‘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 shrub 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. Copyright pending
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