The Cat Who Adopted Us: A Series
Part I
Our first summer here,
Through a wall of what I can only assume was once velvet arborvitaes,
beautiful before they succumb to the hungry winter deer,
she peeked,
and then
she ventured.
Speckled brown and black all over,
even her nose,
truth be to Calico;
regal white chest puffed proudly
like a decorated soldier’s,
and four pristine, white-toed feet
confidently marching towards us.
The littles called her Kitty Friend;
it was mutual love at first sight.
Random rendezvous became daily,
and Meow Mix,
written in kindergarten penmanship,
became a staple on our grocery list.
She slayed a snake
for Jake;
thus, she obtained Hero Status.
August love lingered into Indian summer
and piled on through Autumn’s leaves;
surely brisk winds and snowflakes
would cool the affair come winter.
I shake my head at how naive I was.
Her face appeared one night
haloed in an icy November frost.
My gracious husband,
an old, soft soul, which is why I love him so,
put on his one-size-too-big winter coat,
tucked her inside,
just above the half zipper,
and took her home,
across the road
to her real house
where the garage door had been left open just enough for her to slip underneath
with that stealthy way that cats curve their spines.
I wasn’t present, but I imagine he shoed her in,
turned back toward the road, and,
with his collar up against the bitter wind,
crept back toward our front stoop.
She,
more ambitious and far more expeditious than he,
darted through the now wide-open yawns between the long-ago ravaged arborvitaes.
She appeared and peered once again,
a forlorn soul shadow.
As I closed and locked the patio door behind her,
she found the warmth of the fireplace,
plush carpet beneath her white paws;
perfect place to nest and nap.
In came a whoosh of cold air and snow from the front door,
and boots announced themselves with a heavy stomp.
His incredulous stare went from me, afghaned in the easy chair,
to her,
still nameless except for Kitty Friend,
peacefully curled on the hearth,
and then back to me.
I shrugged:
We have a guest for the night.
Part II
Our children have a new sibling;
an addition to our family we hadn’t quite planned.
A Calico variety with piercing yellow eyes
and a swagger full of mettle and majesty.
She entered our space as if she owned it -
and we are compelled to acknowledge she was here before we were.
Our house has a hunter.
We are safe from vermin who dare to cross onto our space.
Apparently, we are so loved,
we are gifted yields from the hunt:
front row tickets to the slaughter.
True treasures laid at our feet,
such a palatial victory.
As if to say,
See how far I go to safeguard your gates.
She has staked her place as protector,
a Ceberus in feline form who will defend her boys full tilt.
While they have a catch from corner to corner in the backyard,
she circles in the grass as if securing the perimeter,
and then circles herself at the midpoint of the two hurlers,
head up, watching the ball fly back and forth above her,
completely confident she is out of harm’s way; they would never do anything to hurt her.
She used to be standoffish,
almost aloof.
We accepted her affections on her terms:
a quick brush of the tail in the kitchen while we prepared dinner;
to be in the same room with us but an arm’s length away
to assure us of her nobility and independence.
Now she’s become stand-onish,
assuredly assertive.
3:53AM - piercing yellow lanterns shine inches from our noses.
It’s her job to make sure we’re still breathing.
With measured steps,
she conducts her watchparty.
A persistent surveillant.
Our magnanimous guardian.
Part III
In the quiet of a stilled house,
no longer abuzz with running boys armed with bats and balls,
lives a retired mouser.
Her tenure here is long
and storied.
Those charges she was self-appointed to raise
have, in fact, risen.
They are out chasing their dreams,
as quicksilver in their pursuits as she used to be.
Mere echoes of secrets they shared only with her
and beds now too empty to be cozy
are left in their wake.
Drowsy in the warmth of the sun through the glass
on the winter’s day,
her shrinking frame is no longer master of agility;
her quiet purr an ancient hymn.
She waits and watches for her pals to return.
They’re always glad to see her when they do.
Nineteen years a keeper,
a sentinel armed with a feline fierceness full of sass.
She has seen the changing of the seasons.
There is wisdom in her stillness.
A limp in her gait, she meanders hallways,
each step slow and deliberate.
Her whiskers are time’s silver threads,
weaving a love story no one ever suspected would last so long.
Her tail a question mark,
wondering how her boys became men so quickly.
Like Goldilocks, she searches the those empty bedrooms
for want of a perfect spot to nest and nap.
She’s due for a long one.
It’s time, old girl, to lay down your sword and shield.
In quiet dignity,
you can rest.
