©
2013 Linda Goodman
I
cannot remember a time that I did not love cats. When I was little,
any kitty would do. I loved having a little ball of fur curled up on
my lap while I scratched behind its ears and listened to the little
motor inside it, the one that purred until my fingertips tingled.
In
1970 I was given a seal point Siamese cat as an engagement present. I
named him Beau Garcon, and I did not expect to like him. I had seen
Lady
and the Tramp,
and the Siamese cats in that movie were EVIL!!! Beau, however, turned
out to be my dream cat. He followed me from room to room, and
whenever I sat down, he jumped onto my lap immediately and stared up
at me with his sky blue eyes. He loved to have his ears scratched and
his purr was a lullaby. Beau was also vocal. His meows
and his whyyyys
filled the house, especially when he was annoyed or excited.
After
Beau passed on, I had three other Siamese cats, and they all
possessed that same sweet temperament, that same degree of affection,
and that same vocal hardiness. It would have been impossible for me
to not love them. In fact, I spoiled them rotten.
When
my daughter was born, however, my cats had to play second fiddle. I
could hardly believe that this delightful little red-headed infant
who never stopped smiling was my child. I was so fascinated with her
capacity for joy (an enigma to me) that nothing else seemed to
matter. Every free minute I had was hers.
Years
later, though, my daughter went to bed one evening a normal kid and
woke up the next morning a teenager. Being seen in the presence of
her parents was a rare form of torture to her. Trying too hard to win
back her affection just made things worse.
Instead
of mourning the time I had once spent with my daughter, I adopted a
petite seal point Siamese cat that I named Marisa. She was the runt
of her litter and had been neglected by her mother. Every other cat I
ever had knew instinctively how to use the litter box. Marisa was the
first cat that I had ever actually had to potty train. She was quite
pitiful. She needed me, and I needed to be needed. I lavished all my
pent up affection on her. She adored being the light of my life and
we became inseparable.
In
1988, my father passed away and my mother came to live with me. Mama
did not like cats, and she wanted to make sure that I knew it. As we
left her Virginia apartment and began driving the ten hours to my
home in Connecticut, she asked, “Do you still have that cat?”
“Of
course, Mama,” I told her. “You know that I love that cat.”
A
few hours down the road, Mama said, “You know I don't like cats.
They can take your breath away and smother you in your sleep.”
“Mama,
that is just an old mountain superstition,” I insisted. "Marisa
sleeps with me every night and hasn't smothered me yet."
A
few more hours down the road, Mama warned me, “Cats will tear your
furniture up with their long, sharp claws.”
“Marisa
has been with me for years and has never clawed any of my furniture,”
I assured her.
When
we finally arrived at my house, I helped my mother to the kitchen
door. Marisa was waiting for us. She and Mama glared at one another
for a minute or two before Marisa retreated to the far side of the
room.
The
next day, while I was making dinner, Marisa rubbed her lean body
against my leg as Mama watch us with extreme distaste plastered all
over her face. “I don't see how you can stand a cat in the
kitchen!” she snapped.
“Mama,”
I said sweetly, an idea forming itself in my head, “what you don't
understand is that Marisa is special.”
“I
don't see anything special about it,” she retorted.
“Mama,
that's because you don't know that Marisa can talk,” I informed
her.
“Huh!”
she barked in disbelief. “Cat's can't talk!”
As
if on cue, Marisa walked slowly and elegantly to the kitchen door and
cried “Meow!”
“See,”
I told Mama, “she said 'Me out'.”
Mama,
her face as pale as a ghost, gasped! “Why, it did sound like she
said “Me out'!”
I
looked a Marisa and said, “No, Marisa, you can't go out.”
“Whyyyys?”
was her plaintive response.
I
looked at Mama and said, “See, she wants to know why she can't go
out.”
“Why....it
did sound like she asked you 'why'!” Mama was beside herself. “What
else can she say?”
“Marisa
is a cat of few words, Mama,” I confided. “She mostly likes to
listen. And she is real good at keeping secrets.”
After
I finished the dishes that evening, I went downstairs to the family
room. As I approached the doorway, I could see Mama sitting on the
sofa with Marisa curled up beside her. Marisa's sky blue eyes stared
up into Mama's as Mama gently rubbed the top of Marisa's head. Mama
was whispering to Marisa, telling her about my father and how hard it
had been to lose him.
They
did not know that I was listening, and I did not want to interrupt
this most special moment. I walked back upstairs, knowing that I
would have to get used to sharing Marisa's affection for as long as
Mama chose to live with us. I hoped that would be a long time.
