Just recently, my Mom told me that I have never loved any of my animals the way she had loved Kitty. Kitty was whom I got after months of begging, which culminated in sobbing my way out of Pet Supplies Plus and wailing myself into the backseat of her idling car. In a fit of tween drama, I choked out a description of the little herd of kittens piled in a playpen — strategically stationed like eye-candy — in the center of the store. She sighed and finally relented, slightly. She would talk with our Landlord. As a long-time renter and all grown-up with grown kids of my own, I can guarantee you she was hoping to play it off. Let the owner be the bad guy. But that backfired big time and our Landlord was not only fine with the idea, but asked if we would adopt one from his cat’s recent litter.
When my Mom and I picked up Kitty, we knew nothing about cats. Well, I was eleven — so what did I know about anything? My Mom was already well on her way to becoming a master of research in her field, but researching cat care was not included in that field. We arrived with absolutely no equipment and the poor cat shook in my cupped hands as I carried her to the car. Immediately, she climbed up on the rear deck and curled her tiny self into the far corner. In the exact opposite order that common sense allows, we then drove to the pet store and left the kitten to roam free in the Buick. I don’t even think we bought a cat carrier, instead spending an exorbitant amount of time considering food and bedding. It was nothing short of a miracle that we returned to a car that was still in the exact same condition as we had left it, and being totally feline ignorant we didn’t even realize our luck.
When we got home, we simply placed her on the kitchen floor and began prepping dinner. While we chopped vegetables and set the table, Kitty roamed her new home — probably searching for a litter box and panicking over what she had gotten herself into. It was my Dad, always the voice of reason in these situations, who suggested that maybe we get on that, when I called him at the office to fill him in on every detail about my new cat whom he’d be meeting in about ten minutes. While his steak sizzled in the broiler, we got the litter set up in my bedroom and then searched the house. After retrieving Kitty from behind the toilet, where she was surely trying to figure out how she could make that fixture work for her, I gently placed her in the little box. She immediately christened it while looking up at me in mute appreciation.
We hadn’t bought any dishes, so my Mom poured a lifetime supply of cat food into a soup bowl, and when she didn’t come padding right over decided to give her a little side dish of milk, as well. It’s a wonder this cat survived her first night. Since she was mine, Kitty slept with me and my Dad insisted that the door had to be shut, in case her thundering paws woke him during the night. She slept above my head, and then scratched my exposed arm till it bled to wake me the following morning. For some reason, this setup was never reconsidered.
My Mom decided to work from home that day so she could stay with my new pet, while I was at school. Upon returning that afternoon, I found them sitting at the table — enveloped in each other’s arms, both looking blissful and a little guilty. Apparently, while I had been surviving another day of grade school, Kitty had peed on the bed and when my Mom sternly placed her in the litter box, she cooperated while gazing up at her.
“And that was it,” is how she dreamily wraps up this story, everytime. It’s a story I have heard so often, I can now lip sync along with her monologue. She thinks of this pivotal bonding as the defining moment in their love story. A Jerry McGuire shoplifting the p….y. moment if I ever heard one, I feel, is much more fitting. Their bond remains untouched to this day. She speaks rhapsodically of this traitorous little feline, who continued to sleep in my room and wake me with her morning ritual for years. For Kitty, she endured a bronchial cough for decades. For Kitty, she kept a picture on her bedside table long after the fact. Not of her only child, but the cat! And how does she compare our levels of love for our animals? For Kitty, she would have given a kidney.
“You would never do that,” she tells me, and you know, I can’t argue the point. While I have loved Kitty, Annie, Sam, Psycho, Rusty, Utah, Fridgie, Pancho, Kung Pao, Velcro, Chloe, Mocha and Missy, an organ donation has just never crossed my mind.
“This is your standard of love for a cat, Mom?”
“Yes. I think you like your animals, but I don’t think you love them.”
“Mom, I think giving your kidney to a cat takes love to a whole new level.”
“Maybe, so. Oh, but I loved that cat.” Her voice is growing watery now.
“Yes, Mom, we know!”
“She’ll be waiting for me on the other side!”
I’m lip syncing. “Whatever you say.”
“See,” she tells me. “You don’t love your animals, because you don’t think they’ll be waiting on the other side.”
“So, now I have to give a kidney and visit with one of my dead cats as soon as I get over there?”
“Yes. Otherwise, you don’t love them, Bec.”
“I think I’m going to reserve my kidneys for my kids. And if Kitty happens to be there to greet me, I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”
“Oh, she’ll be with me.”
“So, you can both be there to greet me…Right?”
There’s a pause, and I know she’s weighing her options. Share sacred time with Kitty? “We’ll see.”
We wrap up our daily conversation and I feed my trio of cats who, having gotten an earful, will now have to go to feline therapy to process their owner’s selfish desire to reserve all her organs for the ones she loves best.
