Cats Have a Purrpose

The inspiration for this week’s blog comes by Cynn Chadwick, an accomplished writer and professor, as well as a friend of mine from high school. She recently shared her thoughts concerning the passing of a beloved or not so much -depending on what you get out of the piece- family pet, specifically a cat. Dog lover’s stifle your gag reflexes. This piece is not some sort of literary equivalent similar to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama to Neil Young’s Southern Man. What Cynn’s essay did was give me pause, evoking thoughts of son/father/cat relationships. The treatise also struck a nerve. Shea, my son’s cat who resides with my wife and I while my son is away at school, is getting on in years. Though spirited, and in fine health, I know what the future holds.
Shea, like the stadium, is not my son’s first cat. That would be Ramone, like the band where everyone was clad in black. Ramone was a present to my son for his first birthday. The reasons for a cat instead of a dog were numerous. A dog requires walking. My son was one year old; he couldn’t very well do it. Still recovering from a rather severe motorcycle accident, I had enogh trouble walking myself, much less a dog. My future ex-wife worked full time, walking the dog would be just an added unnecessary burden. Sure, she or I could have just let the dog out into our ample backyard to do its business. The problem with that, I would have been assigned poop pickup duty. I had been cleaning up dogshit since I was six, if I didn’t have to, I wasn’t going to. Therefore, we settled on a cat. Cats can be pretty much maintenance-free. Give them food, water, a couple of toys, and a cat box, and they’re good to go. Some are so aloof, there is no need for any interaction with humans. I suspected the frenetic behavior of a toddler would surely test the patience of the most stoic of felines. It was a risk I was willing to take.
On January 10th,1986, my son’s mother and I stopped by a locale animal shelter to see what was available. There was the usual selection of older, probably abandoned, full grown cats. There were full litters of eight week old kittens. Then there was a lone twelve week old black kitten. We surmised that an eight week old was too small. A full grown would be too set in its ways. Ramone was our Goldilocks.
As we approached the cage, the black generic kitten immediately awoke from its slumber to greet us. I pushed my face near the cage for a closer look, the stray purred loudly, reaching its paw through the small opening to gently bat at my face. We asked the volunteer if we could hold him, she obliged. The little kitten seemed thrilled at the attention. It licked my hand, my face, my chin, purring madly the entire time. We were sold, with Ramone in hand, home we went.
Ramone and my son hit it off immediately. Adult one word reminders of “gentle,” “easy,” and “careful” were plentiful for the first couple of hours. My son was quick on the uptake after that. Guests began to arrive for my son’s inaugural celebration. Ramone selected a comfy spot in the middle of the living room floor to nap while the adult humans negotiated around him. Through the tearing of wrapping paper, and much frivolity, Ramone remained sleeping. He had adapted well.
Ramone got into the usual amount of scrapes, with raccoons, opossums, and even other cats, but he always seemed to come out these skirmishes with only minor damage. When it came time for my son to attend school, Ramone would occasionally escort to the end of the driveway, wait for the bus, then cross the street after the coast was clear. In 1993, my son and I moved to Florida. For one month prior to the move, we groomed our next door neighbors who loved Ramone, to take care of him until we got settled, and then we’d send for him. I left behind enough cash for the shipping, and my vinyl classic LP collection. We haven’t seen either since.
When I informed my son that Ramone had run away, he was devastated. I tried to soothe him by promising to make good one day. After our first year in Florida was nearly complete, a co-worker of mine informed me that her cat was having kittens, and was I interested. Bingo! The time had come for a new pet to enhance our lives. I say enhance because studies have shown that people live longer who own cats. See, they’re good for more than visual amusement for humans who are stoned.
My son spent summers with his mother in New Jersey. He was due back the week before school started at the end of August. The kittens were born on the forth of July. Exactly eight weeks, the recommended adopting age, passed when he returned home. The number one priority was not buying school clothes or school supplies that first day back; it was to drive to Kendall to pick out a new kitten.
Only four kittens were in the litter. I received daily updates from my co-worker as to their progress and health. She had given them all temporary names. This woman was obviously a lunatic. I had heard of cat lover’s before, but this was ridiculous. I couldn’t wait for my son to get home so we could put an end to this non-stop barrage of insignificant feline information she alone found so enthralling. She would giggle with glee regaling me with anecdotes about “Holstein,” the lone female in the litter. She told me the kitten had the markings “exactly like a cow, wait till you see it!” She seemed disappointed when I did not share her zeal. She periodically would query me about our living environment, making sure her “babies” were all going to proper homes. I was sure she was loony now. My son would get to witness her eccentricity first hand.
When we arrived at my co-worker’s apartment, my son decided to sit on the floor. I asked why, he said he could better judge the kittens from there. Who’s to argue with a nine-year old? The kittens were all let out at the same time. Within minutes, “Holstein” had made her way upon my son’s lap, and was licking his chin. He declared this is the one. No need to check your tickets ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! “Shea,” he had decided on the name weeks ago when I told him he was getting a kitten; rode home in the car carrier-less, asleep on the back seat.
Unlike Ramone, Shea would be an indoor cat. The rural expanse of Long Valley, may have been fine for Ramone; but the growing ever more congested, zero lot line, call me when done doing five to ten, firecracker up the bunghole when no one is looking, Hitler youth of Pembroke Pines, is no place for an easy going cat like Shea. Yes, that’s right, I said easy going. A stark contrast to my friend’s Jet, the pissy, pissing machine, though they do share some of the same annoying traits.
It is my wife and son that Shea enjoys taking a swipe at, claws out, when either of them walk by, just because she can, without fear of retribution. She wouldn’t dare pull this stunt with me. Why? Because I’m the designated head scratcher. If she wants any of that ever again, she’ll leave my foot and ankles alone. I also change her litter box. She knows which side her bread is buttered on.
If her water or food dish is empty regardless of hour, she let’s out a “meow” that I swear has caused fluid to leak from my ears. She flops, anywhere, at any time, in front of where you are walking. This could cause a wee bit of trouble were my wife and I twenty years older. Then Shea has the audacity to get pissed if you step on her. And if you scold her, she’ll turn her back to you, with her ears laying down, telling “in cat” to whoever is speaking about her, to kiss her ass. She assumes the same position in front of her food dish if what’s in there is not fresh enough to suit her. I did mention cats can be aloof.
She was once fat, a live version of the Kliban Cat, big body, little head. Shea’s motto might as well be “All are welcome ye who enter here!” A visitor, be it a neighbor, close friend, work associate, the UPS driver, an unwelcome solicitor, trips Shea’s inner radar signaling a new arrival. She makes a beeline to said victim, making her figure eight around the legs of the former stranger, her face saying “please pet me, scratch my head, anything but ignore me, because I’m not going away.” Once her mission is accomplished, a firm “Shea that’s enough,” usually sends her on her way, nose in the air, as if scorned. Shea has never had to play second fiddle to anyone or anything. She has been queen of the castle for the last fifteen years.
When it came time for my son to go off to college, he contemplated taking Shea with him. That thought passed rather quickly, and for a myriad of good reasons, I’ll let you think of several. However, I will give him credit for thinking of her. Shea has been “his cat” in title only for quite some time. I don’t think he has ever changed her litter box. Since my son began high school, he has rarely fed or watered her. But, when he comes home for a visit, Shea is on him like white on rice.
Shea has never been one to get on the furniture, save the two beds my son has used over the years. Her favorite spot is upstairs on the former bed in the loft. Shea no longer navigates the steep stairs the way she once did. She has on occasion fallen down, descending those treacherous stairs. When she goes outdoors, she no longer chases the tiny lizards that are so numerous here in South Florida. She sleeps more now, and also drinks more water. She has become more vocal, maybe it’s their version of nagging. All these telltale signs caused my son some consternation this last trip home for the summer.
When it came time for him to make his way back up to Gainesville, he said, “I guess I’d better say good-bye to Shea” as he sideways glanced in my direction. I knew what the look meant. It was the same feeling we shared our last visit to Ohio to see my father. My boy, now a man, might be saying good-bye for the final time to one of the last living remnants of his childhood. He was relived that Shea did not pass while he was home. The day is coming when my son will visit, and he won’t be greeted at the door by “his” cat. I will cry when Shea goes. I will cry alone, with my son, and for him; both of us helpless children that day, coping with the inevitable.