I know I’m a cat lover, always have been. But yesterday I received a powerful lesson in just how much these gorgeous creatures mean to me.
Recently our washing machine began leaking and making an awful crunching sound on the spin cycle. I knew without even calling my handy fix-it man that the machine was entering its last throes of life.
So yesterday two pleasant guys arrived at my doorstep with a brand new, ice cream white Maytag in hand–literally. As I always do for repairmen hefting large, expensive, potentially destructive objects, I hopped around, opening the door for them, pushing aside the door mat, coaching them as they eased the bulk down the narrow stairs to the utility room–and completely neglected, for the first and only time in umpteen years of homeownership and a kabillion repair jobs, to SHUT THE DOOR AFTER THE MEN CAME IN THE HOUSE LUGGING THE NEW WASHER.
I then assisted these fellows in blotting up the water on the floor that had accumulated under the old washer–neglecting to remember that said outer door HAD NOT YET BEEN SHUT.
After briefly admiring the gleaming new machine–again not having even an inkling that THE FRONT DOOR WAS STILL AJAR– I left the lower level of the house, fretting over the mud (not too much) that had been tracked in on our newish, 100% recycled carpeting (yes, Mohawk makes a line that is entirely recycled pop bottles), climbed the stairs and saw–the front door standing wide open in the spring breeze.
My first thought was of mosquitos, bugs, and such. Quickly dismissing that concern due to the tenderness of the season, my second thought was that the door must have been open for at least five minutes and my mind jumped to our two beloved cats, Lucy and Majie.
Now in order to understand what happened to me after this, you need to know two things about me. No, you need to know three things. Sorry, four.
First, these cats are new to our home, having been adopted a year ago (Majie as a kitten) and they replaced the most magnificent cat–a large caramel-colored elegant, feisty, affectionate, intelligent beast who died of a tumor two years ago–a cat lover could ever wish for. Second, this is the first summer in 22 years that I am sans children. Third, I was unusually tired yesterday. And finally, that in the last six months or so I have lost several close friends (to death, and to ruptured relations).
On the other hand, maybe the above is drivel!
Maybe what happened is just what happens when something, anything–human or animal–near and dear is threatened, missing, gone.
Maybe our pets really do mean all they seem to mean to us, regardless of this or that stage in our life, who or what they ’stand for’ or ‘replace’, what is or isn’t happening elsewhere in our lives with friends and family.
Maybe pets really ARE as important as people!
Because, surely if one of my kids had wandered out of the house at a very young age, and I couldn’t locate him or her, I would have gone stark nuts–or damn near close to it–which is what happened.
First I wandered about the house calling Majie’s name (Lucy was sound asleep in her favorite spot, oblivious to me).
I asked the men if they’d seen a completely black–as black and lustrous as fine velvet–young male cat outside. A sweet and sleek cat, completely without malice or claws (or so it seems), intelligent, and affectionate. No, they replied, looking guilty. They had, after all, left the door open.
I felt panic tighten around my throat. I knew it was over the top; Majie had never been out of doors, showed no interest in going outside, and was, really, a bit timid. But where was he? Typically, he is dog-like in his attention to me, showing up silently wherever I am, landing soundlessly on table, countertop, couch, or chair beside me, watching, waiting to be admired, stroked.
The men left. The door shut. No black cat appeared. I called, and called again.
I combed the house on hand and knee, checking under every chair, couch, table top. I kept calling. I checked all corners, behind all furniture. I even opened closets and doors that I knew had been shut when the men arrived.
I went outside. Anxiety rose, my voice became pinched. I circled the house, navigated it again. Ran into my neighbor, who suggested calling the repairmen; she had a cat years ago that jumped into an open repair truck!
Could it be possible? Would a cat run out an open door and jump into a truck?
Possibly.
I reentered the house, retraced my earlier steps, searched my mind for any nooks I’d forgotten, consulted Lucy again who stared back with sleepy emerald eyes. I called my husband, and started crying. He sounded distressed. My fears rose.
Again I left the house, circumnavigated our yard and garden, and the yards of our immediate neighbors.
Then I did it all again!
A neighbor’s black and white male, I remembered, sometimes roams the entire block so got into my car and drove, slowly, up and down our block, and the blocks immediately adjacent.
Nothing. Only other drivers and walkers giving me curious looks.
I returned home, entered the house, and broke down, crying as if I’d just learned that someone I loved had died, as if my heart was breaking. I couldn’t imagine never seeing this cat again.
A cat!
I called my husband again, crying, causing him to come close to throwing on his coat and rushing home.
Then a voice inside me got louder. First, it said, you need to eat something (and I did need to eat). Then you need to think.
I started, on autopilot, slapping together a sandwich. I stopped. The voice said, remember when J’s family visited for Passover and Majie ran and hid? Where was he?
I ran upstairs, entered our bedroom, and as I walked over to a low table in one of its corners, I found myself saying, please, oh please, let him be behind it. I was already in Kubler-Ross’s bargaining stage! Bent over the table, looked behind it, expecting to see black fur. Nothing.
Saw our closet doors, went and opened them, half expecting to see him inside, knowing the closet had been shut all morning. Nothing.
Entered our son’s room. Again saw Lucy asleep on her favorite pillow.
Nothing
made
sense.
Saw the large black rectangle of N’s amplifier, pushed up against his bookshelf, under a spare table we’ve been storing in his room while he is away.
Large black amplifier Up against bookshelf Space between books and back of amplifier Crouch down Lean over Look down
Two large amber eyes glitter up at me, blink with heavy sleep, blink again.
In a delicious instant, all is normal again. Majie ambles out from his secret enclosure, seeking a pickup. I lift him, cuddle him. I am, of course, beyond relief.
But more pressing is trying to make sense out of my response to his hour–hour and a half?–of being missing. Does this cat, this nine pound feline, really mean all that to me?
Good grief, this is a bad as having a child–without all the work and expense and headaches! Giving birth and realizing, Hello! Guess what? You’re never, ever going to be happy again unless this small bundle of a human being is happy, healthy, safe, and well. Welcome to the wonderful world of being a parent, you sap!
But that is with a child, a human child…how and when did our pets attain this status in my psyche?
I have no answer to this.
Here, though, is a photo of the beast who caused all this trouble.
Lovely creature that he is, I still don’t get it.
