They just gave me a new placement. It was a shock, because
I thought things were fine where I was. But you never know about
placements; the general wisdom is there is no way to understand them.
So I am upset about the move, even though it looks good so far—they
put me in a room of my own, it seems like there will be plenty of food,
there are no cross words or blows. We must always be grateful for a
good placement, even when we don’t understand. So I must be practical.
First, explore my room. It is small and full. To begin with,
there are two beds. I like beds very much, naturally, but two in such a
small space nearly fill it and they are surrounded by a chair, a doll bed,
and stacks of—stuff. Papers, toys, tools, electronic gizmos, old clothes.
Then looming over it all is a huge armoire. I wish I could sit on top of
it; I like the height But I can only just make it onto the bed. They put a
step there so I don’t have to leap, but I won’t use it; one has one’s pride.
On the floor, dirty blue carpeting. I don’t mind; I suppose they
don’t trust me with anything nicer. Understandable, because some of us
are not well behaved. I myself am a gentleman, as they will learn here.
After five years with Leila I can’t understand why suddenly I am
here. As far as I knew we were happy. So why make a change? No,
I shouldn’t think this way — I’ll look over the rest of my new room. I
slide under a bed, and dust-ruffles swing to the floor behind me. Good
dark and seclusion; likely warm in the cold weather. As long as I am
here a nap seems in order; the move was stressful and I’m tired.
Awake again, touring my new room, I see the door is open.
Apparently I am not captive. There are those who would be shy about
exploring, but I have never been fearful that way. That could be because
I am oversized and very strong, but I think these things are a matter of
temperament mainly. I’ve always been pretty calm. So out the door.
The ratty carpeting changes to something strange. It looks like chopped
asparagus mixed with some cut up tennis balls, and then spread across
the floor. It smells only of carpet though, and the footing is good, with a
high gripping factor. You just have to ignore the colors I guess.
Before Leila I had been unplaced for awhile. There are those
who like living that way, but they are born to it, whereas I was raised
gently. I nearly starved out there. People used to feed me sometimes.
But no one fed me very much and I was getting more and more
desperate. Finally I put aside my pride, and wound myself through
Leila’s legs, giving my begging cheep; it’s much more effective than a
full meow.
“Oh, poor cat,” she said. “You really are hungry, aren’t you?
Come, come.” I’m not shy. I went right up two flights of stairs into her
home, and she put down a bowl of the best food I ever had in my life. I
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ate a double or triple portion before I was too full to go on. Then when I
walked away from the bowl I thought, “What am I doing, when there is
food I should eat?” So I went back for another portion. There was still
food after that, but even with all my principles I couldn’t get another bite
down. I lay on her floor (fine hardwood), my full tummy a round mound,
and started up the old squeeze box. It sounded rusty and uneven. It had
been months since I had a reason to purr.
No, I must think about my present placement. The asparagus/
tennis ball carpet is on a balcony over the living room. I can easily slide
through the decorative railings at the drop off if I need to, so this will
be an excellent spot to view proceedings. But for now I ease down the
stairs, slowly and one at a time, to the main floor.
Hardwood, not very well kept I would say. Compared to Leila’s
dark polished floor this one is a little pathetic. Still, I’m glad to see
it. You need at least a little hard floor, otherwise you have to throw up
on the carpet. Some don’t care, but I always think that’s inconsiderate,
because the keepers do feel they have to clean it up, and hard floors are
easier. There isn’t really much floor, because they have a large rug;
multi-colored flowers flung over a burgundy background, a lot more
tasteful than that asparagus thing. Really it’s very pretty.
The day after I moved in Leila brought home a kitten, all black
fur and no sense. It jumped on me first thing. If a kitten wants to play
with me that is fine, and I rolled around with it, pretending to bite, and
getting nipped a bit here and there. Still, it was stupid of the kitten; there
are some who are bad tempered and might have hurt it.
Back up the stairs, and this time exploring the asparagus hallway.
First doorway and there is lemon frosting layered across the floor. I had
lemon frosting once, quite good on the whole, because of the cream. I
didn’t care for the lemon flavor though, maybe it’s an acquired taste. I
check the texture here; yes, this place goes for deep pile, high quality
carpets. It’s a pleasure to be able to get your claws all the way in.
Next room has a door with a mirror, showing a ghost-thin cat, all
shoulder blades and hipbones, with clumpy striped fur. Can that be me?
How could I have gotten to this? Only my white paws are as beautiful as
I remember. I used to be lush and creamy; someone once said I looked
like a butterscotch sundae; then they made hot butterscotch sundaes to
celebrate. They fed me some too. The ice cream is delicious, but the
butterscotch was too sweet. The keepers must have a different sense of
taste than we do.
Back to my room, under the bed. Leila, Leila, Leila. I was
placed many times in the early days and I learned not give my heart away
easily. You start loving them, then bang, there’s a new placement and
you lose them. So I got very careful. But after months, years, with good
food, and good friendship, and sleeping against her legs, I really was like
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a hot butterscotch sundae, melting and sweet. I was already feeling my
age and that melting feeling was a comfort when my joints ached. She
was a comfort when I ached. Stupid me, after all those placements, why
did I assume we would go on together?
Instead, one day she said, “Come, Topaz, we have to make a
trip.” I didn’t like it, it usually means the vet, but I got into the carrier,
agreeable as always. Then she brought me to this place, and said, “Bye,
Topaz, be good,” as if there were nothing special about it, and our five
years didn’t even matter.
No, I mustn’t think that. I’ll ask for more food. Back down the
tricky stairs, the Keeper is in a room with linoleum floor. Flowers march
up the walls; green woodwork frames the doors and windows. This is
a good room for throwing up, I think, no trouble to anyone to clear up.
And then the Keeper slides open a door and invites me outside.
I haven’t been outside since the day Leila took me in. She has
no yard, just sidewalks and roads, and she thought it wasn’t safe for me.
Didn’t I take care of myself for months out there? But I did it her way;
she was feeding me, and I aimed to please. I thought I had pleased.
The outside is wonderful. Grass, bushes, leaves, a million
hiding places. Fresh breeze against my ears, sunlight blessing my aching
haunches and smoothing my scruffy fur. I pad carefully around the yard.
I won’t go too far. Even though my stubborn heart clings to Leila, this is
a good placement and I mustn’t get lost. Or make the Keeper angry.
I see grass swaying, but I hear nothing. Little animals? insects?
am I too stiff to stalk? Yes I am. Birds, I haven’t seen a bird in years.
I hear them only faintly, someone turned the volume down. But faint
birdsounds are better than the trucks and jackhammers I heard fine in
Leila’s place. This is really nice.
The Keeper follows as I pad around the yard. Why? I’m not
stupid, I won’t get lost walking 30 feet. Grass soothes my white paws,
bushes and shadows flutter around me, I slither under and disappear. A
good sleeping place, and Keeper leaves me there.
Later I am back in my room, the bedtop for the next nap, but
no Leila to flank against. Did I do something wrong? I tried every way
to please her. Was gentle with the kitten. Used my litter box faithfully.
Slept with her. Came when called. Never bit, scratched, never, never.
How could she send me away, didn’t she love me? This is a good
placement, food, grass, birds—I would give it up in a minute to go
back to her.
I think, I should not have loved her, then I would be happy
here. But if you don’t love someone, you are only a cat-machine, a
blood pumping, tail swishing, convert-food-to-catshit machine. Life
can be interesting, but it is empty. Loving her was warmer than the
clearest shaft of sun to roll in, more filling than the best catnip on wet
food, sweeter than the butterscotch sundae. And when love leaves you,
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it is emptier and hurts more than the hungry day I put aside my pride to
cheep for food; it’s colder than being homeless in the snow. The general
wisdom is you cannot understand love, and I don’t. I can’t even decide if
it was a gift or a catastrophe.
I sleep and eat, there are grass and birds and breeze, lemon
frosting carpet for my claws, stroking from the Keeper and I find purrs
for her. She is trying to be good to me and it’s not her fault I can’t have
what I want. Life goes on, even when you are old, and stiff, and half
deaf. In my mind Leila grows fainter, like the birdsong which I will
never hear full and sweet again. I settle into my new placement. I have
good moments, and I think that is not a small thing. I treasure my little
moments.
One morning when I wake up, I can’t feel my back legs. I drag
myself out from under the bed by pulling with my front paws, but the
back end doesn’t wake up. I am frightened; I howl.
In comes the keeper. “Come here, Topaz,” she says. I try to drag
myself towards her with my sore, arthritic front paws.
“Oh, Topaz, oh my God,” she says. She picks me up very gently
and my limp hind end dangles down. She puts me in the car without a
carrier, just lays me on the front seat. We’d better be headed for the vet,
because someone’s got to fix this.
At the vet they are having a serious conversation about me. I
can’t hear too much but the vet has a “hmmm” face on. I hear “old cat,”
and I hear “try to.” Keeper looks very upset. She puts her face against
mine, and her tears drop onto me. This Keeper loves me enough to cry
about me? How did I not notice? I am grateful, so I lick her face.
The vet picks up a hypodermic. I’m not sure what he has in
mind, and I hope he has something for my back legs. As it is I have been
getting more frail; I can’t live without hind legs. But in case this shot is
the end for me, I need some last words.
I have no regrets. I have been a good cat, courteous, friendly and
grateful for anything I am given. What I wish—I wish so much—is that
Leila would be here. That I could smell her scent once more, feel her
hand once more. But that will not happen. That is my wish, but it is not
my life.
It turns out that after all the vet is not “putting me down”—not
this time, anyway. I am still alive and my Keeper carries me back to the
car. Whatever was in that shot must be powerful, because I start feeling
my legs again before we are even home.
Keeper carries me to her own bed and lies down with me. Molly
lies down with me. I push against her and purr and lick her hand. How
did I get lucky enough to find another love? I have made up my mind,
finally: yes, love is a gift, no matter what might happen later. I’m sure of
that now.

by Betty Mock, graduate student