retreated. Minutes later, I was making supper when a long tail looking like a bottlebrush appeared in the doorway. I backed away cautiously, but my fears were unfounded. The little cat started purring and rubbing her silver-gray head against my ankles.
I was puzzled but pleased at the change in her attitude. Later I sat down at my piano, and as the music filled the house, Mindy stretched her little body, no longer arched in defence, and closed her eyes. We ended the evening on a happy note.
As weeks went by, I observed her more carefully and discovered that she over-reacted to sudden nois
es and movements. Simple things, like dropping the TV remote or someone knocking loudly on the door, would bring on a reaction of the now-familiar threatening growls. These often escalated to bloodcurdling yowls, which could make the hairs on a person’s neck stand up.
Contradictory as it may sound, Mindy was affectionate and tolerant between such episodes. She’d calmly sprawl on her back while I clipped her nails. She loved baths and enjoyed the hair dryer afterward. She was fond of riding in the car, and we travelled many miles together.
As I started to piece together this tangled web of Mindy’s psyche, I realized that my pet often reacted to my own stress level: my frustration and anger when I dropped the groceries, my startled reaction to an unexpected knock on the door. I realized that I had to find a way to deal with rude drivers and work stress before I got home, because Mindy would tune in to my own emotions. If I was sad or feeling discouraged, she would jump on my lap and pat my face with that big, fluffy paw as if to console me. And on the days when I did not want to be bothered, she’d lie at a distance and respect my need for space.
I turned to the Internet for information to understand my cat better and was soon participating in a study led by a group of researchers in the United States. The result? The relationship between Mindy and me was a classic example of “twinship.” The research paper said, “In the study, twinship was represented in animals described as being very adept at reading body language and external cues, along with being very focused on their human companions. Therefore, it would often seem like they were capable of being able to ‘read minds.’ ”
Other cats I had owned over the years seemed oblivious to the fact when I was working on something and did not need, or want, a cat sprawled on my papers. But Mindy always knew. Whether she read my mind or discerned my body language matters little. What mattered was that she was an extremely perceptive cat with extremely poor coping skills.
And I was to make another discovery. When I played the piano, Mindy would often wander out from her latest favorite spot to sleep and lie near me. I noticed that her tail would gently flick in time to the music — my personal metronome. I was not a good player by any stretch, and Mindy had an aversion to my incorrect notes. When I made a mistake, her tail swishing increased in a rapid, agitated manner that had no musical timing. At first, I assumed it was my imagination, but even my piano teacher reached a point where she just shook her head in disbelief and admitted that it was too predictable to be merely coincidental.
One year, I was preparing for Christmas, and in my haste to decorate my tree, I knocked over a vase while grabbing a box of ornaments, which clattered on the tiled hearth of the fireplace. The noise startled Mindy, and she took her predictable pose — arching her back and swaying on her hind legs. Growling and hissing followed as she was focused on me, the enemy. I was tired and frustrated. I had invited friends over for drinks, and I did not have time for this! Somehow, I managed to remind myself that it was Christmas, and if I should ever have tolerance, it should be now.
I sat down on the piano bench to play some Christmas carols. I fumbled through a couple of songs and then settled on “Away in a Manager.” By the third verse of the song, Mindy was lying by the piano, swishing her tail gently, and a feeling of calmness descended. Then it hit me: Mindy not only liked piano music; it had a soothing effect on her. A more profound revelation was that it had a calming effect on me, as well. From that point forward, I found I could avert her aggression or rapidly bring it to a close by playing the piano. “Away in a Manger” had a particularly consoling effect on Mindy. Fortunately, the carol was easy to play, and I played it almost perfectly. Since she seemed quite conscious of the errors in my playing, the smooth flow was probably the biggest factor in her serenity. But whatever the reason, it became “our song.”
My relationship with Mindy spanned more than eighteen years. They were not easy years, and there were plenty of ups and downs. But I learned so much about myself from that cat. She became my stress barometer. I could assess my own stress level by Mindy’s reaction. She taught me to leave my cares outside, and that sometimes, “Away in a Manger” played in July is just what a person (and a cat) needs.
~Brenda Leppington
A Tiger-Sized Heart
Fun fact: The biggest cat in the wild is the Siberian Tiger, which may grow to more than twelve feet in length.
He was the ugliest cat I’d ever seen, a young black-and-brown Tabby, so skinny I could count his ribs. One ear was ragged and matted with dried blood, like he’d been in a fight and lost. He probably had fleas and ticks.
Why did he have to show up on my patio? Why couldn’t he have gone to the neighbor’s house instead?
I decided to ignore him. He would leave, off to find another home. Or so I hoped.
I should have known better.
We live in the country and people seem to think country folks are just waiting for their throwaways. Over the years, my husband, Jack, and I took in many dogs and cats. We loved them all. At the present time, however, I did not want another cat. I had my calico that also had showed up on the patio a couple years earlier. One cat was enough, one too many in Jack’s opinion. He wasn’t a big fan of the feline family and only tolerated Patches because I loved her.
As if sensing me watching him, the cat peered through the sliding glass door. Maybe it was his droopy ear. Maybe it was the sadness in his eyes. I’m not sure, but at that moment, in spite of my reluctance to take in another stray, the cat won my heart. How could I send him away to face coyotes, wild dogs, and whatever else roamed the countryside?
“Okay, you can stay, Tiger,” I told him through the glass door. “You’ll be an outside cat, though. Understand?” Wait? Had I called him “Tiger?” Yeah, I had. So Tiger became his name, and the patio became his home, briefly.
He was shy at first. When I went outside to feed him, he kept his distance. It was summertime and hot, so I put soft towels in a large box and set it in a corner of the patio where there was shade. Even though he had a huge back yard with grass and trees that provided shade, he seldom left the patio. A week or so after Tiger first showed up, something happened that changed my mind about him coming into the house.
I was sleeping soundly when horrible hisses and rumbles and meows woke me up. At first I thought I was dreaming. Then I heard growls and screams and knew Tiger was in trouble.
Jack, bless his sleepy heart, grunted and rolled over. A tornado wouldn’t wake him, so I didn’t even try. I stumbled out of bed, ran to the sliding glass bedroom door that also opened onto the patio, and looked out. I flicked on the light to get a better view. What I saw scared me. A big gray cat, creepy sounds rumbling from its throat, crouched over Tiger, who was lying, unmoving, in the flowerbed.
I hated bullies, and the gray certainly was a bully, or worse. With a screech that probably woke our neighbors two acres away, I ran outside, hissed at the bully cat and chased it into the back yard, where it scrabbled over the fence and disappeared into the dark. From that night on, Tiger lived in the house.
Once he became an indoor cat, I took Tiger to the veterinarian for his shots and treatment of his ear. He also treated Tiger for ear mites and vaccinated him. At first, Tiger was so starved that he ate anything and everything he could get his paws on. I had to put all food out of his reach to keep him from eating too much. Once, he even found the cake on top of the fridge and demolished it.
With love and good food, his fur turned soft and the missing patches grew back. His ear healed, even though eight years later it’s still ragged, scarred, and smaller than the other ear. Tiger’s physical appearance would win no contests, but he has a beautiful heart.
Tiger became Jack’s buddy. He’d crawl onto Jack’s lap, rest his paws on Jack’s chest, and gaze into his eyes, communicating in his own special way. What amazed me the most was the fact that Jack loved Tiger. He petted Tiger, talked to him and took him on long walks. The two of them would wander down to our pond and watch the fish and ducks. They�
��d stroll across the pasture, Tiger exploring everything that moved, from insects and small critters to flowers and weeds. The walk was their special time.
In the evenings, they watched TV together, Tiger napping on Jack’s chest.
When my husband passed away three years ago, Tiger roamed the house in search of him. He meowed at me, like I should make Jack suddenly appear.
Tiger lost his buddy and walking partner, but he now gives me the pleasure of his company. At night, he curls up in bed next to me, his paw on my shoulder as if to tell me “It’s okay.” He talks to me in his squeaky little voice. I suspect he’s telling me of the times he walked with Jack. We go on walks together. I think he understands me.
Last year Tiger was having trouble breathing, so I took him to the veterinarian for a checkup. The news was bad. He was diagnosed as FIV positive. He either caught the virus in the fight with the gray cat or from the animal that mangled his ear. Right now, he’s doing fine. He’s not as playful as he once was. He doesn’t roll the ball back to me when I roll it to him. He still walks with me and talks to me. Sometimes, if he gets tired, I pick him up and carry him. He’s very thin, the way he was in the beginning. But his heart is still filled with love.
One day, Tiger and Jack will walk together again. Tiger will talk to Jack in his soft, squeaky voice. Jack will understand what he’s saying.
Until that day, I pray God will let Tiger stay with me a little longer. We still have a lot to talk about on our daily walks: the fish, the flowers, the birds and the insects. Mostly, though, we talk about Jack.
~Beverly Stowe McClure
Therapy Appointment
Fun fact: Only female calico cats are fertile; males are few and they are usually sterile.
“You want out again, Marmalade? You were just out. What, not the back door, you want out the front?” I was very surprised that our beautiful, long-haired, ten-year-old calico cat wanted out again.