1994 ~ this is where things derailed

Manny has been very sick this week—so sick, in fact, that he spent a night at the vet’s with a tiny IV replenishing the fluids that had been lost from his once-pudgy little body. He is now stable enough to be at home, but he doesn’t feel much like doing most of the things he usually does. He now spends his time sitting on our laps, at least when we are home, and as I sit listening to his purr my mind wanders back through all the years we have been together.

During his younger years Manny enjoyed climbing things: trees, wood fences, curtains, walls. Yes, walls. My parents have lovely wood-trimmed walls in their log home, and during our stays there Manny and his sister Uma loved to race up the cedar balcony stair railing as fast as they could, precariously clutching the wood hanging one story over the living room—and continuing on up the second-story wall until they nearly reached the top, glancing around wildly with tails snapping as I hopped around in the living room below, just waiting for a cat to spill down from above.

Sometimes, though, the climbing just goes wrong. Manny once saucily climbed nearly to the top of a tall California coastal pine, realizing only too late that he was just a bit too high to back down the tree. I heard his plaintive call as I worked in the garden, and I looked up to see a panicked orange cat high up on a broken branch 30 feet overhead. The branch overhung a tall city fence topped with three strands of slanted barbed wire, and just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse two enormous crows noticed the commotion and settled their flapping, cawing selves on an opposite branch to watch with eagerness.

RT came outside to view the scenario, and he smoked without a word while I paced and panicked. He finished his smoke and walked inside, again without a word, returning a short time later with two Army-green duffle bags which he calmly began to unpack. As I looked on in astonishment, RT hooked himself up in full rappelling gear, tucked one empty duffle into his belt, and began his ascent up the tree. The neighbors who were now peeking out every window witnessed the sight of RT heroically grabbing a frightened and very unhappy cat from the end of a tree branch, packing kitty into a duffle, and lowering the bag to the ground on an improvised pulley while I helpfully called out, “Do not drop that cat!” The contents of that duffle unpacked itself at full force like a flurry of razor-armed ninjas when I untied the top—and RT lowered himself to the ground, repacked his gear, and silently returned to the house to finish watching football while I made myself a stiff early-afternoon drink.

Then there were the strawberries. Before I lived on the sandy coast of California, I lived a few miles inland in the Salinas Valley—the “Salad Bowl of the World.” The weather was beautiful, the soil was rich, and all manner of plants, herbs, fruits and vegetables grew in my little yard bordering the huge fields of the valley. One spring I had the bright idea of growing enormous, juicy Sequoia strawberries in the window boxes of the house. We could enjoy the decadent pleasure of reaching out the window to pick a lovely, sweet strawberry any time we wished. This made RT very happy.

It also made Manny very happy. Manny loved to sit on the lattice over the patio and look at the valley and the mountains beyond, but even more than this he loved his new sweet-smelling litter box with the best view in town. RT was crushed to reach in one day and find his lovely strawberry boxes had been so desecrated. I believe he still nurses a grudge about it.

Room with a View

I also recall a lazy California afternoon I spent watching movies on the couch. I heard Manny playing in the hallway, and I got up once to see him batting around one of his toys. I returned to my movie, and when I finally arose for a snack I walked into the hallway to witness a macabre game of kitty soccer—with a dead mouse. I still shudder when I remember cleaning the little blood streaks from the tile floor.

Come to think about it, most of the memories I have of Manny involve mischief of one kind or another: the time I came home to find him thoroughly stuck in the rattan handle of a new handbag (RT again to the rescue, this time with a saw). Walking past the dishwasher and hearing a muffled cry (luckily, when it comes to doing dishes I always procrastinate). The terrible New Year’s Day dog fight, and learning that there are actually veterinary maxillofacial surgeons. Coming home to find a wild bird flying around the bedroom. Climbing into bed at night and feeling bits of cat litter at the bottom of the sheets. Climbing back out of bed and wishing I had put on slippers before discovering the cold, sticky hairball on the floor next to the bed. That icy winter night driving across Kansas when Manny used his travel litter box and it was too cold to roll down the window.

So many years of naughtiness. Why have I put myself through this? As I think back to all the trouble this damn cat has put me through, other memories drift through my mind. Sunny afternoons in the garden, when he would contentedly watch me digging around my plants for hours at a time. The way he gazes up with wide eyes and gently requests my attention with a velvet paw, and the way he loves to lounge on my lap with his little paw clutching one of my fingers. His morning visits to my vanity counter to watch (and help) me put on my makeup. His amazing willingness to gently place a live mouse in my hand—without a scratch—if I ask him to. His forgiveness in curling up some nights next to a large dog—despite the fact that he was very nearly killed by one. That one sad, awful night years ago when I lay miserably in bed and he came to lay on my chest, pressing his face against mine and laying his paw on my cheek until I fell asleep to the comforting sound of his purr. Our years of wandering together, packing up and moving, of waking up in so many different hotel rooms in so many different towns—with each other’s faces the only familiar things around us. And that summer day in 1994 when I saw those two little golden faces staring at me from a box on a loading dock, and things changed forever. Oh, how I didn’t know then what trouble awaited me in the years to come. Sweetness and trouble mixed together so tightly I can’t always tell where one stops and the other begins: the essence of the cat, I suppose. But so many years have gone by now, so much of me is intertwined with that persnickety cat that I couldn’t extricate myself from his grip if I tried. His naughtiness is all mine, and dearer for it.

And so we plow forward, not knowing what lies ahead and leaving bits of history behind us like bread crumbs on a wandering path. As I look down into his golden eyes I wonder what trouble he is planning as he purrs and plots. Maybe, unlike me, he knows exactly what lies ahead and he finds the game greatly amusing.

I wouldn’t put it past him.

Don’t let the squishiness fool you. This is evil in its purest form.