Good Luck Cat

by Lissa Warren

  During the next commercial I looked beneath the bed. Nope, not there. Must be on a shelf in Mom and Dad’s closet (we always left the closet door open in case she felt like exploring). The commercial after that, I turned off the TV and crept over to the closet to listen for snoring. Silence. So much for the closet theory.

  Still not worried—she had pulled this disappearing act before—I went back to watching TV. But when the show ended I decided I’d better walk around and find her. I started with my bedroom. Not under the desk, not under the bed, not on the floor of my closet. Family room? No. Not under the coffee table, not under the couch, not among the plants in front of the fireplace. Even though the door to the laundry room had been shut all night, I went in there to look. No dice.

  Top of the fridge? No. Inside the kitchen cupboards? No, no, no, and no. She couldn’t fit in a kitchen drawer, could she? Hmm, apparently not. Behind the TV in the living room? It’d be a tight squeeze, but I looked anyway. Not there.

  I was starting to get pretty concerned. “Ting,” I called from room to room. “Ting-Pei Warrrr-ennnn.” I walked all around the house waving one of her favorite toys—a wand with a string of feathers dangling from the end of it—sure that the whirring noise would attract her, sure she’d pop right out. She didn’t. I went from room to room, shaking her bag of cat food. Nope. I opened three cans of tuna, one for each level of the house, certain that would entice her. Nothing.

  I started getting creative in that special way people do when someone they love is, like, ten minutes late. Could she have impaled herself on a coat hanger? I spent twenty minutes taking every item out of my parents’ closet, just to make sure she hadn’t—wide-lapel suit jackets from the ’70s, paisley-print dresses with shoulder pads from the ’80s, canvas purses, leather shoes, leather purses, canvas shoes, various and sundry baseball caps—piling all of them on the bed until the bedspread disappeared. Could she have somehow opened the toilet lid, fallen in and, in an effort to climb out, shut the lid on herself and suffocated? I checked all three of our toilets. Could she have shimmied up the chimney in a crazy reverse Santa? Hard to do because the flue was closed, but I took a flashlight and looked.

  I checked the oven, the refrigerator, the freezer, the dishwasher, the washing machine, and the dryer. I went back and looked in the microwave. I peeked in the bread machine. No. Cat. Anywhere. Panic was setting in.

  And then the phone rang. First thought: Somehow Ting-Pei has gotten out through the skylight and the neighbors can see her on the roof. Second thought: Cat burglar burglared my cat and is calling to ask for ransom. Third thought: Does Ting-Pei know how to dial?

  But it was just my parents, calling from Africa on a solar-powered phone that cost them ten dollars per minute. It was the first time I’d talked to them in a week. And the first words out of Dad’s mouth: “How’s my Tinger?”

  I did what any good daughter would have done in that situation—I lied through my teeth. And after Dad had me “put Ting on the phone,” I assured him her ears had perked up at the sound of his voice and that she’d even licked the receiver. Dad was delighted. I was sure if Hell existed, I was destined for it.

  The call was mercifully short—they had giraffes to see and were fearful of solar flares and, besides, it was expensive. I resumed my Ting hunt the second they hung up. Even though there was no way she could have gotten out of the house, I took the flashlight, slid out the front door, and started to patrol the perimeter. Rhododendron, azalea, broken drainpipe, arborvitaes, garden hose, pissed-off possum. I made a full circle. No sign of Ting. As a general rule, Korats don’t come when they’re called—they’re not that kind of cat—but I hollered her name a few more times while standing on the front stoop, then hurried back inside, terrified that, by this time next week, we’d be dredging the pond for her little gray body.

  And then it hit me: heights, she liked heights. Maybe she was in a basket on top of the cupboards, or behind some books on the bookshelf. Flashlight still in hand, I ran to the garage where we kept a six-foot stepladder. Of course it was all wedged in. Cut to me standing barefoot on the hood of my car, trying to get some leverage, flashlight stuffed down the front of my pants. The ladder didn’t budge, so I hopped down and, in the process, knocked over a rake. I bent to pick it up and, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something move. I took a deep breath and prayed that, whatever it was, it wouldn’t try to eat me. I crouched down and shined the light beneath my car.

  And there, in all her glory, was Miss Ting-Pei Warren, covered in cobwebs, dead leaves, and something that looked like paint but wasn’t. Her expression said Took ya long enough. Trying to look nonchalant, I walked back in the house. A moment later, Ting scurried in behind me. Religious bathing of the cat ensued, using multiple lukewarm washcloths.

  I never told my parents about Ting-Pei’s big adventure, and I only felt a little guilty about it. We have a long family history of telling pet-related lies. Chief among them, the death of our cairn terrier, Oregano, when I was six and a half.

  I was a terrible sleeper as a child—not your garden variety “There are monsters under my bed,” but more of a “Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?,” followed by three hours of sitting, during which time I would pepper whichever unfortunate parent had drawn Lissa duty that night with questions like “Are bird bones hollow?” “What does ‘gay’ mean?” and “If I pray for a baby of my own, will I get one?”

  So when Oregano passed away in her sleep at the ripe old age of fifteen, my parents agreed that telling me the truth would lead me to the natural conclusion that I, too, was unlikely to make it to morning, and that the three hours of sitting would turn into four or five. Hence, they concocted a somewhat elaborate story: that Oregano had been at the vet, very sick, for the past couple of days, and that, sadly, she had died there that morning. In truth, she had died in her doggie bed in the alcove by the kitchen.

  I cried over Oregano for weeks—she was a very sweet dog, and I loved her—but my parents’ plan worked, in that at least I didn’t think I’d die in my sleep. Unfortunately, they had failed to factor in the guilt I would feel over not having noticed that Oregano had been missing from the house for days (which, of course, she hadn’t), and the guilt I would feel over having focused my attention on our new cat, Cinnamon, who I was busy dressing in a baby bonnet and pushing around in a pram.

  It would be a decade before I’d learn the truth about Oregano—by accident, from a comment my mother made in passing. As for why we named two pets after spices, that, I will never know. Mom’s Irish; we don’t even use salt.

  And then there’s the story of the freeze-dried robin.

  When my parents and I moved from New York to Tennessee when I was five, they had a hard time finding a house to buy, and ended up having to store our furniture and move us into an apartment while they continued looking. I tagged along with them to most of the open houses, and in one of them we found a fledgling robin who had somehow gotten inside—quite a while ago, judging from the copious amount of poop in the otherwise-beautiful master bedroom. My parents contemplated setting the bird outside beneath a hydrangea, in the hope its mother would find it and that, until then, it would at least have shade. But it seemed unlikely she’d come back to claim it. Figuring we were the robin’s best chance, we brought the bird back to our apartment and spent the next few days trying, in vain, to get it to eat the worms that Dad dug up from the little patch of lawn between the parking lot and the sidewalk.

  You know how this story ends: The baby robin died. Mom proposed a funeral, but I didn’t want to bury the bird on the apartment grounds. Better, I thought, to wait and bury it in our backyard—once we had a backyard—so we could visit the grave whenever we wanted. Mom, conscious of the emotional toll a move can take on a five-year-old, thought it best not to add to my stress. So she did what any reasonable woman would do: She put the robin in a Ziploc and placed it in the freezer.

  In took them two months to find a house. By then, I’d
completely forgotten about the bird. On moving day, while Dad and I waited in his idling two-door turquoise Vega—the last “bachelor car” he would ever have—Mom ran into the apartment to have a final look around the place, “just to make sure we didn’t forget anything.” On her way back to the car, she tossed the bird in the Dumpster.

  My grandmother, too, was a disposer of birds. After two years of living in Memphis, Dad got a great job opportunity in Cleveland. When it came time to go there to look for a house—or at least to narrow down a suburb in which to search—my grandparents, who were staying with us that summer, volunteered to watch the cat. They didn’t watch her closely enough, however, because when one of my zebra finches escaped from its cage, Cinnamon caught her and ate her. Or half of her, actually—the bottom half—which is how my grandmother identified the remains as being that of Chi Chi, the white-headed one with the spot on its chest. The female.

  Concerned I’d be upset about the loss of Chi Chi and apoplectic that Cinnamon had committed the crime, Grampa used the Polaroid we’d given him for his birthday to take a picture of the corpse, and he and Nonnie, by then in their seventies, drove to six different pet stores in the Memphis area (with which they weren’t the least bit familiar) in 100-degree heat to try to find a finch that they could pass off as Chi Chi. None of the birds were an exact match, but they did find one that came pretty close, brought it home, and proceeded with the swap-out.

  I’m embarrassed to say I never noticed the difference. Apparently neither did Chester, Chi Chi’s mate, who a month later became the father of three adorable babies—Chico, Chirpie, and Checkers (even at a young age, I was into alliteration). They looked a lot like their mother—by which I mean Chi Chi dos.

  Nonnie had practice pulling bird-related fast ones. Take the case of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, the ducks she and Grampa gave my mom for Easter when she was four years old. They lived happily in a pen in my grandparents’ backyard until one escaped and the neighbor dog got it. Hearing the commotion, Nonnie ran outside and, seeing the half-dead duck, wrapped it in her apron, brought it into the kitchen, and tried to revive it by pouring whiskey down its throat—which worked about as well as you’d think, and which confused poor Mom, who couldn’t figure out why Nonnie had only invited one duck in for “tea.”

  Fearful for the remaining ducks, and not wanting to have to tell my mom that little Louie hadn’t made it, Nonnie and Grampa made the difficult decision to send “all three ducks” to Grampa’s father’s farm, ten miles away. They sat Mom down and explained to her that the ducks were getting big and needed room to play, and that her Grampa McKittrick’s farm had a giant pond where they’d be very happy. They assured her that she’d see them every time she went to visit. Mom wasn’t quite buying it, though. She asked what the ducks could play on the pond that they couldn’t play in the yard. Nonnie’s answer: hopscotch.

  Now Grampa McKittrick had been a farmer his entire life. He saw ducks as dinner, not pets—something my grandparents had somehow failed to factor into the equation. Suffice it to say, Mom never saw Huey, Dewey, or Louie playing hopscotch on the pond, and Grampa McKittrick became very good at saying “Gosh, they were there yesterday.”

  So we lied, all of us, about our pets. But we all had the same good reason: each other.

  Chapter Nine

  Cats and Their Companion Animals

  If I’m taking a walk and I see a cat, I’m happy.

  —Haruki Murakami

  It’s hard to know what to call Ting. The term pet makes her sound somehow lesser-than—lesser than us; lesser than what, or who, she is. Somehow it belittles her. It’s too cutesy; it doesn’t do her justice. I’ve heard people use the term companion animal to describe their dogs and cats, and while in some ways calling her that would be as silly as calling a husband a “companion human,” it does at least come closer to expressing her place in our lives. It offers a certain respect. It’s a nod to what every person who loves cats knows—that life would be much lonelier without them, and that while they weren’t put on this planet just to keep us company, they do so with a skill and devotion that very few humans can match. That very few humans would try to.

  I also like the term companion animal because it sounds reciprocal. As much as Ting is our companion, we are hers. She didn’t choose to come here, but she wouldn’t choose to leave. This is her home now, and we’re her family. We’re her companion animals.

  Around the time Ting became a teenager—at least, in terms of human years—Dad’s health really started to decline. In addition to his ever-present heart issues, a lingering sinus infection permanently robbed him of his ability to smell or taste—and for a man who liked to eat as much as my father liked to eat, that wasn’t an insignificant thing. He said what bothered him about it most, though, was not being able to smell Ting—the warm, sweet scent of her.

  Dad was also having trouble with his hearing. Growing sick of having to repeat herself and tired of having to listen to a blaring TV—and concerned about the way hearing loss can isolate a person—Mom prodded Dad to get a hearing test, and, finally, he relented. It showed measurable loss in both ears, and the audiologist suggested a hearing aid for the worst side. Dad was in his seventies by then, but still insisted he was too young for “assistive devices.” He seemed so offended by the suggestion, so adamant about not needing one, that Mom and I let it ride. We learned to just speak up, and it became such a habit that we often spoke loudly to each other even when Dad wasn’t in the room. When we caught ourselves doing it, all we could do was laugh.

  Dad was having vision problems, too. He started missing steps on his way from the living room up to the bedroom, started having trouble seeing the squares of his crossword puzzles. Suspecting cataracts or the need for bifocals, Mom made him an appointment with the eye doctor. Tests showed something worse: a pucker on the retina of his left eye that created a blind spot in the center, similar to what someone with macular degeneration would have. Driving home from the appointment, Dad told Mom that, for the first time in his life, he felt old.

  But worst of all was his back, and the tingling pain that radiated down his legs. Fearing the worst—a tumor—we took him to a specialist who examined him, took a few X-rays, did an MRI, and diagnosed him with lumbar spinal stenosis, a narrowing of the spinal canal in his lower back that resulted in the nerve root compression that was causing his sciatica. Better than a tumor, but still not good.

  For months we tried to manage his symptoms with physical therapy, anti-inflammatory drugs, and special stretching exercises that he did on his bedroom floor, under the watchful eye of slightly perplexed Dr. Ting-Pei Warren. But these things brought little or no relief. We turned to steroid injections, “like the baseball players get,” but they were painful and didn’t help either.

  It was around this time that Dad started showing signs of depression. His afternoon naps got longer and longer, and started earlier and earlier. My whole life, he had been meticulous about his appearance—shaving even on the weekends—but now several days of scruff consistently shadowed his face. Back when he was working, he used to set his clothes out the night before—socks, boxers, undershirt, dress shirt, and tie. Even after he retired, he still laid out the first three, with a carefully selected flannel or polo shirt, depending on the season. But lately he was puttering around in sweats and a T-shirt all day.

  Other small habits were changing. Before going to bed, he used to put the filter in the coffee machine and scoop the dark roast into it so that all he had to do the next morning was push the button and, voilà. Now he just waited for Mom to make it. And he canceled his subscription to the Sunday New York Times. “Too much work,” he said.

  They were little things, and people do change; we weren’t unduly alarmed. But taken together, they worried us. Somehow Dad just wasn’t quite right. Ting seemed to sense it, too. Fewer cuddles from him, fewer kisses. He’d grow short with her when she meowed for attention, calling for Mom to make her stop. Ting was used to being the cen
ter of attention, and all of a sudden, Dad was.

  Dad discussed his mood with his primary care physician during his annual physical, and the doctor prescribed an antidepressant, which Dad started taking without talking with me first. I believe that antidepressants are for people who want to be dead, not people who want to be happy—in other words, that they serve a purpose in the most severe cases, but should be a last resort. No doubt my opinion has been influenced by a book I was publicizing at the time, The Depression Cure by Dr. Stephen Ilardi, which advocated things like light therapy, dietary changes, exercise, and increased social interaction. I was angry at the doctor for taking what I saw as the easy way out—a shortcut that could forever alter my father’s natural brain chemistry. I was angry at my dad for not consulting with me on something I saw as a major decision, and I was mad at my mom for going along with it, and for keeping his secret.

  The antidepressant didn’t work and, between it and all of the medicines he was taking for his heart and his back, my dad was having migraines and feeling nauseous all the time. I told him I thought his body was becoming toxic, and he and Mom agreed. We convinced the doctor to wean him off the antidepressant, and decided to refocus our efforts on relieving his back pain, which seemed to be the thing that depressed him the most.

  As soon as we could get an appointment we took Dad to see a neurosurgeon, expecting him to recommend a laminectomy (a bone-removing spinal surgery that sounded scary, and which we weren’t even sure Dad would be cleared for, given his heart condition). Instead, he suggested a relatively new procedure, called an X-stop. It involved minimally invasive surgery to implant a titanium spacer between two vertebrae. Everything Mom and I read about it said that it was a fairly quick procedure that patients generally tolerated well. We were even more encouraged by what the post-surgery data showed: X-stops worked. As if to prove it, the surgeon had Dad stand up straight and asked him how he felt. “Not good.” Then he bent Dad forward just the slightest bit, and asked him again. “No pain.” The spacer would alleviate the pressure that was causing the pain, just like bending him forward had done, but it would do so in such a way that Dad would have relief even when completely vertical.