Cats are endless opportunities for revelation.
~Leslie Kapp
“Frank, I really do not want to take home a cat this young.” I was seventy-four, and my middle-aged roommate had decided on a beautiful but pudgy one-and-a-half-year-old at the local shelter.
“Look at her,” he said. “She’s like a classy lady from the 1950s. She’s got little, short white gloves on her front paws and little white knee-highs on her back ones. And she moves gracefully for a cat her size.”
After she had tapped us both, in turn, on our hips, I noticed her lovely tortoise or calico (I couldn’t decide which) head and back, some tabby striping on her sides, and her pretty face. But what caught my attention was the fluffiest white bib from her throat, down her belly, to her tail, and on her underside, with an occasional swirl of chocolate. Her belly looked like a hot-fudge sundae.
I noticed that she did not associate with the other cats in the room. She sort of hid behind the open door. After her first tap, she ignored us. Seeing her large size, we quickly realized that when we first entered, she tapped us because she thought we were attendants and might have some treats.
Yes, she was eye-catching, but was I ready for a new cat? And was I prepared for one so young?
Our household’s most recent cat had died only a few months before. We had agreed to wait at least six months to get another. But Frank had medical issues and wanted the feline comfort and companionship. I was seventy-four, though, and having some physical difficulties. Stooping and bending for litter duty was reasonable, but hunting and playing with a frisky, young kitty was probably not in the cards for me.
I loved cats, but I really wanted one that was about five years old, and thus more settled and sedate. On top of that, the house was awash with clutter. A frisky, young cat would be hard to deal with, knocking things over and hiding heaven knows where.
In the end, I told Frank I’d go along with his decision. We took her home, and the scared little thing immediately squeezed under a twin bed in one of the bedrooms of the old, doublewide mobile home.
Three days later, after a constant offering of cat treats, she came out, quickly found and used the litter box, and then hid from us again. For the first week, that’s all she did — come out, eat, use the box, and retreat.
Then she began exploring, very carefully, but she still refused to let Frank near her. It broke his heart. He had picked her out, but she was terrified of him. She would allow me to reach down near her to put down food. She would walk through the house. But if he came near her, she ran.
Meanwhile, we noticed that she was shedding like crazy. Her hair was everywhere. I decided to try brushing her, which she agreed to as long as there were treats. She and I began a nightly ritual of fifteen minutes of brushing and conversation. She felt velvety and silky after each session. I mentioned this to Frank. That’s when she got her name: Silkie.
Just over a year after she came to our home, Frank passed away from a massive heart attack. Silkie had never gotten over her fear of him, and we guessed that a man had mistreated her in the past. Now, with Frank gone, I was officially the only human caregiver for this shy little cat, who was not even three years old.
Doing the math shocked me. She would likely make it to at least fifteen. That was at least twelve more years. I was now seventy-five. This cat was still so needy and afraid that I could not imagine exposing her to another lifestyle change. That meant I would need to live to eighty-seven or so if I wanted to be sure she’d be all right. My health was iffy. Walking and getting up off the floor after our brushing sessions were tricky. I had a quad cane I used everywhere. My bones and joints ached often. I wasn’t yet on any meds, but I was having a harder time talking my doctor out of them.
When Frank passed on, I realized that I had to change my eating habits. Frank was a typical “guy,” and the fridge was stocked with beef, pork, sausage, provolone, and Swiss cheese. I didn’t have much money, so I couldn’t just toss things out, but I slowly replaced the bad foods with good ones.
The change in my food, plus all the running around I had to do after Frank’s passing, had a nice benefit. I lost twenty pounds that first year. The extra activity coupled with the weight loss made a big difference in my mobility. Now, I only use the quad cane for really long walks. I walk farther, although not as far as I’d like. My knee rarely hurts these days.
And Silkie finally climbed on my lap after a couple more years, and I heard her purr for the first time.
She is still not the most affectionate cat I’ve had, but she has made great progress. She stays away from me when I cry, but she seems to know when I’m stressed and need a break. I will often drop things or feel stress building, and suddenly she’s at my ankle, looking up with a little meow. I’ve learned to take this as a cue to stop whatever I’m doing and rest and recharge for a few minutes or a half-hour.
This month will mark four years since Silkie’s arrival. I’ve kept off those twenty pounds that I lost. I walk better. I’m almost eighty and I only take one medication — a very low-level blood-pressure medication. I haven’t taken a pain pill in over a year.
Has Silkie extended my life? Who knows? I do know she has enhanced it, and I cherish each minute with this still-aloof, pudgy shelter cat that was everything I thought I did not want. She turned out to be everything I needed.
~Evelyn Shamay Mayfield
