Cat One

        Cats are free. No matter where they live or who they live with, they are free. People dislike the characteristic of apparent disregard for others, the impression of being in the cat's space, that you are an outsider in your own home. I think that’s a misinterpretation: what looks like detachment is the constantly shifting calculation of their environment. It's an essential survival strategy requiring a keen eye for detail and objective consideration.

When I was a kid, I didn't know this about cats. To me, they were snuggly lovie fur balls; I desperately wanted one, but my mother was allergic. My children’s father hated cats, so there went another couple of catless decades. To be fair, we had one cat while we lived with him, the father of my children.

*

A neighbor’s son had a long-haired orange cat that went missing, or rather, had not returned from a night out. The youngster, a playmate of my son, was distraught. My son was a kind boy who empathized with his pained pal.

“Joe’s so sad,” he lamented. “He won’t even play. We've looked all around the woods, calling and calling. ‘Leo! Leo! Leo!’ My throat’s scratchy from it. I hope he comes back.” He poured a glass of red Kool-Aid and coughed.

I figured a car hit Leo, and he died in the woods, but I said, "Oh, Leo will probably be back soon. It's not unusual for male cats to be gone for a while in the spring.”

“Hope so.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a red drink stain across his cheek. He headed for the door, hopeful and energetic. “Hey! I’m going to look under our shed," and he was gone.

But no, Leo. 

Days later, My son went to a self-storage facility a few miles from our house to unload furniture with his father. He sulked, unhappy about going, wanting to play with Joe. Plus, it wasn't fun being with his father.

While there, a long-haired orange cat appeared. Friendly, it cried and twined around their legs. His dad stomped his foot and hissed to drive the cat away.

 “Beat it!” he commanded. It vanished behind a dumpster.

 “Dad! It’s Leo!” my son crept around the dumpster calling softly, "Leo, Leo, come here, kitty. It's okay,” making pursed-lipped come-to-me sounds. The cat reappeared meowing and rubbing against him. It did not resist nor struggle when he scooped it into his arms.

“Hey! Throw that damned thing down,” yelled his father. “For Christ’s sake! You know better than that; it’s filthy! You don’t pick up stray cats.”

“But Dad,” he protested. “It’s not a stray; he’s Leo!” The cat rubbed its head against his chin and purred like there was no tomorrow. It nestled hard into the safety of his arms. He did not put the cat down. “See? He knows me!”

“Who the hell’s Leo?” His father asked, disinterested. My son explained and begged to take the cat to Joe. “I found him! I found Leo!” Smiling, his eyes shining, he cradled the cat like the Holy Grail.

“Ya. Okay. Whatever. Unload this table; then you can take the cat to Joe.”

Reluctant to put down his purring prize, my son set him onto the front seat of the truck. The cat waited patiently, sensing this rescue would stick. Beaming and proud, my son scratched the cat’s head and ears and stroked his burr-filled fur. At Joe's house, his father dropped them off. "Don't be screwing around for long. It's suppertime.”

Shortly, as I pulled golden mac and cheese from the oven, my boy came through the kitchen door. He made no eye contact, shoulders slumped, and sullen.

           "What's the matter, honey? What did Joe say? He must have been excited about Leo.” My son looked crushed.

“It’s not Leo; it’s not his cat."

Sliding the hot pan onto the stovetop, I turned to face him. “What do you mean?” He explained: though the cat looked just like Leo, it was not Leo. He was despondent and edgy. He failed his friend and now had a problem: the UnLeo cat and what to do with it.

“Well then where is it? Did the Gallants keep it? You were so sure it was theirs. Is it? Really?” He shook his head no, eyes to the floor.

“Nope, it’s not. They're sure... and they don't want him." Before I could ask, he told me he left the cat in our shed. "Dad won't let us keep it, so I put it in the shed. It's super friendly, just like Leo. I wish he was Leo." He was so sad it broke my heart.

"Well, look, it needs to eat something. Did you feed it? Here…" I pulled a can of tuna from the cupboard. "Let's give him this. And some water. After supper, we can figure out litter. Come on, go feed him, then let's eat."

By then, my daughter appeared and asked what was going on. My son, opening the can of tuna, was revitalized as a savior once again as he explained. "A kitty? Really?" Incredulous, she squealed, pulling the boy from his funk.  He took her outside to see the cat; the music of their merry voices trailed away toward the shed. I smiled.

But I knew trouble was brewing. The children's father hated cats; he hated change, and he hated giving over control.

My daughter bounced back into the house, jubilant. “Kitty needs milk!” She declared, digging for a dish. “And I need a brush. He’s got prickers in his fur, so I need to brush him."

“Whoa, missy! No milk for him yet, and we'll find a brush. But supper first. We'll have to talk to Dad about the cat." Her shoulders dropped knowing we would face the great joy killer. At supper, the kids were silent. My daughter fidgeted, her mind on the shed. My son was unenthusiastic about his favorite mac and cheese.

They both were in caretaking mode and in love. The cat, the UnLeo, was also in love with them, at home with people, even before his sumptuous tuna meal. He was ravenous but not timid or skittish. He wanted to be with them. Cats have intuition about humans; they know precisely who to cosey up to and who to avoid. Observant of body language and nuances, they sense who to manipulate toward their ends. They adjust on a case-by-case basis. And so it was with UnLeo and us.

At supper, I announced to their father that the cat, as it turned out, was not the Gallants’ Leo and was in our shed. The air suddenly changed, ionized with tension. It was subtle. Did we detect body language, a corner of his eyes narrowing, a sound? I could not have said. But we all knew it. Always followed by silence, the usual choking silence.   

My daughter couldn’t restrain herself. “Daddy, can we keep him? Pleeeeease? I love him so much! And he loves me!” She was at her cutest and most endearing when faced with the obstacle of her father. Even the Prince of Darkness could succumb to her. “We’ll take care of him, we promise. Say yes…please?” Her voice now soft and trailing away with flawless timing. Little girls can be as clever as cats.

But it was I who pronounced a reality check. "Well, wait just a minute. First, we’ve got to find out whose cat it is. It may belong to someone." I bound their yearning desire to duty with the light of hope in one sentence. I didn’t think for a minute that we would find UnLeo’s owner, but it was a lesson in managing the intensity of their desire.         They crafted signs to post - “Lost Cat” with wonky text and crayon drawings of a cat that resembled an fat cheese puff. The notices were to be posted for two weeks, then taken down (message: don't leave your garbage behind). Like a cat, I was manipulating their father. The distance of time might soften his resistance.

The phone did not ring for UnLeo. I prepared the kids for the probability that soon, we would take the cat to the shelter. Privately, I hoped to finagle a workaround. I wanted the cat in our lives, too.

At supper, without prelude, their father said "Bring that cat into the house. I don’t want it pissing in the shed, and it better not piss in the house. No stinking litter box either. I won't have it shitting in this house.” He didn’t look up from his plate of chilli. “And take it to the vet.”

 The air eddied with joy and confusion. I had expected him to demand we take the cat to the shelter. Then, I'd either have to be confrontational or help the kids deal with the grief of parting with UnLeo (who they were already sneaking into the house). But not this. We never knew with their father which direction he’d come from. 

 The vet said that UnLeo was most likely abandoned at the self-storage unit. He saw it often: people moving, harried, out of options for their pets, left them in the hope they would find new homes. Powerful are the delusions spawned by desperation. Of course, many of the cats died. This emaciated cat was otherwise healthy and neutered. With his free affection, UnLeo jostled the vet from his perfunctory state of "one more stray cat."

 "What a sweetheart he is! He'll make a great cat,” he pronounced with a finality that sealed UnLeo's place. 

Just like that, UnLeo slid into our lives. The kids renamed him Sandy (cats are flexible about names), and he was a fine feline. He deftly maneuvered around Daddy Darkness successfully most of the time, as did we. Sandy gave us comfort as if it was his job. He never failed to deliver and knew when it was needed. While I recovered from a hysterectomy, he curled gingerly into my stomach, the warmth better than drugs. Sandy knew the perfect distance from my son’s head for rhythmic purring when my boy's migraines struck. On weekends, my daughter dressed him in baby clothes and carted him around in a doll carriage. A good soldier, he did not resist, his golden eyes shining with love.

Eventually, I changed our lives and removed the children's father. Sandy stayed with us, but he did not. While we struggled through a time of sorrow, fear, and chaos, Sandy was a golden thread.

When he slept in patches of sun, he glowed. The movement from his soft breathing rippled his fur like amber, gold, and tangerine flames, flames so tender one might touch. He was absorbing the energy for the balance he radiated to us.

After our lives stabilized, Sandy died, his mission complete. Though I couldn't spare the money, I had him cremated. I told myself my daughter needed the box of ashes, a transitional object for closure.

But I needed the box. I carried the talisman through my life for over twenty years, the soft pine edges rounded and grungy from the touch of our hands. When I was healed enough to know that Sandy's glow came from inside of me, I released him and spread his ashes.

*