Many years ago, Barbara Walters had a syndicated daytime program called “Not for Women Only.” I never saw the show, just saw the listings, but as a child of about six or seven, I remember wondering if the title was meant to be INCLUSIVE, so that men should watch as well, or EXCLUSIVE, stating that the only group that the program is NOT for would be women.
So I chose a variation on that for the title of this little piece. A year or so ago, I wrote here about the pets that I inherited briefly after my divorce. We lost one this week, and there are few of you out there who can’t identify with the emotions of that. But I find myself strangely moved by this one, and I’m hoping that sharing these feelings with all of you will help me and my daughter feel a little bit better.
I haven’t been much of a cat person since my childhood friend Samantha didn’t come home one day to our home in the country. Mom suspects that she was killed on the road, or perhaps in a hunter’s trap, but I guess I never shook the feeling that, as a species, cats could take or leave us human beings. I was so young at the time, I didn’t recall a lot of close, intimate moments with Samantha. She was a beautiful black cat, named after Elizabeth Montgomery’s character on “Bewitched,” which Mom and I would watch in the mornings over summer vacation.
Fast forward to the last couple of years of my 23 year marriage. One late afternoon and early evening, an orange tabby followed my wife and daughter home when a big rainstorm was due. At the time, we already had a pair of dogs, and I was less than enthusiastic about adopting this cat, but as my wife and daughter pointed out, I couldn’t very well turn it out in the rain either. Just keep him in the sun room tonight, and tomorrow, we’ll turn him out.
Well, you can see where this is going. The cat was fond of my daughter, but he immediately figured out that I was going to be the one that needed the convincing. Suffice it to say, that the cat quickly became a fixture in our home. And so did his pee, because during the first week of his residence, he was relieving himself on EVERYTHING. We took him to the vets, and after a few expensive overnights, he was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection, meaning that he’d need a special food for the rest of his life. Yes, folks, our “free” cat cost us a cool grand the first week of residence, and immediately afterwards, our vet was sporting a new, fancy neon sign in front of the practice, with a lot of cute puppies and kittens on the marquee. I found it downright insulting that ours wasn’t included.
As my marriage was winding down, the only creature, among my wife, children, and two dogs that greeted me at the door every night was Panzer. Aka Lucky Cat. Aka his most common nomenclature, Puss-Puss. It didn’t matter if I walked in the door at my usual time or hours later, the cat was there waiting to rub against my leg. When the full emotions began to hit me during the last days that I resided in my house, Puss was always there, at my side, and on my side. The dogs had been put down in quick succession before the separation proceedings got underway, and my daughter, son and I each got a dog for company. And as my earlier column attests, it was I that got custody of my daughter’s dog and Puss for a year while she served her sentence in the freshman dorm. The diagnosis of Puss at that time became diabetes.
Puss knew abandonment. So does my dog, Casey. So the three of us had that in common. Puss hated to be picked up and held, and he would always loudly protest when this happened. But at the same time, he understood that it was all part of the deal, and if he REALLY didn’t like it, blood would be shed. He also loved his pet dogs. He’d show his affection in very practical ways. He’d prance around the kitchen counter in my apartment, looking for something left out, food or otherwise, that the dogs might enjoy, and would push it to the floor. And since fair is fair, he’d jump up to the very top of my kitchen cabinets, and industriously chew a hole into the bag of dog food and help himself to that.
He also enjoyed occasionally sticking out a paw and thwacking an unsuspecting canine nose for sport. Yes, he was curmudgeonly, but I’ve known few cats that enjoyed the canine species as much as did our Puss Puss.
I was happy to hand him off to Elise when she moved into her own place and was able to keep her own zoo. But at the same time, I will never forget the love that this cat showed me when I needed it the most. As I’d drive down to Columbus to visit my daughter, with Casey, Puss was always glad to see me. Even when we’d video chat, he’d protest, but I could tell, he liked to make sure that I was eating okay.
Once at Elise’s, he began to have insulin shots in hopes that his diabetes could be kept in check. Elise did a fine responsible job of finding a good deal on insulin so that she could afford to give him the best possible care on a college student’s budget. She had boyfriend Brett well trained to give him the shots. Sadly, his final life began to wane quickly, and Elise had to make the most painful decision she’s ever had to make tonight. That decision made her daddy proud.
I told her that this cat lived, because of her steadfast commitment, four to five years longer than he should have. He was loved, and he was king. That’s important to cats. To be in charge. Part of me weeps, however, for the cat who taught me that much of their aloofness is for show. Puss probably knew what was happening to me before I did. And when no one else was there for me, he was, just as we were for him. He made sure that when the place I called home became emotionally barren for me, I would still feel that brush against my leg the moment my foot crossed the threshold. In a strange way, I’m feeling that brush now as I write these words, perhaps from the Rainbow Bridge itself. And Samantha is doubtlessly brushing up against him as well, to thank him for taking such good care of me.
http://accesswdun.com/article/2017/2/502688/not-for-cat-lovers-only