Zane Gray, 2005
I looked down at the bottom row of cages and there was a gray paw sticking out between the bars. She knew what we were looking for, even then—even before we’d even met her. Without even enough food for groceries, Sweetie and I took our 40 dollars to PAWS to look for a large gray cat. We had both done a little day work for a friend of the family and armed with our first paychecks after moving to Seattle; we drove out to Lynnwood to see what we could find.
As we signed the paper work, the woman behind the counter said “Remember, these cats can live upwards of 18 or 19 years, are you sure you’re ready for that?” But back in 1987, as a fresh-out-of-college-first-apartment-no-job-yet-but-looking kid, that was kind of a hard concept to grasp. My Chevy Nova still had an 8 track cassette player where we listened to Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix, and my grandma’s Time Life 4-cassette collection of the Big Band Greats. Although I new some people who had a CD player, we bought LP’s when we had the money. Our phone had a rotary dial. We didn’t yet own a microwave or a VCR.
She was the smartest cat I’ve ever met, though by no means the most tolerant, which I guess go hand in hand. While she had no great love for our other cat Batty who we got the next year, she grew to tolerate her near the end. I’m not sure she ever forgave the older boy for being born, for muscling in on what to that point had been a pretty sweet deal for herself, despite having to share it with a stupid black cat. She was a good hunter and a great tree climber and is still the only cat I’ve ever met who would play fetch—chasing yellow foam earplugs around the house and dropping them at my feet.
She lived through the war in Panama, Iraq I and II, the rise and fall of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s acting carrier, the life and death of the cd and the explosion of a coffee shop on every corner. 18 years is a long life for a cat, but like all pets lives, not nearly long enough.
Last night I thought I saw her sitting on the couch between Sweetie and me, but when I looked it was just the blanket. I find myself doing that all the time now—stepping over the place where her food dish used to be, or wondering if anyone’s given her fresh water lately. 18 years is plenty of time to establish patterns; to condition the body to the contours of sharing your roof with another living thing.
Let me just look under the chair, or back behind the desk, it’s where they always wound up, didn't they? Small yellow foam cylinders ready to be flicked between finger and thumb.
You wanna play fetch? Just one more time, you and me…
Ready…ready… Go get it girl!
Go get it, and I’ll be waiting right here for you to bring it on back.
As we signed the paper work, the woman behind the counter said “Remember, these cats can live upwards of 18 or 19 years, are you sure you’re ready for that?” But back in 1987, as a fresh-out-of-college-first-apartment-no-job-yet-but-looking kid, that was kind of a hard concept to grasp. My Chevy Nova still had an 8 track cassette player where we listened to Janis Joplin, Jimmy Hendrix, and my grandma’s Time Life 4-cassette collection of the Big Band Greats. Although I new some people who had a CD player, we bought LP’s when we had the money. Our phone had a rotary dial. We didn’t yet own a microwave or a VCR.
She was the smartest cat I’ve ever met, though by no means the most tolerant, which I guess go hand in hand. While she had no great love for our other cat Batty who we got the next year, she grew to tolerate her near the end. I’m not sure she ever forgave the older boy for being born, for muscling in on what to that point had been a pretty sweet deal for herself, despite having to share it with a stupid black cat. She was a good hunter and a great tree climber and is still the only cat I’ve ever met who would play fetch—chasing yellow foam earplugs around the house and dropping them at my feet.
She lived through the war in Panama, Iraq I and II, the rise and fall of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s acting carrier, the life and death of the cd and the explosion of a coffee shop on every corner. 18 years is a long life for a cat, but like all pets lives, not nearly long enough.
Last night I thought I saw her sitting on the couch between Sweetie and me, but when I looked it was just the blanket. I find myself doing that all the time now—stepping over the place where her food dish used to be, or wondering if anyone’s given her fresh water lately. 18 years is plenty of time to establish patterns; to condition the body to the contours of sharing your roof with another living thing.
Let me just look under the chair, or back behind the desk, it’s where they always wound up, didn't they? Small yellow foam cylinders ready to be flicked between finger and thumb.
You wanna play fetch? Just one more time, you and me…
Ready…ready… Go get it girl!
Go get it, and I’ll be waiting right here for you to bring it on back.
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