Mary's Cats

        by Adelaide B. Shaw

It was a crisis.  Would Mary die, would she ever leave the nursing home, would we all be placed in the animal shelter? She didn’t die, thankful to say.  As to the rest…I’m getting to that.

             Living with uncertainty is hard on us, too.  Not just humans and dogs.  Contrary to what most people believe, we cats are not aloof, independent and selfish.  Well, maybe a teeny tiny bit independent in some ways.  We like people who like us, and we show our affection.  We don’t slobber or fawn or roll over and show our bellies or whatever it is that dogs do that makes people prefer them to cats.   We purr when content.  We give kisses, little butts of our head against our human to show that we do care.  If you don’t like cats, you would not be aware that this is our way of showing affection.

            I digress. To get back to the CRISIS.  It was that kind of a crisis, one that had to be shouted.  Mary had a stroke and was taken to the hospital.  The five of us, Muffin, Pansy, Whiskey, Midnight and myself, Spot…  Silly, overused name, isn’t it? I look just like Midnight, all black except for a spot of white on my chin.  It’s that spot which ruined the Halloween look.  Ah well, the roll of the dice.  Or rather of the genes.  Anyway, I digress again.  The five of us were forgotten for two days.  How Grace, that’s Mary’s sister-in-law, could forget us is beyond understanding, but she did. She left her office and rushed to the hospital, staying there overnight and most of the next day until Mary was stabilized.  Late on the second day she showed up.  We were hungry and thirsty.  The drip in the laundry room faucet was too slow.  For five cats it was maddening to have to wait and wait.  The litter box, which Mary cleaned every day, was, I must admit, somewhat redolent with strong odors.  Grace held her nose or tried to while gathering all of us up and took us to her house.

            Grace was not a cat person.  Nor any kind of a pet person.  She had said to Mary, “I have my books, my music, my job and my garden to keep me busy.  I don’t mind living alone now that Ben is gone.  I miss him, of course, but get a cat for company?  NO, NO, NO!”

            Mary, also a widow, had been married to Grace’s brother.  Grace didn’t even want to live with Mary, a suggestion Mary had made at the time.   Grace was a fine one to talk about being independent.

            It took a few days for Grace to get into a workable routine.  She walked through the kitchen, where we often were gathered (that’s where the food was) like a drum majorette, lifting her feet up high so as not to step on us.  As if we would have let that happen.  We were quick enough to get out of her way.

            In the large old-fashioned kitchen, we found our own particular spots.  Muffin, a brown and black striped, liked the window ledge.  Grace tried to chase her away, because of her plants, but Muffin was young and didn’t mind well.  Pansy, the all gray cat, the dowager of our group, liked the laundry basket in the corner.  Grace wasn’t thrilled about that either.  Whiskey, the calico, chose a kitchen chair with the fluffiest cushion.  Midnight and I were content with a sunspot on the floor or one of the other kitchen chairs without a cushion.

            Grace didn’t know, at first, to give us each a bowl of food.  One bowl for five was chaos.  We get along, except when it comes to food.  Finally, after a couple of scraps and some hissing and snarling, she set out five bowls, and peace was established. 

            One Saturday morning Grace was on the telephone talking with her daughter who lived somewhere far.  “Aunt Mary will have a long recovery.  Rehabilitation facility, then a nursing home most likely.  She has some paralysis on her right side.  She’ll have to learn to write with her left hand.  And her speech is garbled.”

            After a long pause, Grace gave a deep sigh.  She had been doing that since we came.  Most upsetting to hear that sound.  Sort of a groan and a cry, almost like something Whiskey made when Grace pushed him off his chair with the fluffy seat cushion.  Even more upsetting was what she said next.  “Oh, they’ll have to go to the animal shelter.”  Another pause.  “If they can’t be adopted then… well, I guess… oh, I don’t want to think about that, but I can’t keep them.”

            We didn’t want to think about that either.  At least Pansy and I didn’t.  The others were oblivious to the phone call, either sleeping or playing with Grace’s knitting.

            After two weeks we were pretty much settled in.  Grace learned to keep her knitting in the cupboard, and in place of the laundry in the basket, she put in a pillow for Pansy.  She even talked to us like Mary does.  Not just to scold or call us for food, but to talk.   “Nasty rain.  So glad to be home.  A grueling day at the office.  Mary says she misses you.”  And other bits like that.

            Still, Grace was having a bad time of it.  She took to sitting in the big wooden rocking chair in one corner of the kitchen every night after visiting Mary.  One night, Midnight and I jumped on her lap, and she didn’t brush us off like we were garbage.  We turned around a couple of times, as we often do, kneading the soft plush material of her robe, making sure our claws were not showing.  Then Midnight curled into a ball, and I sat, neatly tucking my paws under me.  The two of us fit perfectly.  Grace began to stroke us, first Midnight, then me, back and forth.  We purred.  It’s instinctive, our purr.  Oh, it was lovely.  Her hands were soft and gentle.

            “I can feel your purrs,” she said, “that low vibration.  Mary calls you her children.  She never had real children.  I guess you are company since George died.  Poor Mary.  What’s to become of her and you five?”  

            I felt a drop of moisture on my nose.  Grace was crying.

***

            Grace set down her knitting to answer the phone.  It was her daughter again. “The woman at the animal shelter says she can place three of the cats, the younger ones.”  A pause.  “Yes, the nursing home is fine.  Mary will be well cared for.  It’s just so sad.  She’s making progress, a little bit each day, but such a long way to go.  I don’t know…  Oh, Muffin.  Stop that!  Stop playing with my yarn.  Now look at you.”  Grace was laughing.  “On, Betty.  I wish you could see this.  Crazy cat…”  More laughter.  “He’s …he’s tied himself up with the yarn.  Can you hear him crying?  He can’t move.  Oh, wait…”

            Grace set down the phone and got her camera.  One, two, three pictures.  Meanwhile the rest of us got in on the fun.  It was a free-for-all.  It got so bad none of us could get away from that yarn.  It was like it was alive.  It attacked us, I tell you.  Grace hung up the phone and sat in the rocker.  We were all yowling now while she just laughed until tears ran down her face.  Finally, she cut us free.

            “You silly cats.  I haven’t laughed that hard in years, not since my Ben died.  No wonder Mary keeps you around.”

            She patted her lap.  Whiskey and I got there first.  For a while all was quiet in the kitchen.  Grace’s hand stroked us.  She knew just where I liked it.  She gave out that long, soulful sigh again.  “You win,” she said.  “All of you.  Witches under that fur.  You’ve cast your spell.  As soon as it’s feasible Mary will live here, with me.  With us.  All of us.  In the morning I’ll call the animal shelter and cancel the search.”

            There was only one response to this news.  I began to purr.

Bio: Adelaide B. Shaw lives in Tarrytown, NY.  She has been writing stories and non-fiction forty years and has been published in several journals, including Loch Raven Review, Emrys Journal, The MacGuffin, The Toronto Star, American Literary Fiction, By-Line, Adelaide Literary Magazine and Green Silk Journal.  She also writes haiku and other Japanese short form poetry and has been published widely.