As every cat owner knows, nobody owns a cat.
~Ellen Perry Berkeley
Someone was singing right outside my door, but when I looked, no one was there. A moment later, Mike opened his door down the hall. A sleek, striped cat darted between Mike’s shins.
“Did he wake you? Sorry,” Mike called down the hall. “Nobody can talk like a tabby Maine Coon!”
It was my first morning after moving into the apartment, and I was glad to make friends with someone.
While checking my mail, I ran into Mike again. He was tall and slender, with an elegant manner learned from his years as a Hollywood chauffeur.
“Glad you got a chance to meet Gizmo,” Mike explained. “He’s so old — he’s been here longer than I have. If you hear him, feel free to knock on my door. But whatever you do, don’t pick him up. He can be grouchy.”
As the weeks passed, Mike proved himself to be an excellent apartment manager. He collected cans from all the tenants and used the recycling money to purchase new Christmas decorations for the courtyard.
Gizmo serenaded us morning and night. One day, I sat at the top of the stairs, and to my surprise, Gizmo slunk right up onto my lap. He coyly stretched out his white chin for me to scratch, neatly hiding away any grouchiness he might harbor. He let me scratch behind his ears, and then, in a flash, he had enough and was gone.
I learned to look forward to Gizmo’s evening visits on the stairs. Sometimes, I “accidentally” spilled some coffee creamer into a pie tin next to my door, and often found myself leaning on the balcony railing as I watched him poke around in the miniature jungle of our courtyard.
And I was not the only one. There were haphazard jar lids placed near every other apartment. On a Saturday afternoon, I watched Gizmo take the stairs down to the first floor, sneak into the laundry room, and then visit three apartments in a row.
The lady who lived directly across from me could only greet me in Ukrainian, but Gizmo seemed to understand her perfectly. The two gentlemen who wore Hawaiian shirts as their constant uniform were often seen scooping him up and passing him to one another. Gizmo’s grouchy reputation was apparently just a ruse. Even the college professor on the other side of Mike’s place was friends with Gizmo, often leaving out scraps of eggplant and prosciutto.
That season, Mike purchased a giant, inflatable snowman, and we both laughed over its odd movements as it deflated each evening. Gizmo would walk toward it tentatively and then dash away. A few minutes later, he’d repeat the whole process.
Soon, glitter snowflakes gave way to whirligig hearts spinning across the lawn — a constant source of fascination for Gizmo. Eventually, flags and sparklers lined the walkway. When the Los Angeles weather melted into scorching heat, that’s when Mike knocked on my door to deliver the bad news.
“There was an accident,” he told me, solemnly. “One of the neighbors watched it happen at the intersection… It was horrible. I could barely recognize him.”
He shook his head before adding, “I’ve chosen to bury him in the courtyard, just under the jade tree.”
I didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry, Mike. He was everyone’s cat, really.”
I thanked Mike for telling me. Until I was by myself, I didn’t realize how I felt about Gizmo. I curled up on the couch and remembered how Gizmo surprised me by showing me his tender side. I thought about his plaintive song, and how he often seemed to be telling me something. What was he always trying to say?
That evening, I raided the cupboard for something special. Way in the back was a box of gourmet chocolate brownie mix. Tears spilled while I mixed the dark batter. If Gizmo had been my cat, then maybe I would have built a Gizmo-specific armor around my heart. But Gizmo was as much a part of life here on Moorpark Street as the constant whoosh of Los Angeles traffic or the smell of jasmine in the spring. He was not an incidental cat, as I had thought. Gizmo was essential to everything here.
While the tray was still baking, I went online and made a donation to the Burbank Animal Shelter in Gizmo’s name. I printed a little certificate and added it to the plate of brownies. Maybe someone else’s incidental cat would benefit.
Then I walked down the hall to deliver condolences to Mike. As the door slowly swung open, I was surprised to see so many faces crowded into his small living room. There were matching Hawaiian shirts on the couch, and the college professor was leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter. Even the Ukrainian lady was there, dabbing her eyes. I passed around the plate and marveled at all these people — Gizmo’s people.
We spent the evening telling stories about Gizmo, the many times we mistook his voice for a baby’s cry, or a bird, or a stranger waiting outside the door. I always thought of Gizmo as a stray, but now I saw how wrong I had been. We were his family, all of us, together.
Summer changed to fall, and Mike returned to his usual rounds, staking tiny, glowing pumpkins along the walkway. He shimmied up the lamppost and attached a witch who seemed to have collided with the pole while riding her broomstick.
One evening, in the early darkness, Mike saw me walking upstairs and beckoned me to come closer.
“You’ll never believe who’s here,” he said, raising his eyebrows ominously.
I shrugged, and then he told me what happened: “I was up early one morning because I have so much trouble sleeping these days. I heard a sound, but I thought, No, that can’t be what I think it is.
He had my full attention.
“I pulled back the curtains, and there he was!”
“Gizmo? How?”
Mike shook his head with wonder.
“Then, who’s in there?” I thumbed toward the courtyard.
“Dunno. Rest in peace, whoever you are,” he called out to the grass. Sure enough, the next day I watched Gizmo curling around Mike’s legs as he set out a fresh tray of food.
“See this notch in his ear? See that white patch on his chin? Yup. None other.”
I leaned my head back and laughed.
That night, as I busied myself making dinner, I was thinking over Gizmo’s life and death, and life again.
When I heard him outside the next morning, it was uncanny how his voice sounded like language, and his message seemed perfectly clear: Do not despair! You are not alone, he seemed to say, and neither am I.
~Robin Jankiewicz
