“I want a dog!”
And not just any dog, my daughter wants (No! Needs!) a small fluffy dog she could love and who would love her back. “I promise I’ll walk it three times a day.” Promises.
How about a cat?
“Two cats?”
One cat. One is enough … if it’s the right one. And you’ll know it when you meet her.
After much consideration, we get a cat. Her name was Daisy. The girls are delighted. They love her, but she doesn’t love them back. She keeps her distance and quietly observes.
“Why wont she sit on my lap?” A cat’s nature is a life lesson. Insist and be disappointed. Wait patiently, and perhaps they may come to you. And she does.
She brushes against my legs while I wash dishes, purrs in my ear while I watch TV. “Why does she do that to you and not to me?” Children have no patience. At night when the lights are off, she creeps downstairs to curl up on my sleeping bag. In the early morning, meows to be let outsidel. On summer afternoons she lounges in the shade of the arborvitae or brings me a gift – the body of a sparrow.
“Can we get another cat … or a dog this time?” No, one is enough if it’s the right one. And this was the right one. It feels good to know that something loves you, even if it was just a cat.
A few days before Halloween I shoo her out the door She takes a look back at me before slinking off into the darkness. She’ll be back soon enough. I stay up late calling her name. Something feels wrong.
The next day is stormy. “Where’s Daisy?” Oh, probably laying low somewhere to stay dry. I set out into the storm, searching. I call the animal control officer, local shelters , the police. Have you seen her?
Each night I stand outside calling “Here kitty kitty kitty! Here Daisy!” No answer. I go door-to-door handing out hundreds of missing-cat fliers. “Call the DPW” says a neighbor with a German accent. I’ve never met the man before. Why? “They’re in charge of picking up animal carcases on the roads.”
Days stretch to weeks. “Daddy, I miss her. Is she ever coming back?” When do you quit? I don’t want to give up, but deep down I know she’s gone.
At night I lay by myself. There’s no more nuzzles on the couch; no more lounging in my lap; no more warm fur on my cheek or gentle bites on my hand or the feel of her weight next to me at night. Gone.
“Ever find that cat of yours?” a neighbor I met handing out fliers asks. “No? Shame. But it’s not like it was a person. It was just a cat.” Right. Just a cat.
Some nights I dream she’s at the basement window meowing to be let in again. It’s been months now. I’ve gone through the seven stages. My brain accepts the reality. But even today I still find myself walking to that porch door to check if she’s there … and to call her name.