“Have you seen the brother?”
Our one goal, after Mr. Spock died a few weeks ago, was to
get multiple cats who liked one another.
Mama Cass, Ozzie, and the
brother-to-be-named later arrived last Sunday. They were abandoned in a foreclosure in Fall
River, and subsequently fostered by a woman named Deborah. She lives in a small home with two other
cats, so conditions were loving but perhaps a bit crowded.
Mama Cass, a tuxedo
three year old, meowed the entire 30 minute ride, but then started following me
all over the house as she soon as she jumped out of the cat carrier. Ozzie, who has luxurious long black and white
fur (it’s even long between his toes, so I sometimes call him Sasquatch), had
meowed a few times on the way home, mostly to keep Mama company. He hid behind the subwoofer for much of the day,
but would come out when I talked to him.
The brother cat, a tuxedo like Mama but without her rakish mustache, had
curled up in the back of his carrier and didn’t talk at all on the way home.
The entire day, he stayed at the bottom of
the basement stairs. He let us pet him,
but refused to move.
Mama and Ozzie got more comfortable the next day, but the
brother simply disappeared. When we did not find him, we asked our neighbor Julie to help us search, as she has
cats, fish, and kids, and we figured she had probably lost one or more of them
on multiple occasions. She couldn’t find
him either. Six hours later, Nels and I
were emotionally exhausted, wondering how we were going to call Deborah and let
her know that it took us less than 24 hours to lose a cat she had fostered for
18 months.
Nels found him after some advice from Facebook
friends. “Look high,” several said. Lo and behold, there he was, tucked away
behind boxes of 45’s on a tall shelf of records that reached almost to the ceiling. Finally the brother had a name: Silent Bob.
Bob stayed on his perch unless Nels brought him down. He would play with Ozzie and Mama for a few
minutes until he heard a noise, such as a door shutting, the toilet flushing, or
someone walking across the floor. “He’s
like a little old lady,” I fumed. How
could this cat not know, not visibly see,
that we were the humans of his dreams?
Toys and scratching posts were strategically placed on each floor. Blankets were washed and furniture vacuumed
to remove Spock’s scent. Two separate
feeding stations and brand new litterboxes were on-hand. The birdfeeder was filled, and a chair placed
by the window for premium birdwatching.
Every hour or two over the next couple of days, Nels would
come up from the basement and give me what I started calling The Bob Report.
“I put treats up on the shelf
for him and they were gone!”
“Somebody’s
drinking water out of the water dish in the basement.”
“Bob’s hanging out
with me now.”
I don’t know about
you, but I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m reading a juicy novel. I was reading a chick lit book titled You Should Have Known about a therapist
who (spoiler alert) finds out her husband of 20 years was having an affair and suspected
of murdering his lover and their baby. To
be interrupted to hear about Bob’s less-than-interesting exploits got old. I was kind of mad at Bob, to tell you the
truth.
Then I remembered how terrifying it was to move to Rhode Island
nine years ago. Nels was traveling for
work, so I was alone, unpacking boxes and going to the library to access the
internet and my former life in Indiana. At
the corner of Chestnut and highway 136, I only turned left, because Stop and
Shop, 1776 Liquors, and Wendy’s were located within a mile. One time I decided to turn right, but when I
got too close to the Mt. Hope Bridge, I was scared that if I crossed over I
would not find my way back.
If you know Bristol, my fear must seem ridiculous. We live on a 10.1 square mile peninsula. But my fear wasn’t just about crossing a
literal bridge, but the very real and scary bridge between being a doctoral
student and professor; between having intimate knowledge of IU and Bloomington
as an undergraduate and grad student, and coming, as a newly minted assistant
professor, to a college and town I didn’t know existed six months before.
The book You Should
Have Known is as much about the protagonist not knowing herself as it is
about not knowing her husband. I am glad Bob has reminded me to show
compassion for myself, for Bob, and for others who are exploring new figured
worlds, whether they are physical, social, or emotional. It takes courage to be present to this, even
if that courage means turning left or spending a few hours on a high
shelf.
Bob off the shelf
