A SEAT IN THE IVY & EYES ON THE SKY. Pts. 1-5

‘Til recently, my neighbor, Frank, fed a feral cat which “had taken up” at his house several years before. “Buddy” was a beautiful yellow ‘tabby’ type cat which, Frank once informed me, had been the ward of a family whose house was just down the block. At some point, however, the afore-mentioned family had either moved away, or allowed Frank to adopt him.

To be sure, while Buddy lived outside, his demeanor was that of an indoor cat. While he came and went as he liked, he was altogether docile and allowed anyone and everyone to stroke his fur or pat his head. More than once I have seen the friendly feline standing on the edge of my garden wishing well, and bending over the shallow pool to take a drink. I inherited the little ceramic pond from my late neighbor, and absolutely love the stained-glass mosaic in the bottom. While I had considered leaving the little pool empty, my concern for Buddy and the other feral cats of my neighborhood have caused me to regularly fill it with water, and frequently change it out.

It goes without saying. Frank and everyone else in the neighborhood “thought a lot” of Buddy the Cat, and when he strayed into this or that person’s yard, he or she would take time out of his or her day to pet the precious critter, and humor him with baby talk.

Simply put, Buddy became a fixture of our little community. He loved to sit on a nearby utility box, and wile away the daylight hours. And sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, as I closed the door behind me, and began my twilight trek, he’d be lounging on the hood of Frank’s old truck.

And so it goes. And so it went for the longest time.

And then, a couple of months ago, I had stepped outside to engage my little pooch, Queenie, in her daily sabbatical, and had walked a couple hundred yards down Shadow Wood Lane, when a car pulled up alongside, and slowed to a stop.

Pt. 2

A thirty-something year old brunette sat behind the wheel.

She spoke.

“Hi. I’m Marta. Have you seen a big gray and white cat in this neighborhood?”

(and)

“His name is “Gabby” and he’s blind.”

And it immediately occurred to me that if I’d seen a big gray and white blind cat recently, I would have little or no trouble remembering the experience.

I responded.

“Uh, no ma’am. I haven’t seen a cat fitting that description. I’m very sorry you lost him.”

(and)

“I hope you find Gabby.”

(and)

“I love animals too. I’ll certainly be on the look out.”

With this, the stranger thanked me, and drove away.

And as I watched her go, I thought,

“I doubt I’ll ever see Marta again, much less her cat, Gabby.”

Sensitive as I am, I could not help but reflect on how difficult it would be for a blind cat in the wild, and the rudimentary emotions it must be feeling all alone in a foreign environment.

Did I mention how dubious I was that I’d ever see the lady again, and how I thought there was a miniscule chance of running up with her cat?

(Yep. I thought so).

Well, my dear readers, I was only half right.

Pt. 3

For as it fell together, I did indeed see that young lady again; and all of eight or ten minutes later.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I was walking my little Queenie that day, (and subsequent to my conversation with “Marta”) a fellow jogged past, and exclaimed,

“Do you have a baggie for that pooch?”

(and)

“I see you don’t have a pooper scooper.”

(and)

 “Don’t you know you’re supposed to pick up after your dog?”

And I responded with,

“Listen here, fella. This is the neighborhood dog walk.”

(and)

“We’re in the county out here, and there’s no rules about retrieving dog scat in our neighborhood.”

(and)

“Nobody picks up after their dogs on this pathway.”

(and)

“Don’t bother me with crap like that.” (Play on words).

All of which is superfluous to my story, but I thought you might enjoy the proverbial color.

At any rate, as Queenie and I neared the house, I was met with one of the strangest scenarios to which I have ever been exposed.

Pt. 4

As I gazed towards Frank’s house, I noticed my newfound friend’s car parked in the street adjacent to his house. And it was about this time I noticed Marta sitting under my neighbor’s water oak tree, in the center of his ivy garden, holding Buddy, the cat in her lap; while stroking his back and singing a rather ethereal tune.

And I thought, “Well, ain’t that a sight?”

(and)

“Exactly what kinda nut do we have here?”

I mean, I knew “from the get go” that the lady loved cats, but to pull up next to a stranger’s yard, get out, step into the middle of his ivy garden, detain his cat, and sit down and begin to sing to him, well now…

all I can say is, that’s ‘rich.’

I suppose Marta sat under the expansive oak tree holding Frank’s little Buddy for all of fifteen minutes, and finally set the cat down next to the bird feeder, stood up and retraced her steps to her car. And as she made her way to her vehicle, I noticed she looked over her right shoulder, and exchanged a final aloha with the cat. (Well, to be sure I never heard so much as a ‘meow’ from the cat, but I have to believe that he enjoyed every moment of their rural interlude).

I can only wonder whether Frank or his wife, Linda happened to look out their bay window while all this tender compassion was “going on” and how they may have processed what was happening in the middle of their ivy garden.

Pt. 5

Fast forward six weeks, and as I stepped out of my front door and walked the fifty feet to my mailbox, I noticed Frank in his front yard. (To say that my neighbor enjoys doing lawn and scrub care would be like saying Jesse Owens liked jogging).

As I reached my mailbox, and offered my well-worn greeting, (“Hey Frank”)! he looked up from raking in some mulch along the margins of his driveway, and said,

“Hi Bill. Did you know we lost Buddy last night?”

(and)

“I came out to get the newspaper, and found him lying dead next to my old truck.”

Well, I was shocked since I’d grown to like that personable old feline, and he seemed so much healthier than an ancient black cat which had limped around the neighborhood for time immemorial; and though wounded and arthritic has continued to keep on keeping on.

Of course, I offered my sincere regrets, and expressed how sorry I was that Buddy had gone on to his natural reward.

And as I retrieved my mail, and began the short trek back to my house, I my gaze fell onto that huge water oak tree in Frank’s front yard, and the ivy which grew beneath it.

And it was then that I recalled a recent day when a young lady named Marta sat beneath that tree, her feet in the ivy, her eyes in the clouds, and while her nimble hands played along the back of a docile tabby feline.

And, in retrospect, I think Marta’s impromptu little commune with Buddy the Cat was almost prophetic, as though some ethereal siren call had bidden she stop, and offer some final tribute to the furry critter.

They say we ought to give our flowers to those who are still able to smell them, and offer our parting words to those who still abide in the land of the living.

I think that’s what Marta was about that day.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 55. Copyright Pending.

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