The Cat Wisher

For various reasons, Ginny and I could only get our cat therapy from other people’s cats for the first two years we were married.  Then we moved into an apartment in an older part of Columbus, OH with the expectation of staying a while, and one evening Ginny said, “I wish we had a cat.”  Nothing else was said, and it was simply something we expected to get around to before long.  We didn't know that Ginny was a cat wisher.

About 6AM the next morning, I went to the door to get the paper, opened the door, and found a large cat sitting on the stoop waiting.  He opened his mouth and gave out a raucous cry, immediately gaining the name Loudmouth.  Wish granted.  We had a very loving cat, loving on his terms, at least, which meant, “You may pet me and pet me while I’m on the floor, but don’t even think about putting me on your lap.”

Eventually, Ginny said, “What I really wanted was a lap cat.”

More precise orders evidently take longer to fill because it was two days this time.  We were sitting on the deck behind the house when a cat strolled around the corner of the house and onto the deck.  It took perhaps a minute before he was in Ginny’s lap, rumbling with the deep, deep purr that brought the name Bass Fiddle.  I don’t know if there was a two-wish limit, or if Ginny’s powers only extend to cat-wishing ... or perhaps money wishes just take a lot longer.

So we had two wonderful cats, but it turned out that we also had two cats with feline leukemia.  They went from being indoor/outdoor cats to strictly indoors (and back yard), and all was generally well, not counting that BF had a Jekyll and Hyde problem.  Calm, friendly, he was all you wanted a cat to be...right up until he spotted another cat.  From the back yard, he spotted a cat way across the street, and in a blur he was over the fence, across the street, and after the other cat.  I could run fairly well back in those days, but I didn’t stand a chance until the Hyde moment wore off.

Each emotional outburst would also bring out the usually controlled leukemia symptoms, so we’d be off to the vet for treatment.  Considering the cost of vet trips, it was particularly fortunate that he tolerated Loudmouth as a housemate, almost all the time.  The exceptions were unpredictable and quick, but BF was also the out of sight, out of mind type.  Tossing a blanket over him instantly switched him back to gentle Jekyll.

There had to be an exception, of course, cats not ones to like being predictable.  I was setting a bowl of food down for Loudmouth out on the deck where he wouldn’t tempt a change in BF, but I hadn’t properly latched the door.  After all, it would be just a moment before I was back inside putting a bowl down for BF, but I’d hardly put the bowl down before an angry fur-missile blasted through the door and began chasing Loudmouth around the yard in his own version of Hyde and Seek.

They were moving far too fast for me to have a chance to toss anything over BF, but Loudmouth finally managed to slip around a corner of the deck and out of sight.  Good.  All settled.  I was standing 10 feet or so away from BF when that thought crossed my mind, and I relaxed.  Did you know that cats can teleport?

I don’t know why BF didn’t give up his Hyde or why he evidently decided that I was at that moment another cat, but the next thing I knew, I was holding a 13 pound cat on my left arm.  More precisely, that cat was holding my arm, his Hyde on my hide.  The claws of all four paws were tucked into my arm, and his teeth were in my hand as he hung upside down, rather like in some Looney Tunes cartoons.  And I didn’t feel a thing, too utterly surprised, too caught up in how silly the image looked to worry about pain.

After staring a moment, I put BF down, and he was ready to be petted as if he would never dream of creating multiple punctures in my skin.  Dr. Jekyll never seemed to remember his time as the Hyde cat, but this time, I was the one headed to the doctor for antibiotics.

In some ways, I wish Loudmouth and BF had continued to have these outbreaks for many years, but short months was all we had.  Although we were able to control the leukemia in BF, Loudmouth was not so lucky.  He had fulfilled the wish as requested, and one morning, we had one cat and memories of Loudmouth rolling around on the floor in the large pile of catnip the time he found where we kept it.

BF lived long enough to join us on our move down to Logan, where we discovered his fear of ceiling fans.  Actually, it turned out to be a fear of birds, perhaps from an attack when he was young, but the “wingspan” of a stationary ceiling fan was much too birdlike.  We had to cover the fan with a sheet and lure BF from the basement bit by bit with a saucer of milk.  He searched the “sky” carefully, not fully convinced by our sheet trick, but the milk eventually won.

Times were good despite still having some leukemia outbreaks, but all times are limited.  A year or so later, BF stopped responding to treatment no matter what we tried. These days, we know more, but you work with what you know and what you have, and it doesn't matter if hindsight is 20/20 or not. You cope. He gradually grew worse, and the night came when we knew that we wouldn’t share the dawn.  I lay with him on the floor of the basement, and around 2AM, he quietly stopped breathing.  We were down to just the memories.