Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul (40 page)

“I’m Mike’s father,” he said. “My wife has passed away. We already put an ad in the paper. I told Mike we couldn’t afford anything else. That kid’s pestering the daylights out of me over that cat.”

“Well, kids get attached to their pets,” I said. “Especially since his mom gave him Sam, he’s probably—”

“That’s just it,” he replied. “When she died, he was a regular little soldier—no crying, nothing. I was real proud of him. It’s been almost six months now, and he’s been doing fine—until this business with the cat. Look, I gotta go to work.”

Mike got back on the phone. I asked him where he lived. “Why don’t I stop by and we can talk some more about Sam?”

“Okay,” he said eagerly. “And about what my dad said . . . well, I’ve got some money saved up, almost twelve dollars. Is that enough?”

In my career people have offered me hundreds and even thousands of dollars to find their missing pets, but no one had ever promised me everything he had. I could see this was a case I was going to have to take.

Mike answered the door. He was a small, dark-haired kid, maybe ten years old, with pale skin and big brown eyes. With his mother recently dead, and his father working at two jobs, Mike was on his own most of the time. No wonder the kid was so anxious to get his cat back.

Mike told me Sam hadn’t been wearing a collar, but he did have a distinguishing feature—an egg-shaped white spot on his chest.

“That’s what we’ll put on the poster,” I said and explained about putting up posters and checking the animal shelters. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” I said, walking to the door.

He looked so forlorn I said, “Hey, Mike, tell you what.

You can be my assistant, and I’ll give you a reduced rate.”

We spent the day working together.

The next day I was putting up a poster in the window of a supermarket when I noticed it had an old-fashioned meat counter—the kind with a butcher. When I was a kid, our butcher knew the name of every pet in our neighborhood.

“Excuse me,” I said, “have you heard of anyone finding a cat recently? Gray with black stripes, white spot on its chest?”

“Have you talked to the cat lady?” the butcher asked me. “She comes in once a week and loads up on fish scraps and bones for her cats. She must have a houseful.”

That afternoon, I went to the cat lady’s house and rang the doorbell. The door opened a crack, and a voice called out in a strong English accent, “Yes, ducks, what is it?”

I handed her one of my cards, and said, “I help people find missing pets.”

“Do ya, now?” she said amiably and opened the door. “Mind me moggies,” she warned.

Once inside, I saw them: on the stairs, on the table, on the floor, on the chairs, scampering out of my way, crouching watchfully—there were cats everywhere.

She led me into the kitchen. “Have a seat, luv,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Bentwhistle, and I’m goin’ to make us a nice cuppa.”

“My,” I said, unable to avoid commenting on the obvious, “you certainly have a lot of cats.”

“You like me moggies, do ya?” she said with a bright smile.

“Moggies?”

“That’s right, moggies. Me mum come from Lancashire, and that’s what she called ’em, and so do I.”

She was a short, wide woman somewhere in her late sixties, I judged. Her gray hair was caught in the back with a couple of combs. Bright pink lipstick and rouge were enthusiastically if erratically applied.

She poured in the tea, and handed me mine. I took a sip and almost gagged.

“How do ya like it, then?” she asked.

“Oh,” I replied weakly. “It’s . . . um. . . tasty. Very unusual.”

“Nothin’ like it,” she agreed, taking a good swallow.

“Mrs. Bentwhistle, I’m looking for a cat—gray with black stripes.”

“Gaw!” she exclaimed, “I got millions of ’em. Why don’t ya have yourself a look? It’s almost feedin’ time.” She lifted the lid of an enormous pot and a terrible aroma escaped.

“Come on, grub’s up,” she yelled.

Suddenly the place was alive with furry bodies. Within five minutes the food was gone and so were the cats.

“There,” she said with satisfaction. “Did ya find the one ya were lookin’ for, then?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” I said. I explained about Mike and his cat. “He was very brave,” I said. “
Too
brave.”

“Oh, it’s a crying shame,” Mrs. Bentwhistle said sympathetically. “Here, why don’t ya come back tomorrow and have another look? I get new ones every day.”

The next day, over tea, Mrs. Bentwhistle told me that she and her husband had come to this country toward the end of World War II from their home in bombed-out East London.

“We had a good life here, Ernie and me. He’s been gone now almost ten years, rest his soul. Still, I’ve got me moggies to look after. But poor Mikey, all these moggies, and none of ’em Sam.”

With her permission I called in to the office for messages. Someone had seen the body of a cat in some bushes not far from Mike’s house. Dejected, I hung up and told Mrs. Bentwhistle I was afraid I had come to the end of my search.

I found the cat where I had been told to look, and its markings matched Sam’s exactly. I gingerly placed the body in a box, and with a heavy heart drove to Mike’s house.

Mike answered the door. “Hi,” he said eagerly. “Did you find Sam?”

“I have some bad news for you, Mike. Sam’s dead.”

The blood drained from his face.

Mike said nothing as we went about laying Sam to rest. I was worried and didn’t want to leave him by himself. Then I thought of something.

“Tell you what, Mike,” I said, “there’s a nice lady not far from here who’s got quite a few cats. How’s about we pay her a visit?”

“Okay,” he replied passively.

“Mrs. Bentwhistle,” I said quickly when she answered the door, “I brought Mike. We just buried Sam.”

“Come in,” she said. “You’re just in time for a lovely cuppa tea.”

As soon as Mike sat down, a small black cat jumped up on his lap, and he stroked it mechanically.

“Now then,” she said affably, passing out the tea and settling into her chair, “you lost your moggy, is that it?”

“That’s what Mrs. Bentwhistle calls cats, Mike,” I explained.

“Yes,” he said in a frighteningly matter-of-fact tone. “He was hit by a car.”

“Ain’t that a shame,” she sighed, sipping her tea and shaking her head. “And to think your mum gave Sam to you. Ya know, lad, it reminds me of me own mum.”

Mike looked up.

“Right before she died she gave me a set of dishes. Beautiful blue dishes, they was, me pride and joy, and I kept ’em in the front room where everyone could see ’em. Well, wouldn’t you know, one afternoon one of Hitler’s bleedin’ buzz bombs up and smashed half the house. But all I cared about was them dishes. I just felt so bad, because me mum give ’em to me.”

Mike stopped stroking the cat.

“Course it wasn’t me fault,” she continued, “but I still felt bad. It’s a bit like you and Sam, ain’t it? Now he’s been done in, but it weren’t your fault. Your mum knows that. Your mum still loves you, just like me mum loves me,” she said softly. “Well, that’s enough about that. Can’t hang your hat on the past, as ya might say.” She paused. “What about the moggy on your lap?How would you like to have him?”

Mike didn’t say anything.

“Come on now, lad,” she insisted. “Do you want him?”

Mike shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want him,” he cried. “I want Sam!”

And Mike bolted out of the room. I started after him, but Mrs. Bentwhistle stopped me.

“Leave him be,” she said. “He needs a good cry. Lads has got to be on their ownsome when they cry. I know a thing or two about lads as well as moggies.”

Soon Mrs. Bentwhistle got up and limped down the hall. Finally, they reappeared, Mike red-eyed, and Mrs. Bentwhistle with her arm around his shoulder.

Mike glanced at me and almost smiled. “Mrs.

Bentwhistle told me I can help her feed the cats whenever I want to.”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” I said. I wondered what it was Mrs. Bentwhistle had said to Mike; he no longer seemed to be carrying such a heavy burden.

“And did you know Mrs. Bentwhistle had a little boy once?” Mike said. “He got killed in the war.”

“Hush now,” she interrupted. Then to me she said, “You can run along now. It’s time for Mikey and me to feed the moggies.”

I drove home with my head full of awe at the unseen forces that had used the tragedy of a boy’s dead pet to bring two lonely people together.

A few weeks later, I gave Mrs. Bentwhistle a call.

“How’s everything?” I asked.

“Couldn’t be better, luv,” she replied cheerily. “Mikey’s a lovely lad. He helps with the moggies and goin’ to the store. Don’t know what I did without him. Oh, and he took that little black moggy home with him.” She laughed. “He said it was just for a bit, but he don’t fool me. He’s a stubborn one, he is.”

“Mike stubborn?” I said.

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “He won’t drink me tea! Did ya ever hear the like? But don’t you worry, he’ll come ’round. We’ll make a proper lad of him yet, just you see.”

John Keane (a.k.a. Sherlock Bones)

Double Duty

L
ife + a cat . . . adds up to an incalculable sum.

Rainer Maria Rilke

As a member of a “dog family,” I had long been conditioned to believe that cats simply didn’t possess the ability or desire to be loving companions. This belief was so deeply ingrained that, while I didn’t actually dislike cats, I found them, for the most part, uninteresting.

Arriving home from work one afternoon, I discovered a cat at my doorstep. I ignored him, but apparently he was not offended, because he was there again the following day.

“I’ll pet you,” I told him, “but there’s no way you’re coming in.”

Then one night soon after, as the rain beat down and thunder clapped, I heard a faint meow. I couldn’t take it anymore; I became a cat owner.

My new roommate, now named Shotzy, quickly became more than just a stray cat to feed. I liked the way his soft purring greeted me every morning and the way he nudged his head against my leg when I came home each day. His playful antics made me laugh, and soon Shotzy seemed more like a longtime friend than a pet I hadn’t really wanted.

Although I suspected Shotzy had been an outdoor cat for a good portion of his life, he seemed perfectly content to stay inside, except for one remarkable exception. As if an alarm had gone off, at about six o’clock every night he’d cry to go out. Then, almost exactly one hour later, he’d be back. He did this for several months before I finally discovered what he had been up to.

One day a neighbor who knew about Shotzy showing up at my doorstep told me she thought the cat might belong to an elderly woman who lived down the street. Worried that I had mistakenly adopted someone’s pet, I took Shotzy to the woman’s house the next day.

When a white-haired woman opened the door, Shotzy bolted from my arms, ran into the house and made himself at home in a big recliner. The woman just threw her head back and laughed, saying, “Jimmy always did love his chair.”

My heart sank—my Shotzy was obviously her Jimmy.

I explained I had taken him in and only discovered the day before that he may have already had a home. Again, the old woman chuckled. She invited me in and explained that the cat did not belong to her.

“But, I thought you called him Jimmy,” I questioned.

The woman, who said her name was Mary, explained that Jimmy was her husband’s name. He had died about a year before, just a few months after being diagnosed with cancer.

Before Jimmy died, he and Mary would eat dinner at five o’clock every night.

Afterward, they would retire to the living room, Jimmy to his favorite chair, to talk about the day’s events. The couple had followed that routine every night for the sixty years they were married. After Jimmy’s death, with no other family nearby, Mary said she just felt lost. And more than anything, she missed their nightly after-dinner talks.

Then one night a stray cat meowed demandingly at her screen door. When she cracked open the door to shoo him away, he ran straight to Jimmy’s chair and made himself comfortable, as if he had lived there forever.

Mary, who had never had a pet in her life, found herself smiling at the animal. She gave him a little milk and then he cuddled on her lap. She talked to him about her life, but mostly about Jimmy. At about seven o’clock, at which time she normally turned on the TV and made herself some hot tea, the creature slipped off her lap and went to the door. At six o’clock the next evening, the cat was back. Soon, Shotzy and Mary had their own routine.

“Now, I believe in the Good Lord,” Mary told me. “I don’t know about all that reincarnation stuff, but sometimes it feels just like I’m talking to Jimmy when that little cat is here. I know that sounds strange, and I guess what’s important is that the cat is a real comfort to me. But it’s interesting to think on, all the same.”

So Mary and I continued to share Shotzy. At my house, he revealed to me the many daily joys that come with living with a cat. At Mary’s, his presence served to fill the six o’clock hour with happy companionship.