28

A Sweet Life, Again

Let me tell you about my father.

He has a firm hand, but he is not too rough. Father is a quiet human most of the time, which I appreciate. He’s comfortable just sitting with me on the couch for a long stretch while he watches the television.

Sometimes he will read a book in bed while lying on his stomach, and he has a warm, strong, broad back that I like to climb up and sit on. Otherwise, I usually sleep by his feet. I enjoy our nights alone, when Father and I can really stretch out.

On the nights that Charlotte sleeps over, sometimes I get to snuggle between two humans. It is a great feeling, being sandwiched between them. Other nights, I find space on Father’s pillow. I am a fat cat, but there is occasionally room for me behind his head when he nestles up close to her.

Father likes to whisper in Charlotte’s ear in the morning, before he gets up. He always listened very carefully to Mother, but now he is the one talking.

I think he is talking because he has been through so much, and life is short, and we need someone to listen to our stories.

When Father goes out, he always comes back. He is always here because there are three children and a cat and a Not a Cat who depend on him.

Little Finn is walking now and needs extra attention. Father has built a gate at the top of the stairs, so sometimes I get accidentally trapped up there with Finn. But I don’t mind. Someone is always up there with us.

Father calls me Boo, or Fat Cat, or Fatty. Sometimes he scratches between my ears, especially when I am sitting up on the back of the couch and looking down at him.

I catch him looking at me on occasion. When Mother lived here, and he looked at me, I was never sure what he was thinking. But now I think he remembers. There’s Mother’s child. There’s Mother’s cat. These are the creatures I need to take care of now. We are familiar to him, and he takes comfort in us.

Before, with Mother, he was always worried. He still worries, but maybe a little less.

I keep an eye on him. He’s my best friend, after all.

Finn is a sweet baby. He looks at me with a friendly face, just like Father does. He likes to pet me and see how it feels to sink his tiny hands into my silky fur. I can’t wait for him to get a little older.

I worried about Finn when he was very small. I thought he would not thrive, like the runt of a litter. He has surprised me. He is a big, strong, handsome, and bright-eyed baby.

Sometimes in the morning, Father brings Finn into our bed with a little book that has fabrics he can touch. Father will put Finn’s hand on me, and together they will stroke my soft back. Finn may not be able to hear my purring, but I’m sure he can feel it. Finn smiles his toothy grin and looks happily up at Father. Father puts Finn’s little hand up on his face to feel his own whiskers, and Finn squeals.

Father also keeps a ball on his bedside table. It is a hard, white ball with red slashes sewn through it. He runs Finn’s little fingers over the seams. The ball is kept right next to the wooden cross.

Both of these items seem to hold some mystical meaning to them. They certainly worship that ball.

When Mother visits every now and again, I let her pet me. I enjoy her exquisitely gentle and precise touch, while it lasts. But I also have Mary and Charlotte and Jimmy and Finn and Mahmee and Aruna, and all of my humans are good to me.

When the afternoon sun comes through the front window and makes a bright square on the floor, I lie down, spread out my fat stomach, and purr.

Yes, life is short.

My life will be the shortest of all, but such is life for a cat.