by Nick Trout
I decided to go with a different approach, a little subterfuge. I forced myself to act indifferent, hoping this tactic might spark his curiosity. If Reggie was ever going to warm to me it would be on his terms and so, for a while, I stepped back and simply observed how he lived his life.
Kathy owned a small horse farm in the middle of nowhere, truly the perfect feline environment. With no busy roads nearby, acres of woodlands, and a barn to call his own, Reggie had the best of both worlds—the perfect indoor/outdoor combo. He would sleep in the main house, oftentimes with Whitney, happy to utilize her head as a convenient pillow. He would rise early and stroll down to the kitchen, where he would expect breakfast to be ready and waiting—dry cat food, not wet. From here he would amble over to the front door and did not like to be kept waiting too long. Having to cry out in order to be let out might necessitate significant retribution, but more of that later. Once he was outside, the day’s work would begin, starting with a clearly defined excursion around the property. He always took the same route, adopting the same even pace before dropping off my radar. What happened during the rest of the day I might catch in glimpses. He was a natural and talented predator, patient and methodical, rarely unsuccessful. He had no problem with trees. Whatever happened in his former life, whether he stayed close to his mother and learned some valuable tricks or was simply smart enough to work it out, Reggie knew how to back down from high up in a tree. This was not a cat afraid of heights or in need of a fireman’s ladder.
Reggie regularly frequented the horse barn, creating his own haven, a venue akin to a gentlemen-only bar in an exclusive country club. Here he could hang out, high up on his favorite shelf among the fleece leg wraps, surveying his domain and ridiculing the horses imprisoned in their cold stalls. If and when he felt like it, he might engage in a little sport, catch a mouse or two, happy to leave the kill out for everyone to see, preferably close to a bag of feed, ensuring praise and treats on his return to the house.
Toward the end of the day he would stroll home, choosing to enter the house through a sliding door in the back, as though only by using this entrance had he completed the official duties of his security detail. Once inside he would take his supper and then relax—sofa, fireplace, or linen closet, whichever took his fancy. When the lights went out and everyone went off to bed he might pad around a bit, but for the most part he would slip in with Whitney, there after she fell asleep, gone before she woke up.
“What’s with that meowing, crotch-licking thing I’ve caught him doing?” I asked Kathy one day.
I was referring to this weird posture Reggie would adopt from time to time, hitching one of his back legs over his shoulder like the opening move in some disturbing contortionist routine, followed by a rant as he appeared to inspect his manhood.
“Didn’t I mention he had a PU? The little man’s keeping his surgical site clean.”
PU stands for perineal urethrostomy, a urinary diversion surgery employed in male cats who suffer from recurrent urinary tract blockage due to the accumulation of crystalline grit and sand. To my surprise, tough guy Reggie did not have a penis!
“Is that why he’s cranky with me? Still mad somebody stole his unit? Wants me to be next?”
It was Kathy’s turn to give me a withering stare, as if Reggie put her up to it.
“And what was with the precious gift I received this morning when I stepped out of the shower?” I asked.
Since I was first up in the morning, I took it upon myself to feed Reggie, hoping to work my way into his good graces by being identified as the purveyor of his breakfast. After delivering coffee to Kathy I would shower. No one ever thinks twice about stepping out and onto a cotton bathroom rug to towel off. However, on this occasion, the rug had been pulled back and folded inward from its corners in the manner of an oversized crab Rangoon, only there wasn’t a heap of succulent crab meat lumped into its center. Instead, when I made to unfold the rug, my big toe brushed up against a sizable feline turd.
“He must have been mad at you,” said Kathy.
“Why?” I asked. “I’m the one serving him breakfast. I had hoped he was starting to thaw out, finally getting used to me. Instead he’s leaving a crap in my path.”
“He’s telling you to let him out before you go veg out in the shower for twenty minutes.” And with that she swept him up and into her arms in a way I could never imagine doing without losing a cornea or contracting cat scratch fever. Was it me? Was I destined to be hopeless around cats because I had been denied their company as a kid? Did they sense, in a way I was sure the horses sensed, that I didn’t get them, didn’t understand them, didn’t speak their language?
I took some comfort from knowing I wasn’t the only one who found Reggie to be intimidating. Like I said, Reggie always chose to return home at the end of another exhausting day torturing wildlife and berating horses by following the exact same route—around the deck in the back of the house, up the stairs, patiently waiting to be let in through the sliding door at the rear. Only on one particular occasion an enormous female harlequin Great Dane belonging to a friend of Kathy’s was chained up outside this door, blocking his path. The Dane spotted Reggie on approach and lunged at him, caught up in a relentless barking frenzy, stretching his metal chain to the point of breaking, desperate for a piece of cat chow. Most animals, undergunned and undersized by comparison to this canine leviathan, would have backed off and avoided the confrontation, opting for common sense over deluded valor. Reggie saw things differently. He saw a mouthy lug of a dog blocking his route home, messing with tradition, stomping on his turf, compromising the civilized routine he savored. So Reggie kept coming, his rhythm steady, limbs loose and fluid, eyes focused on the growling beast towering way up and over his head. He drifted closer to the danger zone with no hesitation, no second thoughts, picking up the pace, moving in and up, and suddenly Reggie was on him, a big poly-dactyl paw swiping across the Dane’s cheek, the ultimate bitch-slap. The Dane was dumbstruck, speechless as he backed off. And what did Reggie do? What else would he do? He sauntered past, problem solved, one hundred and fifty pounds of dog turned into Jell-O, and, without a second look, he stood politely in his usual spot at the back door, waiting to be let in.
The first hint that Reggie was starting to thaw toward me came shortly after a hard frost in late fall. The house had cathedral ceilings and was a devil to heat, dependent on a wood-burning stove in the living room. For the first time since my days as a Boy Scout, I found myself trekking outside in the morning darkness, chipping away at a frozen cord of wood, and gathering fuel for a fire.
After finding that chocolate fortune cookie in the bath rug I was timely about letting Reggie outside for his morning constitutional, but on this occasion, as I pried the cut logs apart and loaded them into my carrier bag, Reggie appeared, rubbing up against my legs, sliding in with a firm body slam as he nudged me with his right flank and then his left.
“What’s up, little man?”
He stared up for a second and trotted back to the house, breaking his routine to wait at the closed front door.
I imagined he must have been surprised at how cold it was that morning and preferred to let the day warm up before heading out on patrol, encouraging me to get a move on in building a decent fire while he waited.
I thought no more about it, but that evening, for the first time, he jumped up on the sofa next to me, something he normally avoided, walking over my legs as though they didn’t exist before settling down within stroking distance. I dared to lay a hand on his head and began to work backward down his neck. Kathy and Whitney were watching, holding their collective breath, waiting to see his response, and to their delight and mine, Reggie closed his eyes and offered up a deep, soulful purr.
Of course I blew it by being lazy. My arm tired of reaching to pet him so I decided to pick him up and place him on my lap. Reggie was having none of it and leapt off the couch and out of the room.
“He’s getting there,” said Kathy. �
�You just have to work on his timetable.”
And I knew she was right. Reggie was simply a cat you had to get to know over time. You couldn’t force the relationship. It had to unfold naturally. He didn’t do speed dating and he wasn’t easily won over by grand gestures or excessive familiarity. Reggie understood how to do new relationships right—to have meaning, depth, and longevity, they will either naturally evolve on their own, or they won’t.
“Of course,” said Kathy, “you’ve still got two more tests to pass before you get his complete stamp of approval.”
“And what are they?” I asked.
She turned to Whitney.
“What does Reggie do when he loves you?”
Whitney beamed, knowing the answer to this one.
“He falls asleep in your lap and drools on you.”
“And?”
“He licks your hand clean.”
Slowly, over the next month, I ticked them off, one by one. Reggie waking up on my lap, acting all surprised, like a passenger on an airplane with a saliva string stuck to his chin. And then, from nowhere, a bizarre rasping sensation from a barbed pink muscle attending to the back of my hand, working methodically, unhurried and seemingly happy to oblige. It felt as though it had taken forever, but looking down at the tabby street urchin busy and content to make me presentable, I had an overwhelming sensation of finally feeling accepted as part of his family.
For my first Christmas in the States, Mum and Dad came to visit—first passports, first time on an airplane—ostensibly for an opportunity to meet Kathy.
“Ah, she’s a grand lass,” said Dad with his best Yorkshire inflection as he and I stood outside on a smoky, snow-swept wooden deck, beers in hand, working the grill.
I smiled appreciatively, but I sensed there was more to come.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” he asked.
When I registered the question, I was about to take another pull on the bottle, but it stopped me mid-sip. I had already discussed my intention of getting married and both my parents seemed to be thrilled by the idea. Had I been wrong? Then I zeroed in on another interpretation of what he was really asking. This wasn’t about planting a seed of matrimonial doubt or quietly venting unspoken disapproval, this was about my commitment to a life in America. By choosing this new life did he think I was betraying the old, ensuring I would stay far from home, far from my parents?
There was no plea in his eyes, in fact, he seemed to light up, relieved, when I answered with an unequivocal “definitely,” but with hindsight and the wisdom of too many intervening years, I imagine he must have felt as though a door had been shut tight between us, a door he had tried to leave unlocked and slightly ajar, in the hopes that someday I might find my way back through, back home.
“Well, I’m sure our Fiona will not be far behind. I reckon she’ll be heading down under once she’s finished her course.”
My sister had gone on to become a registered nurse and was training to be a midwife when she met an Australian pediatrician. It was quite possible my parents were about to see both their children disappearing to opposite ends of the world. Suddenly it seemed as though we were all destined to live our lives along different lines of latitude and longitude—remote, parallel, and entirely independent.
“Good for her,” I said, but felt better adding, “so long as she’s happy.”
“She is,” said Dad. “Just like you, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
I supposed it did matter, but it certainly wasn’t everything. I couldn’t hear regret or sadness in his voice; then again, at this stage in my life, I probably wasn’t listening as well as I should have been. Dad simply believed in any future in which his children were happy, no matter what the sacrifice. As we stood there, downing our beers, neither he nor I truly appreciated what this sacrifice would mean, how three thousand miles changes everything. I had destroyed any chance for us to share an impulsive, casual encounter: “I was in the area so I thought I’d stop by. See what you’re up to. Hang around for a while.”
Instead, at this distance, everything would have to be planned, time allotted, all the thrill and possibilities of spontaneity abandoned. My parents had every right to feel sad and betrayed. It’s one thing to leave the nest, it’s another to leave the country.
“How’s Whiskey and Bess?” I asked.
“Grand. Staying with your grandma. Funny how quickly I miss them.”
“Well, now that Marty has passed on, at least there’s a good chance that they’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
I should point out that for a while there, it looked like Marty might live forever. In the end he was nearly eighteen when he died peacefully in his sleep, a few years before I graduated veterinary school. Naturally Grandma was devastated. Naturally my sadness for her was tainted with the relief of knowing Marty and I were to be deprived of a professional relationship.
Dad chuckled but his mind was elsewhere, working on logistics regarding the dogs.
“Now if anything were to happen to them, I could call you, right?”
“Of course. Don’t be silly.”
“ ’Cause sometimes with the time difference it can be awkward.”
“Call whenever. Day or night. I’m not sure what good I can do over the phone but I’m happy to try. Besides, when it comes to Whiskey, I might not be able to do much even if I was in the same room.”
“Well, if they ever need surgery, keep your passport ready. We’ll have you on the first flight back home.”
I agreed, feeling good to be able to promise this much—the best, the only, concession I could offer.
“Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be back soon. We’ll all come visit you in the cottage. You can show off the Yorkshire Dales.”
What do they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men? How does the cloying childish taunt go? “First comes love, then comes marriage …” Well, my plan to go back to Britain soon went awry because, before I knew it, a baby carriage was just one of many essential prenatal purchases being made in a new life that seemed to have shifted beyond my control.
Like most doting fathers I could wax lyrical about the pregnancy, the labor, and the precise moment my life changed forever, but instead let me focus on a few specifics.
Firstly, Kathy’s obstetrician, Dr. Mendel (a man who, during the legitimately ferocious phase of labor, she mistakenly referred to as Dr. Mengele), strongly suggested an amniocentesis in order to better assess the health of our baby girl (working in a veterinary facility affords access to ultrasound machines operated by curious and persistent ultrasound technicians and before long I had discovered the sex of my firstborn via water cooler gossip!). This Kathy did, the procedure painful and disturbing but ultimately indicating a normal healthy pregnancy.
Secondly, despite my medical background, it was not until Kathy’s water had broken and we were riding the elevator up to delivery, that it finally struck me how, one way or another, this child would be born, naturally or via cesarean section, and the need to evacuate the mother ship guaranteed things were about to get … well … intense. If I had been thinking clearly, I might have appreciated the stupidity of having an impacted wisdom tooth extracted that very morning, wafting the aroma of decay and clotted blood out with every soothing word of support, into the vicinity of a woman harboring a superior sense of smell and a desire to see me dead. But, when Emily Sydney emerged, I crawled out of the doghouse, cut the cord, and did my fatherly duty, reporting back, “Ten fingers, ten toes, perfect.”
When we brought Emily home from the hospital, I felt a twinge of trepidation about introducing Reggie to our new arrival given the challenge of my own initiation into his posse. And it didn’t help that I had become a Howard Hughes germaphobe overnight. The prospect of gaining his approval through an endearing lick from his tongue seemed more like an opportunity to contract disease via oral bacteria. If nothing else I wanted to spare her baby-soft skin a feline sandpaper abrasion. But to my surprise, Reg
gie proved to be intuitively cautious. He would curl up nearby and fall asleep in a manner that took months with me and he avoided direct contact. I interpreted his distance as indifference, maybe even respect, and I concluded that he had accepted our noisy pink interloper.
During the three years of my surgical residency I managed to get back to England only once, a memorable visit by virtue of my awareness of change.
Whiskey and Bess had aged, especially Bess, her muzzle more gray than black, and both dogs had been packing on the pounds. Descriptions over the phone had been verbally airbrushed compared to what I saw in the flesh and it was obvious that my absence had been an opportunity to let the rules slide. I was seeing too many overweight dogs suffering from arthritis, heart disease, kidney disease, and type 2 diabetes not to have an opinion regarding unnecessary overindulgence in the food department. So what if I had started to sound nagging and repetitive? With the disciplinarian away, the unruly kids had taken over, and at dinner one night it almost felt as though my parents were totally unfazed by expectant, hungry snouts resting on the table. Ordinarily, I would have been an outspoken critic but I sensed I had to be careful. If their son visited more often perhaps he would play a bigger part in the dogs’ welfare. If their son visited more often the dinner table would be full of grandchildren and not dogs.
My obligatory “once-over” session found Bess to be in good health, aside from a number of small, smooth, encapsulated lumps just below her skin.
“Almost certainly lipomas—benign fatty growths. But best to have them checked out with your regular vet and then keep an eye on them.”
This discovery of a health issue, albeit minor, and my dependence on a veterinarian other than myself appeared to hit me more than it hit my father. He gushed over their new vet in the Dales and I confess to having felt a pang of jealousy.