A Dickens of a Cat

On my ninth birthday, my parents gave me a kitten. He was gorgeous, with blue gray fur and white paws. Being extraordinarily creative even at that tender age, I named him Mittens.

There was no question about who Mittens belonged to. Not only was he the most precious birthday present I’d ever received, he seemed to know he was mine. Even as a kitten, he would follow me around the yard and house. He was affectionate with my younger sister and parents, but I was the one he came to at the first call. Of course, it might have had something to do with the fact that I was also the one who fed him!

During our first months together, we spent most of our time outdoors exulting in the brief Connecticut summer. My birthday was in July, so we had several weeks of freedom before school started. I used this time wisely, constructing our home out of a series of lawn chairs, old sheets, and cardboard. After this elegant residence was completed, I cushioned a sturdy box with old towels and sheets, fashioned a little bonnet, tied it around Mittens’ neck, and laid him lovingly in his bassinet. My “baby” and I passed many an afternoon protected from the sun in our little home, only occasionally inviting my sister and neighborhood kids to join our domestic tranquility.

Looking back now, I can’t believe my patient kitten tolerated such behavior. Most cats would have darted away and adopted another owner at the very sight of my clever tent/house. Not Mittens. He seemed to recognize my childish solitude and instinctively understand my loneliness. Cats may have a reputation as solitary, aloof creatures, but Mittens kept me company regardless of my overactive imagination and annoying housekeeping schemes.

But it wasn’t until months later that I realized just how close our bond had grown.

In April Mittens went missing. I called him one night before bed, and he didn’t return. This was so uncharacteristic, I knew immediately that something was wrong. We lived on a relatively busy road, and my first horrified thought was that he’d been hit by a car.

Imagining him struggling, hurt and bleeding in some gulch, sent me running in tears to my father. To his everlasting credit he put me in the car, and we cruised slowly up and down the road looking for Mittens or signs of an accident. We found neither, and I spent a long night tossing and turning in my little bed. Mittens had become an indispensable member of our family by then, and I don’t think any of us slept that night. Even my mother, who pretended to complain when Mittens pranced daintily through her immaculate, well-organized kitchen cabinets, had red-rimmed, dark-circled eyes the next morning when she made us breakfast.

I fussed anxiously about going to school and jumped on my bike as soon as I returned. I rode endlessly up and down the streets of our neighborhood, alertly looking for my cat. I asked everyone I saw about Mittens, but no one had a clue.

By the third afternoon I knew in my heart, as a child does, that my parents had given up. But I couldn’t. I flew up and down our street on my bike, calling out for Mittens, my eyes everywhere at once.

Suddenly, a brief movement caught my eye. I stopped short, studying the line of windows on our elderly neighbor’s garage door. Mrs. Smithhurst had closed down her house in the fall to make her annual pilgrimage south for the winter. The house, garage, and yard were completely still as they had been for months now. After several minutes, I sighed and prepared to ride away.

There it was again! A flashing movement barely visible through the clouded garage door windows! I dropped my bike in the road and sped up the deserted driveway. Standing on my tiptoes, I could just reach the dirty windows which I frantically wiped with my hand. I peered through the small, smudged circle I’d hastily created. There was Mittens, thin and bedraggled, but staring up hopefully as though he’d been expecting me!

I was immediately seized with a dilemma so wrenching it turned my joy to tears. I knew I couldn’t free him—everything was locked!—but the last thing I wanted to do was leave him again to fetch my father. Struggling with an anguish I can still feel over thirty years later, I shouted assurances of my swift return to him and fled down the street for my father.

It was just a few minutes later when we returned, but it seemed like eons to me as I imagined my poor kitten watching in despair as my familiar face at the window had vanished. In that short time, my mind painted an agonizing picture of how Mittens had been trapped listening to my futile calls for three solid days and nights. He’d most likely been leaping up and down in the air for the entire time, just hoping I’d spot him. Yet I’d been cycling by again and again, hardly giving Mrs. Smithhurst’s boarded up house a second glance. And now that I’d found him and then immediately disappeared, he must be lying there thinking I’d abandoned him again.

Night Time May or May Not Be the Right Time

While it’s true that cats see well in the dark, they are not truly nocturnal creatures. Sure, they’ll hunt at night. But not all night. Cats are high on the food chain and are able to sleep away two-thirds of their life—sixteen hours a day for the average domestic cat. Most likely, while we’re sleeping, our cats are sleeping too—sometimes very comfortably on top of our feet.

Cats are neither nocturnal nor diurnal creatures; they are crepuscular, meaning they come to life at dawn and dusk. That’s when their traditional food source is on the move. Why does this matter to you and your house cat? Because Mr. Cat is especially alert at dawn and dusk and would like to play at those times. Remember, all cat play is really about hunting live food, which means that when you dangle a string, Mr. Cat sees a tail. So when you have your morning coffee and when you come home from work, dangle a toy for your feline for some quality cat time. Then maybe the little beast will stop attacking your feet while you sleep.[2]

Yet when we returned and looked in the garage window, Mittens was sitting in the same spot, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the circle in the window where he’d first seen my face.

My father, in his own way no less distressed than I, wasted no time removing a windowpane. Fortunately, Mrs. Smithhurst was an immaculate lady; you could virtually eat off her garage floor. Though there’d been nothing for Mittens to eat, he had managed to drink from several puddles of relatively clean water that had seeped into the garage after the spring rains. He was weak and scrawny when I scooped him up, but the vet said he’d be fine.

Many times in my life since then I’ve felt trapped and afraid. Many times I’ve felt abandoned and alone. Many times I’ve faced an unknown outcome that seemed impossibly bleak. But I try to remember Mittens with his unwavering, trustful gaze and certain faith. And at those moments I think to myself, “Wait for the Lord. Take courage, and wait for the Lord.”