A Dickens of a Cat

I’m a dog person. Or so I thought, as I sipped my hot chocolate and studied a variety of doggie handbooks. Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet found a canine variety that fit my simple requirements. All I wanted was a big dog who wouldn’t mind living in a tiny house. A dog with a bladder that could handle all-day absences while my husband and I worked and a calm personality that wouldn’t go haywire every time the doorbell rang. And I was hoping for something inexpensive. And easy to train.

And was it asking too much to expect that he’d clean up his own messes in the yard?

It wasn’t the first time I’d looked through dog books, and it wasn’t the first time my husband shook his head at me and gently reminded me that “we aren’t really at a good stage of life for having a dog right now, honey.” My brain agreed completely. But that didn’t stop my heart from longing for a furry friend.

And apparently it didn’t stop my husband from thinking about it either. Because one day, while I was sipping a cup of joe at work, the phone rang. It was Brian—my groom of just over a year—and he had an interesting proposition for me.

“I know we’ve been talking about getting a dog lately...” he started. Calling about a dog while he’s at work?

I mused. He wouldn’t call unless he was serious about this. Has he just heard about some new and exotic breed that will be our perfect fit? One of those creative mixes like a Cockapoo-poo or something? Ready to hear about our perfect canine concoction, I almost spit out my coffee at his next words.

A cat? Are you crazy? I hate cats. Don’t you remember that horrible house-sitting experience I had in college? The one with the four cats who jumped all over me by day, scratched unceasingly at the bedroom door by night, and even had the nerve to claw and bruise my arm simply because I was restraining them from getting out of the house? Horrible, annoying creatures.

Fortunately, I was in too much shock to actually put a voice to any of these thoughts. So my husband continued, “My co-worker found this litter of kittens in her backyard a few days ago and the mother hasn’t come back. She’s going to take them to the humane society unless anyone at work wants them. Do you think we should take one?”

Now as I said, I wasn’t a big fan of cats. In fact I’d vowed—with great passion and zeal—never to own one. But the prospect of some poor abandoned creature being put to sleep at the humane society? Well, my heart’s not made of stone.

“I don’t know,” I finally managed to get out. “A cat? We’ve never talked about a cat before....” And because I had to convince myself we were really having this discussion, I added, “We’re talking about a cat here, right?”

My husband sensed that my muddled mind couldn’t respond with a coherent thought. So he suggested that I think about it and call him back when I made my decision. But I panicked at the prospect of having to determine some pitiful kitten’s fate.

“Why don’t you just decide, Brian. I’ll be fine either way.” I must have sounded convincing because he agreed to this proposal. And I spent the rest of the workday vacillating between hope that a kitten might make a tolerable pet and horror that I was considering such a prospect.

When my husband picked me up from work that evening, it took one glance in the backseat to discover that our family had just grown: a tiny calico looked up at me, let out a most pitiful meow, and then allowed me to stroke the fur on her quaking back. Surprised by the incredible softness of her coat, I picked her up and held her against my chest for a moment.

And what can I say? She started to purr. And that’s when I started to become a cat person.

We brought the fluffy creature home and after some deliberation settled on the name Mocha—perfect for a white kitten accented with coffee- and chocolate-colored spots. She settled in quickly, spending most of the day sleeping in a basket I’d lined with soft towels.

This kitten might have gotten under my skin a little, but she wasn’t about to gain the run of the house. I had standards after all. No cat—no matter how cute—was about to destroy the stylish atmosphere I’d created in our cozy bungalow.

So of course, she wouldn’t be allowed to jump on any furniture she pleased. And she’d have to sleep outside the bedroom because the door would be closed to her. And she most certainly would have to stay away from my garden window full of artfully displayed houseplants.

Mocha missed the memo on every point. She sidelined the furniture rule by catching me at my weakest point: Who can resist a purring kitten cozying up next to them during a weekend nap on the couch? And we hadn’t anticipated that she’d be tiny enough to crawl under the bedroom door at night, so she soon jumped and wiggled her way to the foot of the bed as well. By the time she started sunning herself among my plants in the garden window, I’d given up on having any control whatsoever.

Since I’d given up any hope of controlling where Mocha might roam, it was no surprise that she nosed her way into trouble. There was the time she batted so many toys into a basement drain that it became completely stopped up. And the moment when she set her tail on fire—oblivious to the fact she’d been holding it over a scented candle.

But I think her most memorable foible may have actually been a ploy to harmonize the home. It was a weekday evening and my husband and I were discussing finances when the eternal question of the ages sparked debate: Should we buy whole life or term insurance? What started as a simple argument soon turned into a battle of the wills, each of us determined to convince the other of the error of his or her way. The newlywed glow had turned into a glower.

The best we can figure it, the cat had jumped onto the washing machine to watch water draining to a nearby washtub. She had often perched on the sink’s edge, poking her little paw into the stream of rinse water. So it wasn’t hard to imagine that she might have lost her balance and ended up taking an unexpected dip in the suds. Fortunately, she made her way out of the water and dripped her way up the stairs. As wet as she was, she probably figured she could dry off in the heat of our argument.

The fact is that, to cats, we humans are, for all our grotesque size, unbelievably slow and clumsy. We are totally incapable of managing a good leap or jump or pounce or swipe or, indeed, almost any other simple maneuver which, at the very least, would make us passable fun to play with.

Cleveland Amory

Which might have worked if our anger hadn’t dissolved into laughter at the sight of her Royal Dripping Highness. She was a mess, with fur sticking up, suds on her nose, and two tired eyes seeming to ask how she could have fallen to such an undignified state.

I scooped her up while Brian fetched the towels. And by the time we’d finished blow-drying her fur and settling her onto a bed of blankets atop the couch, our argument had been forgotten. Harmony was restored. And the queen was still on her throne.

The thing about living with royalty is that you never become too consumed with yourself. They are always there to remind you that there’s a higher power in control.

I guess that’s what Mocha was thinking on the day I started rehearsing music on the piano. I’d selected a song for that week’s church service, and I started to sing through the vocals while my fingers danced along the keys. Just when I was starting to mentally admire the product of my musical prowess, I suddenly found a set of paws in the middle of the keyboard and a pink tongue licking my nose.

I’m not sure if Mocha was enjoying the music or simply trying to make it stop. But every time I started to sing for the next several months, I’d suddenly find a cat in my lap and a tongue on my face. I’d pluck her up and set her gently back to the ground. But as soon as my voice broke into song, she’d be right back in my lap, giving a generous gift of kitty saliva to my nose.

After a while, I stopped trying to set her down. I’d just flip her around in my lap and let her sit there while I continued to play. It was an arrangement that seemed to suit us both.

And in the end, that’s the arrangement this doggie fanatic has embraced. I still think cats can be annoying. They sometimes act horribly rude. And they certainly have attitude issues. But they also snuggle up to you on a cold winter night, purr away your stress, and lick your tear-stained face on the days that get you down.

So I’m joining the club. I’m pinning on the badge. And I’ll admit the truth: I’m a cat lover now. And all because God dismissed my doggie dreams and set me on an unexpected feline adventure. He must have known that on my journey of busy days, heavy issues, and constant stress, I’d need a Mocha along for the ride.