A Love Story

The age difference was there, some thirty-five years. She was young, innocent, more than a bit naïve. I, while not chronologically old, had seen enough of the world to know it was not all rainbows and butterflies. Yet, our love, our devotion to each other, grew and remained for many, many years.

A friend had introduced me to her. He had originally bought her for his daughter, but it turned out she was allergic to cats, so the cat needed a new home. He asked me if I wanted her.

I was ambivalent. I was not a cat person, preferring the bumbling affection of dogs. But I was living alone in a small apartment after the divorce, my daughter away at college, and so I thought a bit of company might (might) be nice.

My friend sweetened the deal by saying she had been ‘fixed’ and had had all her shots. He even threw in a box of litter and a litter box, some cat food, and a name: Splash. With some hesitation, I said OK.

The day arrived, my friend brought Splash over, and she was indeed cute. She was small, and never did grow much. I’m not sure how old she was, six months?, older? She was black and white with splashes of brown—hence her name—and a sweet, disarming face. So far so good.

But I didn’t get to see much of her that day. My friend set her down and she immediately made a dash for the kitchen, right off the living room, and hid behind the stove. And there she stayed.

My friend left, wishing me luck. Now what? If you’ve ever tried getting a cat out from behind a stove, you know it’s not easy. I tried sweet talk, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” in a high pitched voice I felt a bit silly using. No luck.

I tried reaching behind the stove to grab her, but it was too tight a squeeze. No luck.

I tried using a broom to do what, I wasn’t exactly sure. But, anyway, no luck.

I finally gave up, but had my doubts about this relationship working out. I put a bowl of water and a bowl of cat food near the stove, and headed to the pet shop, thinking some toys might coax her out. I bought about ten things, many with catnip, spending the equivalent of the GNP of, say, New Jersey.

This would surely work, I thought. Got home, spread the toys on the living room rug, went to the stove where she still hid and announced, ”Hey kitty, kitty. Got you some new toys. Come out and play.” Apparently her grasp of the English language was not that good. No luck.

I gave up, and decided I would call my friend the next day and tell him things were just not working out.

It was supper time. Cold cuts and beer. No frozen pizza tonight, for obvious reasons. After that, I watched the Red Sox game, and then headed upstairs to bed, saying good night to 'the cat behind the stove', thinking this could be a good Doctor Seuss title. No reply, but I could see her bright green eyes shining, as cat’s eyes do, in the ambient light from outside.

The next morning I woke up and spread across the bed were all the toys I’d bought Splash the previous day. Splash herself lay snuggled up in a ball right beside me. She looked up at me, meowed good morning, and I was hooked. The love affair had begun.

Every night for the many years we were together she would do the same thing. Except for the few nights I might have some female companionship, which meant a closed bedroom door. Splash would be quite upset by this and have nothing to do with me the next day, going behind the stove again, knowing this would irritate me. Hell, apparently, hath no fury like a cat scorned.

And so it went, year by year. I think the reason I loved Splash is that she was very dog-like. I would come back from work, open the door, and she would be so excited, jumping up at me, running around me rubbing against me, running away and then coming back. Making me feel like I was the most important person in the world. Plus, she knew it was play time.

She would run away, expecting me to chase her. Which I did, all around the place, up the stairs and down with me yelling stupid things like, “I’m gonna get you, you silly cat, you are in big trouble now, I’d hate to be you.” She loved it.

And the final act would be her laying on her side with her back paws in the air, waiting for me to spin her around. Which I did. Around and around until she’d finally get up and woozily walk away.

We were an odd couple, I suppose. My constant companion at home, as she was always an indoor cat. She would never leave my side, whatever I was doing, reading, writing, watching TV, only my using the bathroom was off-limits, as there had to be some propriety. And not once did she ever criticize me, hurt me, make me feel less than, judge me. Nor I her. Unconditional love. Rare.

In her twenty-sixth year, she began to fade. I tried to deny it at first, but it became clear. She lost weight, became listless. We stopped playing and she mostly just laid on the couch beside me. Eventually it came to the point where she could not walk. I had to carry her to her food, her litter box. It was time.

I took her to the vet’s. As she lay on the table and the vet put the needle in her, I said to her., “I’m gonna get you, you silly cat, you are in big trouble now, I’d hate to be you.” Then she was gone, and my heart was broken.