The Cat's Meow

by John Christmann

As a rule, I don’t like stories with talking animals. I find them, well, childish. Of course, this deprives me of many famous books, several classic Disney features, and any movie with Adam Sandler, but I don’t feel I am missing much. I do, of course, make an exception to Loony Tunes cartoons. But even there I have to say my favorite character is the Road Runner, who communicates with signs. I guess where my imagination roams there is just no room for talking animals. I find the whole notion preposterous.

So you can imagine my complete shock when our cat spoke to me. This was not pleasant meowing, mind you. This was real speech! And no, I was not drinking.

Here is what happened. Before going to bed I sometimes sit in an oversized chair in our living room, turn off the lights, and enjoy the silence. It is a time to empty my head and relish the stillness that for most of the day is beaten back by the relentless noise of living. The kids are asleep, the TV is off, and the only sounds are the soft whirring of the refrigerator leaking from the kitchen and the occasional groan of tired wood straining under the weight of keeping our family sheltered all day. It is absolutely peaceful.

While I was contemplating the silence the other night, our cat jumped feebly up on my lap, circled purposely into position about my knees, then laid down comfortably on the natural bed of my legs and started to purr. It has been many years since the cat has selected me as its petting benefactor, preferring much more the welcoming warmth of my wife or kids when it desires attention. I was surprised how thin and frail she had become.

“Hello, cat.” I said, scratching its head. It purred happily, but unevenly, like a worn diesel engine. I shut my eyes and shared the quiet with the feline of the house. This is when she spoke to me. It was a soft yet intelligible mew; both melodic and reassuring.
“I have a name, you know,” she said.
I was startled. “You are a talking cat!”
“Of course,” she said, “I always talk. You never listen.”

I quickly calculated what this meant. If I could get over the talking animal thing, movies were certainly a possibility; but my best opportunity, I conjectured, was to have my own TV sitcom.
“OK, let me guess,” I cracked, “you want to be put in my will.” I could almost hear the laugh track swell.
The cat licked her paw and scoffed at this, as if such a notion was even more ridiculous than a talking cat.
“Why, after all these years, do you keep referring to me as the cat?” she said. “I have a name you know.”
“I call you the cat because you are a cat. You saunter around the house like you own it and sleep on my shirts all day. You’re a cat.” Again, a few well timed guffaws cued in my head.
The cat looked at me with saucer serious eyes. “But I’m your pet!” she said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

The cat is really the only pet we have ever owned. My wife and I got her when we moved into our house before we had kids. For awhile she enjoyed the warm expanse of my big lap all to herself and I enjoyed tormenting her with catnip. But after our first son was born, my attention toward the cat waned. As I moved fully into parenthood my attention, like my lap, was either occupied by children or just wasn’t available for her. And although we have occupied the same house for over fifteen years now, the cat and I have become more like roommates. I feed it and let the rest of my family enjoy it. It is much like the relationship I have with houseplants.

For a short while, we also maintained a goldfish. The kids couldn’t decide what to call it, so I dubbed it The Fish With No Name. The kids found this paradox amusing, but not amusing enough for them to take much interest in the fish. Not even the cat took notice. The goldfish swam alone. To make its life a little more bearable I placed the tank across the room from the TV and let it watch Finding Nemo, a movie about a talking fish.

After about a year The Fish With No Name met its demise at the hands of our neighbors. At least, that’s what I led them to believe. I asked them to feed the fish while we were on vacation. When we returned the tank was empty. There was a note taped to the glass that said, Please Call!!!!! Even if the fish could talk, I was pretty sure it didn’t have a cell phone, so I took it on faith that I was to ring the neighbors. They were very embarrassed and apologetic. It seems that when they came to feed the fish it no longer needed feeding. They took it upon themselves to flush it down the circulating waters of Davey Jones Locker, assuming rightly that I had no desire to preserve it for display as game fish in the den. I was secretly glad to be rid of the thing, but given that the neighbors felt so bad about what had happened, I felt obliged to mourn The Fish With No Name in their presence. I subsequently leveraged their guilt to great advantage by borrowing their snow blower for the winter.

When the goldfish died I didn’t know what to tell the kids, so I left the tank bubbling in the corner of the room and said nothing. The kids didn’t even notice the fish was gone for two months.
“Hey, where’s the fish?” my younger son asked one day.
I got down on one knee and clasped his shoulders solemnly, ready to comfort him. “I am so sorry, but The Fish With No Name passed away.” I told him. “He died.”
My son struggled to understand what I was telling him, but he quickly made his peace.
“Then can we fill the tank with sand and get a lizard?” he asked.

The cat rested peacefully on my lap and didn’t say anything more, so I continued to stroke her head and nestled deep into my chair.
“I am almost sixteen years old,” she said, delicately breaking the silence.
“You are not getting the car.” I replied firmly, my eyes still closed.
She sighed. “I am not going to be around much longer. I am feeling my age now.”
I opened my eyes and looked her. “But, I thought cats had nine lives?”
She chuckled hoarsly. “Oh, I lost most of them all those times you hurled me off the bed at night.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t like furry animals sleeping on my head. And you were not a quick learner. You never learned to sit or fetch the paper either.”
“You also locked me outside once. In January,” she reminded me.
“That was an accident,” I replied. “You slipped out the door while I was taking out the trash.”
“I stood at the front door and called for you all night in the howling wind. Finally you opened the front door to the frigid night air in nothing but your boxers. You called me by name. Ella, you said, are you out there girl? You sounded worried. I was glad to see you, even in your boxers.”
I smiled at the thought. “Yes, I remember!” I said. “I woke up in the middle of the night because I could hear you. You used to wake me when the kids were sick too. You jumped in their beds and curled up at their feet to comfort them. When they grew hot with fever you called to me.”
“So, you were listening after all,” she purred.

In the darkness of the living room I ran my hand across her back. Although her aging body was boney and weak, her soft fur was still warm and full.
She spoke again. “Have you thought about what you will say to the kids?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I am gone. I am the only pet they have ever known.”
“We had a fish, once,” I reminder her.
“No one loved the fish,” she said with some effort. “Please don’t underestimate the depth of their feelings. They will miss me terribly. To you I may be just a cat, but to them I am a part of the family. They are old enough now to understand death and feel the pain of loss. You will have to comfort them; I won’t be there to help.”

I scratched the cat lightly behind the ears and she surrendered herself into my big hand. Then she lowered her head back across her paw, as if the effort required holding it up exhausted her. Her breath became slow and faint. She was peaceful in my lap, and I gently stroked her again.
“You were just a kitten when we got you,” I said. “I named you after Ella Fitzgerald because you purred like you were full of song.”

And then, as I ran my hand over her still body, the rich tenor vibrato of one last purr rolled down my long lap and out into the stillness of the living room. She was singing.

As Ella had predicted, it wasn’t easy telling the kids. My wife hugged them and worked through their tears, barely containing her own. I stoically told them that Ella had lived a long and wonderful life. That we should always remember her for the joy she brought us. That death is an inevitable part of life. But my words were nothing more than canned, empty phrases of a talking man who was radiating warmth like a fish.

Finally, I just told them the truth: “I talked to Ella last night. She said it’s OK to feel sad. She loves you all very much . . . Shhhhhh . . . Shut your eyes and listen . . . You can hear her singing. She sounds happy. I’ll bet she is sleeping on God’s shirt.”

We all shut our eyes and listened. Of course the house was silent. There was no patter of paws on the stairs. There was no purring. There was no song. There was just my imagination roaming once again in a world that has no room for talking animals.

But when I opened my eyes my wife and kids were smiling toward me sympathetically, as if they were experiencing something profound and revealing that was indeed giving them some comfort.

I wasn’t sure what it was, until my daughter offered me her Kleenex.