Heavy Petting

Petting is therapeutic. Not the kind that's done in the back seat of the car in the park (although that kind may be considered "therapeutic" for completely different reasons). I'm talking about our furry or feathered friends. The family members who cannot speak our language but who communicate with us just fine.

They wag and beguile their way into our hearts, they share our joys and our sadness. They become members of our family. And they leave a space that cannot be filled when they are gone.

When I was growing up, my parents told us we could not have dogs or cats. My mom didn't want larger animals because she didn't want to have to be the one to take care of them (she already had six kids). My dad had a menagerie when he was growing up, but his heart was broken when his beloved dog "Teddy" died, and he didn't want to become attached to another animal. We were allowed to have small animals...gerbils, birds, turtles and once, even a snake. (I had a guinea pig, but she only lived six months.)

Marge, in her natural habitat

When I moved into my first apartment by myself, I decided to get a cat. My boyfriend at the time told me about a cat shelter where they let the animals live until a home was found -- they didn't put them to sleep. Off we went. There were rooms of roaming felines. Some of them yelled for attention. It was a little overwhelming. Then, one grey tabby came up quietly and rubbed against my legs. My boyfriend said, "that looks like a fine animal." I agreed, picked her up, completed the necessary paperwork, and home we went. After a short adjustment period, during which she hid under the day bed, we became fast friends. I called her "Muskrat," and the two of us grew very close. We played hockey on the wooden floors in my apartment. And she was a great lap cat. One of my favorite things to do was sit in the rocking chair in front of the window, sipping tea with a bundle of cat on my lap. The only thing she did not like about the apartment was my water bed. She'd tiptoe along the edge (the part that didn't move) and meow at me in the morning when it was time to eat.

I disrupted the apple cart when I rescued "Chessie," a very wily, soft grey cat who did not play well with others. The two of them fought all the time. Chessie eventually went to live with my boyfriend. And it was back to just Muskrat and me.

Fast forward to mid-1986 when my now-husband and I began to date. I made it clear that my cat had seniority. He was leery at first, but in short order, he warmed up to her...and changed her name to "Marge." (He didn't like "Muskrat," and after several months of tussling over her name, I gave in.) We moved Marge to Alexandria with us. And back to Cleveland. She was mostly my cat, but my husband was the object of her affection when I was out of town. For awhile I did quite a bit of traveling for work, and those nights when it was just my husband and the cat, the two of them were very cozy.

Then our son was born. I remember my grandmother cautioning me about cats, repeating the old wives' tale about them suffocating babies. I watched Marge to make sure she was cool with the new baby, but there was never any real concern. Marge was very protective of him. Her mom instincts were strong, and she watched him like a hawk. She didn't like it when people came over and tried to hold him. She was a good cat. She had a good run. Then, in January of 1999, her time ran out. The three of us were heartbroken. My husband said he did not want to get another cat.

Miss Mabel

It was a little over a year later, at Easter time in 2000, when my son and I wore down my husband, and the three of us went back to the cat shelter.We walked through the rooms until my husband spied one cat in a perch high above the floor. She was the spitting image of Marge, and my husband melted. He looked at me with "that look" and said, "Can we get this one? Please?"

Like I was going to say "no"...

This particular cat hated all of the other cats, which is why she was up high. Every time another cat walked by, she hissed at them. The folks at the shelter told us the cat was two or three years old (they really weren't certain) and she needed to be spayed. So I made arrangements to pick her up on Good Friday. I left work early that day and drove straight to the shelter.

When I walked in, she was pacing back and forth and yelling her head off. They told me she had been waiting for me. She continued her caterwauling throughout the 30-minute ride home. I had warned my son that it would take awhile for her to get adjusted to her new environment and not to worry if we didn't see her for the first few days. I needn't have bothered. I opened her carrier and released her. Yelling all the way, she went down in the basement and throughout the house, checking things out, then settled herself on the couch with a nod of the head and an attitude of "this will do."

We called her "Mabel."

Now, aged approximately 16 years, Mabel is coming to the end of the road. Her kidneys are like sieves and she sleeps most of the time. She hangs out in the basement a lot, and sometimes I don't think she recognizes us. About once a day, she wants to be petted and told she's a good kitty, then she goes back to sleep. I know it won't be long. And it will be a sad day. Mabel was supposed to be my cat, but she formed a deep attachment to our son. When he went away to college, her heart broke. We didn't think she'd live long after that, but she has surprised us by hanging in this long. She is a sweet little cat. And much loved.

Much like the humans we love, our pets can exasperate us at times. But the love and joy and comfort they give make us wealthy beyond measure. And life without them would be poorer indeed.