Marmalade Tiger

Sheila’s corner office, over the years, became a gallery presided over by photos of cats and kittens. Sibling kittens with bright eyes, a lonely oldie safe in the arms of someone who understood loneliness, a mama cat with her one surviving kitten adopted together.

A number of photos lay stacked on the corner of her desk waiting for someone to venture up a ladder to affix them to the ceiling because every inch of wall space was covered, though she suggested they could adorn the corridor outside, so that discussion was still ongoing.

Otherwise, her desk was bare, just an in tray, an out tray, with a laptop where a typewriter had once stood. No photos of family or pets. She focused all her energies on the cats who lingered much longer in the Sanctuary, the black cats, the older cats, the black and white cats, the cats missing an ear or a limb or an eye or needing special care for one reason or another.  

In contrast, her tiny apartment did not even have a houseplant much less a cat. No dogs, no birds, not even a goldfish to notice when she left in the morning or welcome her home. Hardly surprising that she spent more hours than anybody knew about at the Sanctuary among the cats, a good part of every evening and several long visits on the weekends.

At a tap on the open door, she looked up from the letter, written in crayon in wobbly lines and illustrated with smiling cat faces, thanking her for the three-legged black cat Calypso whom the child’s family adopted last week.

“Are you ready for the interview?” the young woman asked, their newest volunteer almost bubbling over with excitement.

Was she ever ready? No. But Sheila smiled and nodded, rising from her chair because she always conducted interviews among the cats waiting for adoption. Photos were essential to the process. If an interview resulted in one or two cats finding the forever homes they deserved, this was well worth her best effort, especially as she always highlighted those that people tended to ignore.

She welcomed the man with a firm handshake and asked him about his own experience with cats, nodding with approval when she discovered that he was a cat lover with photos on his mobile to share with her his three feline friends and explained how different their personalities were. She made sure to escort him down the corridor before he could ask any questions.

The eager volunteer wrangled rescued cats and kittens to make sure every photo opportunity was made available to the interviewer. In and among all the feline traffic, Sheila fielded the familiar questions which she could almost answer in her sleep.

How she began the rescue with the support of friends and family some of whom fostered cats and kittens when the premises were too small in the beginning.

How she fought, becoming a nuisance to City Hall so that they agreed to fund a solution for the Feral Cat Problem in parts of the city with the proven strategy of TNR—trap, neuter and release. The mayor’s wife actually sponsored a food drive for the cat colonies which continued to bring in donated tins of cat food all these years later.

How a celebrity showed up incognito and adopted a cat who then became famous, bringing more attention, funding, and eager adoptees to their doors. She had vetted those very strictly as she didn’t want inappropriate people adopting any of her rescues.

While the volunteer gave details of precisely how many cats had been rehomed over the years, Sheila caught her breath before discussing how a few needed to be rehomed more than once because they or their prospective human families or other animals in the household did not get along and the possible reasons for that.

She concluded with her well-rehearsed speech about how just as all humans are worthwhile, so all cats are worthy of having their forever home, which always made her eyes brim with unshed tears and her voice catch in her throat.

However, the young woman did not stop at the enclosure that she expected, surprising her with the news that the cat in that enclosure which had been the one waiting the longest for an adoption had been whisked off this morning to their hopefully forever home with a retired university professor.

“And here is our longest resident,” the volunteer announced, reading out the number of days from the card outside the enclosure. “Max, also known as the Marmalade Tiger, lost an eye due to an infection from getting into a fight with another cat, but as you can see, he is cuddly and adorable.”

Sheila, though used to having cats placed in her arms during interviews for photos to be taken, accepted Max awkwardly. Not because he was one-eyed but due to the ginger bulk of him which overwhelmed her senses and transported her back into the past. She had, after all, made a point of getting acquainted yesterday with the skinny black and white cat that had previously been waiting the longest time for rehoming. Confused that nobody informed her of this change in plan.

She looked down, meeting the one-eyed gaze of the tomcat, remembering another ginger cat. She didn’t hear the interviewer’s words, though the thready purring from the elderly cat made barely any sound. She was a very young child again, gathering up the ginger pussycat she adored.

The volunteer’s voice penetrated the haze of her thoughts, “Sheila, do you need a glass of water?”

“Yes,” she managed to say, keeping her gaze downward as she surfaced from the memory and battened down the hatches on the past. Best not to think about something that should never have happened.

“Would you like to sit down?” the interviewer suggested.

Sheila heard the scrape of a chair on the linoleum, turned around and took a seat with the old cat cradled in her arms. Stroking the ginger fur, she swallowed hard, gratefully aware of the watchful feline eyes gazing from the enclosures. A single meow made her feel that her feline audience understood her dilemma unlike the ignorant humans.

A slowly twitching tail drew her eye to the lean shadow of a black cat perched on the top tower of a cat castle. Below him, his plump white sister lounged on a covered podium. Everyone wanted to take the white cat home but nobody, so far, had offered to adopt her ebony brother as well. Together since kittenhood, the last companions of an elderly woman, they must stay together. Maybe this interview would connect them with the right people.

“Here you are,” the volunteer said.

Sheila held the Marmalade Tiger closer then lifted Max onto the table where he scanned his surroundings with his one good eye before sniffing the fingers that the interviewer offered.

The volunteer related Max’s story, at least what they knew about him, while Sheila sipped the water to avoid needing to participate. She wasn’t sure why they laughed as she was still resisting the riptide of her past which hadn’t surged so intensely for quite a while.

Silence reassembled itself, signalling that she must take the stage again and speak her lines, but what more could she say? Sheila stared at the volunteer, willing her to get rid of the interviewer, but the young woman was too inexperienced to understand and, of course, nobody knew anything about the burden she had carried for so very many years.

Then she realised her speech was over, seizing on the familiar exit strategy as she set the glass down, one hand protecting it from Max’s curiosity, and said, “I expect you need to get on with your day. Thank you so much for your time.”

“One more question,” the interviewer said.

Sheila dragged a smile onto her face and simply nodded.

“You must be tempted all the time to take cats home with you,” he continued. “I’m sure our readers will be curious to find out how many cats you have yourself.”

It was not even a question. So, she didn’t need to answer, did she? But he was still looking at her expectantly. Why didn’t someone burst in who needed to consult her about some crisis? Time slowed down, seconds stretching into hours trapped underneath the weight of the truth those unseen readers demanded despite all consequences.

Max nudged her with his ginger head. She obliged his request, petting him seemed to strengthen her. Awkward, though, because she must resist the childish desire to bury her face in his ginger fur and hold him tight as if he was a teddy bear not a living creature.

She scrabbled for more reasonable thoughts. What impression would that give to readers if he mentioned it in his article or blog or whatever? She couldn’t claim she was allergic to cats, either, not when she just about lived in the sanctuary and dedicated time every day to help socialize feral cats who hadn’t learned to trust people yet.

But what could she say? Normally as self-contained and poised as any cat, Sheila felt like she was about to burst into scalding tears or erupt into unreasonable fury. How dare he ask that particular question, which she wasn’t prepared to answer?

Max’s one-eyed gaze regarded her as though attempting to impart some feline wisdom.

“Water?” the volunteer prompted.

Sheila looked at her, wishing she could remember the young woman’s name or that the badge was readable from this angle. She always valued being able to use someone’s name, common courtesy in a world where so many people were careless and selfish and rude.

Never mind, she would simply make her request known. “Please bring me an adoption form, thank you.”

The volunteer looked puzzled but also relieved to be given something to do.

Sheila focused on the Marmalade Tiger, brushing back the whiskers on one side of his face, then on the other side, stroking along his spine to the base where she rubbed gently with her knuckles which brought his tail straight up in the air with pleasure. She could speak the language of cats so much more easily than she could communicate with any humans.

She began to shape a meow then thought better of it, aware of the interviewer watching. She didn’t want to be labelled as a Crazy Cat Lady, though she often purred or meowed when socializing feral cats or kittens. Or did they say Crazy Cat Person these days? She speculated on why the phrase Crazy Cat Gentleman did not exist.

“I’m not sure you heard my last question,” the interviewer began, but the volunteer returned to interrupt him.

“This is our adoption form,” Sheila said, showing him the document. “As you can see, it is very thorough. We do not release our cats to just anyone and there is a waiting period as well, plus an inspection of the premises and regular checks after the adoption takes place. When there are young children, especially, we make sure to teach the parents everything they need to educate them for their own sake as well as the cats. Everything they need.” She always emphasized that very important point.

The interviewer reached for the form, but she didn’t allow him to take it.

“You can get a copy on your way out,” she told him politely before picking up a pen from the table and beginning to write on the form.

On the front page at the top line, she wrote: Max the Marmalade Tiger.

Then she flipped through to the back page and signed her full name with a flourish. “In answer to your question,” she said with a triumphant smile, “I am adopting Max as soon as the waiting period is complete. I won’t delay you by filling the entire form in right now because you need to meet the new prime candidate for adoption since the Marmalade Tiger is no longer available.”

The interviewer looked confused but smoothly adapted to circumstances.

Sheila set the pen down and scooped Max up to carry him back to his enclosure, already thinking about bending the rules and take him home today. But she needed to make her apartment cat-friendly, to install bedding and cat trees and stock up on toys and food and choose the best litter box and figure out which of the many water fountains was the very best. Then her top inspector would need to scrutinize everything to make sure she had not forgotten anything.

“This is Julius,” the volunteer was saying as she introduced the interviewer to another cat. Her attitude and hopeful tone of voice informed Sheila that she hoped he might adopt, but since he already had three cats, this was unlikely. The fluffy Persian would long ago have been adopted except for having only a short stub of a tail through no fault of his own.

Communing with Max inside the enclosure, she hoped he understood her promise of a forever home before finally returning to her office and, for once, closing the door which was never shut.

Sitting down, she looked at all the cat photos that occupied the walls without really seeing them, memories rising in her mind of another ginger cat a very long time ago.

Poohbah, named after honey loving Winnie in her favourite book, tolerated being hugged like a teddy bear and didn’t scratch her even when he was carried with both his hind legs unsupported.

She climbed up on the kitchen counter to sneak treats for him from the top of the fridge when nobody was looking. Maybe these bribes kept him from turning on her though his tail often twitched. Her mother never noticed or explained that this was a danger sign not at all like a dog wagging its tail.

Sometimes Poohbah hid from her attention. Sometimes she chased him. Sometimes while her mother was in the kitchen, they sat together on the sofa while she tried to read to him. Poohbah didn’t care if the book was upside down or if she made up the story as she went along.

Whenever her mother vacuumed, they both hurried upstairs to hide in her bedroom. Sometimes he hid under her bed, but other times he lay next to her while she petted him. Sometimes his whiskers tickled her awake or she fell asleep to his purring nearby.

One day, Poohbah was grooming himself on the landing when she grabbed hold of him. The ginger cat squirmed so much that she let go and dropped him on the carpet.

“If you don’t love me,” she shouted. “You can go away.”

Words alone did not satisfy her anger.

She crouched to push him down the stairs.

Hands on hips, she stared at the ginger cat sprawled across the bottom few steps.

He didn’t twitch a whisker. She told herself he was sleeping or pretending. “Poohbah?” she said. “Poohbah!”

She rushed to his side and knelt on the step, reaching out to stroke his whiskers. “Please wake up,” she told Poohbah over and over, petting him as she began to cry. But he lay as still as an abandoned teddy bear.

Moments later, she was howling until her mother came. “What on earth is wrong, Sheila?”

“No,” she shouted over and over, trying to twist out of her mother’s grasp who was taking her away from where the ginger cat lay unmoving. Exactly as Poohbah had fought to escape her earlier when he had finally had enough of being grabbed and carried by the ignorant child she had been.

Sheila remembering refusing over and over to have another pet. Not a cat, not a dog, not a gerbil, not a hamster, not even a goldfish, but she never told her mother why. In the beginning, she didn’t have the words, then later when she could have explained, the guilt weighed too heavily.

Drawing in a long, ragged breath, she became aware of the solidity of her desk in the Sanctuary, the gallery photos of cats and kittens, each one kept safe under her protection until they found their forever homes.

“Poohbah,” she whispered, “I am so very sorry. I hope you don’t mind me adopting Max. He needs a home. He is old and has only one eye and looks a lot like you, actually.”

A knock on the door announced the arrival of the volunteer, unfairly intruding on a private moment. Then she saw Max’s ginger face peering from the cat carrier being placed on her desk next to the adoption form.

The young woman withdrew, closing the door before Sheila could thank her.

The Marmalade Tiger watched her with his one eye while she wrote the answers to the many questions, then, when she had finished, he blinked very slowly.

A tear trickled down Sheila’s face. She brushed it away and reached over to smooth his ginger fur and stroke his whiskers until he began to purr. She replied with a quiet meow and then a throaty purr of her own which, due to many years of practice, almost sounded like a cat.

Sheila already knew that her life would change in a myriad of ways. For starters, she would not be eating a hurried lunch at her desk any more, but going home to have lunch with Max. Perhaps she would take up this modern idea of working from home for part of the week which until now she had resisted because her apartment, though comfortable, was not a space she enjoyed occupying.