When I was six, I began lobbying my parents for a pet. I was determined. Anything with fur, I would take. I had a stuffed dog that I carried around with me at all times. I got an old bowl down from the kitchen shelves and pretended to feed it. I do think that might’ve swayed my dad a little. I can’t remember exactly what he said to Mom, but after observing me tilting the stuffed animal and balancing it on its nose in the bowl, he said something equivalent to “She seems to be serious about this pet thing.”
I remember distinctly the day of my 7th birthday. The station wagon (green… always green) came up the gravel drive and Dad got out. He was wearing a tan trench coat. As he came through the kitchen door, I could see he was holding something under that coat. Rather unceremoniously, he handed the object to me. A spindly, legs-straight-out, panicked Siamese kitten. I was amazed. Utterly. Dad got me a cat! Mom didn’t want any cats — she had said so. But Dad got it, and I learned later that Mom was on board, too. They had decided that I was ready. And truth be told, Dad loved animals. He was nearly as tickled as I about this skinny gray-point mewer. The kitten was a wiggly thing, and he scrambled away from me and fled under furniture. Within a half hour of having him in the house, we were forced to upturn the couch and dig him out of the upholstery underneath. It was an auspicious beginning.
That kitten was named Sahib. My brother Jeff thought of that one, and it was an apropos moniker. “Sahib” is the polite way to address an Indian male. Sahib wasn’t so much Indian, but he was male, and we wanted to start out politely, so it worked. I did have to ask Jeff a number of times what it was. “What did we name him again?” “Sah-heeb,” Jeff would answer. I think it took me a good week to remember. But then it was in stone, forever. Sahib. Heebie. The Heebs. It was perfect. A bit later my brother Ben gave him the middle name of “Hobbim.” Sahib Hobbim. My boy. And thus began my lifelong connection to cats. I will never be without one, I do hope. If I end up being institutionalized as an elder, I insist to be in a place where I can have a cat. That has to be an absolute.
Sahib was the first. Then came Fuzz, a random stray who had some pronounced abandonment issues. His entire name, also dubbed by my brother Ben, was Fuzz Link Crinkle Stink Pink Dink Scabious. Then Ben had his tiny tiger-striped Rebel, and my sister had the long-hair Chelsea, and my brother Don gave his wife a tortoise shell named Nutmeg. Our family members have all had cats, with some great names. Bean, Dexter, Gravy, Hammish, Kaiya, and Clive, to name a few. BB (for Brown Balls — sorry), Thor, Coober, Julia, Strider, Molly, and more. My aunt Susan Williams always had cats, too, and her home in Romney was a cat mecca for me. She lived in an antebellum brick home on a farm, and there were just piles of cats to play with. Pinkelpurr and Pinkus lived out their nine lives there, plus a good many more. All the kitties. Fur and purrs and pounces and head-bumps. Sahib lived to be 14. Then I adopted Zoe, another Siamese given to me by a boyfriend at the time. She was a Christmas present, and her arrival was followed on New Year’s Day by me being dumped, so…. sort of a parting gift, I think. She was a great cat. Lived for 20 years, on through my marriage to not-the-same-boyfriend and three sons’ arrivals. She had a stroke and was put down, as I held her, in 2004, much to my absolute heartbreak. My youngest son, not quite 9 years at the time, asked if maybe my dad, who died in 2003, would find her in heaven and show her around. I said I sure hoped so because Dad did love animals so much.
Right now John and I manage three cats. Rex, a lovely buff boy, who found me about five years ago by screaming his 8-week-old head off in the middle of Second Street one night as I driving by. I thought he belonged to the Naylors on the corner who always have cats, so I scooped him up and trotted to their door, expecting to hand him over. “Ummm….,” said Adele. “That one is not ours.” Thus he became one of ours. He’s a beefy, affectionate boy, likely to be found on my legs in the evenings, restricting my movement so John has bring me things. Convenient. Pig is our tiny girl, a petite dark-striped tabby with such a wee face. She actually belongs to Alex, our second son, who found her as a stray at Funland in McHenry, where he worked as a teen. She was following him around and in need, so of course he brought her home. He and his brothers thought it was hilarious to name her after another animal, especially when envisioning being called at the vet. “Pig? Is there a Pig?” Funny how a name seems ridiculous at first, but then becomes quite normal. I do often add a little, in the tradition of most pet owners. To me she is Piggy or Piggy Pie or Piggy Pie Pan. She has lived at various locations, with Alex at college, with us, and back with him. Now he lives in Milwaukee, where he couldn’t have cats at first, so she became quite ensconced here as our grandcat. And I guess here she will stay. We thought she might move out there some months ago when the cat restriction was lifted, but honestly, none of us could make the break. So now Alex and his girlfriend have adopted Turnip, a stripey long-hair girl. We didn’t tell Pig.
That brings me to Miles. Ah, dear, sweet Miles. Miles was the inspiration for this piece, in fact. We got him some 13 years ago, not long after Zoe died. I was missing a Siamese. We did have a tuxedo cat at the time, named Strider. Of all the cats I’ve known and loved, he was the most difficult. Not terribly affectionate, Strider would take a piece of me or anyone else in the family at the least provocation. Although sleek and beautiful, he apparently had self-esteem issues. Or he just loathed humans in general. He had his moments, and I did love him, but… I wanted a purring, attentive pile of fluff to complement our growly, clawing one. So the word went out to all my animal rescue friends — those good souls who make it a mission to find animals in need and get them to people who want them. Caroline Robison is absolutely tireless in that pursuit, and in just a few weeks she found a litter of barn cats being fostered by a good person in Pleasant Valley, and a few of them were definitely part Siamese. They were to be available around my March birthday, so we decided that would be the ticket.
We went to get one kitten but came home with two. One short-hair black and white tabby whom we named Julia, in honor of the Beatles song. The other was the furry, gray-point mix, with ragdoll characteristics. We knew of a darling little boy named Miles at the time, and I thought that was a great moniker for this little furball, too. While Julia was brave and forward, Miles was terrified. Absolutely terrified. He was afraid of us, afraid of his carrier, afraid of the world. Poor little thing. So we cuddled him and cooed, fed him and petted him, and talked softly around him. In some time, he eased into his new life, and he and Julia were soon running around the whole house, tearing up over furniture and back down, playing with anything that moved. Miles became quite affectionate with us, even though he still seemed like he might bolt at any second. John has said to him his whole life, gently, usually while petting him, “Are ya scared, Miles? Are ya scared?” The answer was probably a definite yes most of the time, although he seems to love us even if he’s always ready to flee.
Miles has always reminded me of those furry toys we’d get at fairs when I was a kid. They were called “Squirmles” and were little worm-shaped furry things that when petted would wrap around your finger. Miles seems nearly boneless at times, and he will writhe under and around my hand just like a Squirmle. He also has an uncanny ability to stay just a quarter-inch away from a hand seeking to pet him. He can just avoid contact, just. But he stays nearby, purring and bobbing, tantalizingly soft and furry but one-quarter inch out of reach. As is the way with most cats, he has his own distinct personality, and I have adored him since I first saw him as a tiny white and gray wad of angst and trepidation in the corner of a wooden crate. I think I am probably his person in this life, even though he does trust John and the boys. But I am the apple — or maybe tuna — of his crossed blue eyes, and he finds me always, and generally starts up a conversation or finds his way in between my arms while I type, or he bumps my head with his head and licks my cheek or gently bites my hair. Sometimes he just passes the time near me, eyes half-closed, purr on high, his limbs stretched out and limp.
He has been a source of comfort to me all along. The boys are aware of that, too. In 2008, I was skiing with Alex and Michael, and my bindings were on too tight. I fell on Ace’s Run and felt instant pain in my knee. I was a little panicked and decided that I needed to just get back up and ski on down, especially since the boys had already passed me and were waiting at the bottom. I hate remembering this, but when I started down again, I watched my right knee go completely out of joint, and I was down. In a big way. It was excruciating. Horrible. Alex came running up the mountain in his ski boots. He knew I was hurt. “You look like you’re going to throw up, Mom,” he said. I thought I was going to. I didn’t, but it was the beginning of a long journey of pain and recovery. I bring it up because as I was sitting in the Ski Patrol room, I could not stop thinking of the moment of the dislocation. That instant of gruesome disfigurement was seared in my brain and I could not remove it. It was making me sick. Alex said, “Mom, think of Miles. Just think of Miles.” And so I did. Soft, purry, funny Miles. I couldn’t believe how much that helped. And when I would start to blanche again and moan, Alex would say, “Miles, Mom! Miles!” I was truly astounded by two things: How insightful and helpful my dear 14-year-old son was, and how much it really did help to switch my brain from the trauma to the cat. Thanks, Alex. Thanks, Miles.
He is nearly 13 now. His sister Julia died when she was just 2 or 3. Apparently another female of the same litter died at 2 as well, both with apparent heart defects. So I have been wondering ever since we found Julia out in the yard, still and cold, if Miles was soon to follow. But he has held on quite well, at least until the past year or so, when his thyroid apparently went screwy. He has lost weight and is more skittish than usual. He seems to be starving a lot, and his fur has gone from fluffy and clean to matted and unkempt. He is still quite loving and dear, and he plays still, and he and Rex give each other face licks. I think he is content, as far as I can know, but he is definitely failing. I have several options for his care, none of which is really great. I am currently getting two to three pills into him per day. That’s a feat in itself, and some days end in frustration and no pills at all making it to his gullet. He cheerfully gobbled them up for about a year with the help of Greenies, little pill pockets made of some other animals that taste good, I guess. But lately he has turned away from the Greenies, much to my dismay. I have taken to crushing the pills into his food, but I have to watch out because Rex and Pig are all to ready to eat what he leaves behind, and they don’t need the meds in their systems. I have tried shoving the pill down his throat, but that is always a terrible struggle that ends with Mr. Angst rushing off to the attic or basement, scared and shocked at such treatment. If he had pearls, he’d clutch them hard. I can’t bear it. There is one treatment that would cost nearly $2,000. He would be exposed to radiation, which would kill his thyroid, and then he would be sequestered from everyone for several days as the radiation fades. Good grief. I can’t put him through that.
So here we are, facing the inevitable. We always know it’s coming, of course, we people who long for dogs or cats or rats or fish or iguanas or whatever other living being we want as companions. We are aware that we will most likely outlive our pets. It’s just how it works. Sometimes I’m surprised that we get them anyway, facing that terrible fact. But we do it because they are so dear, and we do love to share space and time with another being. They are alive in the same perplexing way that we are alive, sparked by a mysterious jolt of electricity that animates us, gives us breath, and launches our gray matter into seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, and decades of thinking and feeling and reacting. Our bodies are different from our furry friends, yet so similar. We can’t communicate with words, but we express ourselves to one another as best as we can, exchanging sounds and affections, or just by studying one another’s faces for such long moments, and by giving in to sleep while nestled together in a cozy spot. How lucky we are to share the same time on this planet as our sweet creatures. They give us a perfect model for spending our time just by being our shorter-lived companions. Being alive is hard. And because of that, we constantly seek comfort. Some of the best comfort comes in fur and on four legs.
Even so, they can’t stay. Nothing in life can really stay. We can opt to never love anything and live a dry and flat-lined existence, or we can risk it, knowing what loss we will face in time. This is true of any relationship. When we love, we are taking a risk inherently. The joy and comfort of that love is the price. It’s the fee, the rent, the bill. When we gather up that mewing kitten or wriggling puppy, we are initiating our tab. When we fall in love, the meter starts running. Even so, we do it. The price, for many of us, is worth it. Of course some folks are not at all interested in pet ownership, I know. Some just don’t feel that cosmic connection. It’s a messy, expensive prospect to have a pet, and there are allergies and time issues and troublesome behavior. I understand. And some have indeed been so pained by a loss that they don’t wish to take the risk again. But to those of you who do love over and over, I am with you.
Dear Miles is waning. I know. In the time that we have, we will continue to play our games, like wiggling-hand-under-the-blanket or the impromptu wild-chase-through-the-downstairs. We’ll keep finding each other for a purring bump to the face or to split a bite of something good to eat. We’ll share the time of this strange journey together for a bit longer, and I will remember to be grateful for these days. Dearest Miles, my furry boy.
Now, in the comments, please do tell me about your sweet pets, any and all. Ready, go!
