Cat Tales

I have a history of cats. It stretches back about three decades to my pre-teen years and my first one, Snuffy.

Snuffy was black and white, unremarkable to the naked eye, but to me, he was wonderful. I don't remember much about him, except that one day he disappeared outside and my heart broke.

After school one cold, rainy afternoon, I scoured the neighborhood looking for him, piece of cheese as lure in tow. I knocked on every door up and down the block, to no avail. Crushed and lonely for Snuffy, I trudged back home.

The next morning as I was halfway down the block on my way to school, my mother called for me out the front door. "Snuffy's home!" she yelled, and I ran back as fast as I could. He had come home to me! I hugged and kissed him. Then one day he was gone again. I don't remember what happened to him, but Snuffy was no more.

Oreo came next. I am not sure where these cats came from; they just seemed to appear at our house. Oreo, too, was black and white, and I don't remember him being particularly friendly, nor was I very close with him. He used to dig up the dirt of my mother's house plants, so the next time we went to visit my aunt and cousins on their farm, he went with and did not return with us.

Sam, a beautiful Russian blue came to live with us before I left home. He was velvety grey, large, solid and staid. After I was married, he came to live with us in our condo in Pontiac. Then one day he got a brother.

In the fall I heard a mewing outside the patio door and when I went to investigate, there was a small, long-haired tiger-style kitten looking up at me. I asked Jim if we could keep him and he said no. I was sad, but we still had Sam and I loved him. Then the next spring the little one came back, only this time he was very big! He stood once again at the patio door and meowed until I came. I immediately recognized him and this time Jim acquiesced.

I checked the obvious places to see what we should name this cat; she became Lucy. It wasn't until I took her to the vet that I sheepishly renamed him Lou.

Lou was a Maine Coon cat. He was so big until you gave him a good soaking, then he sagged, skinny and mad. He drooled. Very often one could find him sitting on the arm of the couch, saliva hanging from his mouth and pooling on the fabric, as he was petted and scratched by a human. He shed like the dickens, but he was worth every single hair that ever worked its way into my blankets, formed tumbleweeds in the corners of my kitchen. When I got divorced, Jim got Sam, I kept Lou.

As my newly singular life progressed, I acquired another cat, Ellie. A friend's cat had a litter of kittens and the instant I saw them, I knew one had to be mine, especially since we shared a birthday!

I took Ellie home when she was eight weeks old. She was so tiny, when she stuck her pin-thin claws into my shirt, I could have worn her as an accessory. She spent her first night with me on my bed, lost amid the folds of what probably felt like miles of field to her, romping, waking me, purring in my ear. We were fast friends.
The years passed. I was remarried and living in a flat in Ferndale with my new husband and two cats whom he had come to love as well. Late one night Lou came into the bedroom. I picked him up and brought him in bed with us; he stared at me, breathing through an open mouth. Of course this was abnormal since animals breath through their noses. I wondered if I should take him to the emergency vet; something didn't feel right. It was 11:30 on a work night - I decided to see how he was in the morning and go from there.

In the morning I looked for Lou. I called and called for him. No answer. I went into the basement, getting a worse and worse feeling with every stair I took. And there was my Lou, on the floor of the basement, dead.

I'd never had a pet die before. They were always gone, given away, before they ever had a chance to die at our house. I fell apart. I cried for hours and hours, days and days. I wore sunglasses at work, sobbed during a production of "Forever Plaid," berated myself over and over for my selfishness, for not wanting to take him to the vet so late at night. If only, if only…

The doctor thought he died of an asthma attack. Lou had never had problems before, but he said that can happen to cats sometimes. I still miss big, drooly Lou.

Soon after Lou died, a friend told me that her sister had to find a new home for her kitten. That was Noodles. But when Madeleine came along a few years later, neither Ellie nor Noo took well to her; we had to find them new homes.

Now Ben and Jack share our home, grace our lives. After two dog fiascoes, I realize that we are strongly cat people. Cats are so aloof, it feels like winning something when they deign to pay attention to you. I love cats, everything about them. They look good and act cool. They never need a bath unless they get into something awful, and they never make more noise than a dull thud when they jump from somewhere, rarely disturbing you.

In other words, cats rule, dogs drool.