A cat has nine lives. For three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays.
~English Proverb
It was a sun-washed Tuesday in late September when I met old Tom. I had responded to a call from an elderly neighbor, Mrs. Winter, who was badly crippled with arthritis. Her voice was halting and apologetic. “It’s about this cat…” she said, and led me outside to meet the biggest, oldest, ugliest, sickest alley cat I had ever seen.
He lay on a splintered board on the paint-blistered porch behind Mrs. Winter’s house, one paw stretched out in pain. His ears were scabbed black from ear mites. Two deep, blood-encrusted cuts ran down his tabby-striped back. His face was oddly distorted, the mouth pulled askew, apparently the result of some fight.
“Old Tom’s been coming around for sixteen years,” said Mrs. Winter. “Never lets me pet him or nothing. But I leave a little food out. And some water. Kind of cheers me up to see old Tom. Now he’s so sick…” Her birdlike voice trembled. “I’m afraid he might die.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t know Mrs. Winter well. I’m single, and my freelance work kept me too busy to socialize much in our neighborhood. Finally, stumbling a bit, I said, “Sixteen years is pretty old for a cat. Are you sure it’s always been Tom?”
“Oh, yes. My friend Mrs. Giraldi — before she had her stroke last year — she used to visit. She always said Tom’s gone through all nine lives and then some.”
As if he felt our attention, the cat lifted his head and stared directly at me. His yellow eyes were hard and shiny.
I gave in. At the very least, I could ensure that Tom was humanely put to sleep. “I’ll take him to a vet I know,” I said. Gingerly, I picked up the cat. Too sick to fight, he stiffened when I jarred his injured paw, but otherwise was quiet as I deposited him in my car.
“He might not make it,” I warned.
Mrs. Winter nodded with tears at the corners of her eyes. “Old age and hard times never licked Tom before. No sir. Hear me, old Tom? You can’t just give up.”
At the vet’s office, Dr. Abbot said, “Is this a candidate for kitty heaven?”
The old cat stared at me, and then blinked. I surprised myself by saying, “Not yet. Let’s see if we can save him.”
“Are you sure? This old cat isn’t your responsibility. And vet bills…”
“I know. But still, do what you can.”
I returned to the animal clinic a week later. Tom was sitting up, his paw bandaged. Under medication, the cuts on his back had started to heal. Only his ears were still in bad shape, black and nearly deformed from years of infestation from ear mites.
“I can treat his ears at home,” I said.
“Okay,” said Dr. Abbot. “But this is a feral cat. I don’t think you’ll make a pet of him.”
“I know.”
I borrowed a large dog crate and set it up in my basement. For a month, Tom lived there, learning to use a sandbox. Morning and evening, I treated his ears for the mites. It wasn’t easy. Every time I opened the door to the crate, Tom backed into a corner until I moved a safe distance away. Then, stealthily, he would poke his head out, until slowly one paw would emerge, then another. At last, with a certain weathered dignity, he would stand beside the kennel. Like an old soldier at parade rest, I thought.
Tom’s body began to fill out, although his ears continued to itch. Still, I decided, he was in good enough shape for a visit with Mrs. Winter.
When she came into my house, her eyes grew young in their gladness. “Will you look at old Tom? It’s a miracle!”
The bent old lady and the veteran alley cat eyed each other. “I guess it just makes sense to stay alive when someone cares, don’t you think?” she said.
I moved Tom upstairs. He no longer retreated when I approached, but he still didn’t let me pet him.
The week before Thanksgiving, an envelope arrived, full of wrinkled bills and a short note. “I been saving my money,” read the crabbed handwriting. “I want to give you something for keeping old Tom.”
I counted the bills. Nearly fifty dollars! From a woman who lived on a very tight income. “Well, old warrior,” I said to Tom, “what should I do about this?”
Tom still didn’t come close, but when I talked to him, his yellow eyes would lock on mine, and he’d tilt his head as if listening.
“I’ll hurt her feelings if I return the money,” I said. Instead, I wrote a letter.
Dear Mrs. Winter:
Thank you for bringing me help when I needed it. Your money is going to a shelter for stray cats.
Your friend,
Tom Cat
P.S. Barbara invites you to Thanksgiving dinner.
On Thanksgiving, Mrs. Winter wore a pink, silk dress that smelled faintly of camphor. Shyly, she offered a bowl of homemade cranberry relish. Tom didn’t come close enough to be petted, but he stayed in the same room when we sat down for dinner.
“He’s doing pretty well,” I said.
“Old Tom. He’s no quitter, that’s for sure.”
When I replied, “I’d say the same for you, Mrs. Winter,” she almost blushed.
After I took her home, I cleaned up the dinner dishes, and then settled on the living room sofa. Tom sat three feet away as usual. “You’re a good ol’ cat,” I said.
Suddenly, I felt a peculiar weight in my lap and heard a strange, rumbling noise. It was Tom! And he was purring! For a moment, I was too stunned to move. Gingerly, I placed my hand on his back. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at me with his tough, yellow eyes.
~Barbara Bartocci
