Mabel's Tale

Thanksgiving morning, I hoisted myself out of bed, stepped into my slippers and groggily worked my way downstairs. Time to feed the cat.

I waited for her morning howl, that, "where have you been and where's my food, you lazy so-and-so."

Then I remembered. She was gone.

For 17 of her 20 years of life, Mabel was my first touch point of the day. Change the water, fill the food dish, clean out the litter box.

Flashing back to April 8, 2000, when we visited what is now called Stay-A-While Cat Sanctuary, our soon-to-be-adopted Mabel was sitting way up high, on top of the refrigerator.

"She doesn't like the other cats," we were informed.

Hmmm...anti-social and bearing a strong resemblance to Marge, our last cat. Sounds like a winner.

"Can we get this one? Pleeeeze?" begged Mr. Ginley

The shelter folks told us she was between 2 1/2 and 3 years old, and her name was "Alley." (That we would quickly fix.) Arrangements were made. She was relatively new to the shelter and had to be spayed and vaccinated. She'd be ready for pick-up on April 21st. Good Friday.

I left work early that afternoon for the shelter. When I arrived, Mabel was pacing back and forth.

"She's been waiting for you," they said.

All the way home, she kvetched at me. When we finally arrived, I opened up the carrier and set her free.

"She'll probably hide for a few days," I had told my then-six-year-old son.

Nope. Not our Mabel.

She went upstairs, downstairs and all through to house, ascertained there were, in fact, no other cats present, jumped up on the couch and all but said, "Yes, I suppose this will do."

At that moment, it became her house and remained so the rest of her days.

When we first considered getting a cat, it was supposed to be for me. But she quickly became my son's. We were sure that when he went off to college, Mabel would lose her will to live. But she actually adapted to his absence better than Mr. Ginley or I.

Over the years, as she slowed down and sleeping became her primary activity, Mr. Ginley would talk to her all day as he went about his chores. He'd sing to her. Or play Bowie for her. Check her eyes for goopies and her paws for bits of litter.

It will be hardest on him, I think.

Last night, as we prepared to watch the latest installment of The Great British Baking Show, Mr. Ginley turned to me and said, "But Mabel won't know how it ends."

Someday, when the time is right, we will adopt another grey tabby. But she will be her own cat. No one can replace Mabel (or Marge) in our hearts.

That's the funny thing about pets. You think you're giving them a home, but really, they are the ones who adopt you.

And once they get their little claws into your heart, that's all she wrote.