Fun fact: All of a cat’s claws point the same way, so they can’t climb down a tree headfirst; they have to back down.
As we danced to the haunting strains of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” Joe held my shoulder with a tenderness I’d never felt before, and when he caressed my cheek with his, I didn’t even mind his long whiskers tickling my skin. “This is the man I wish I could marry,” I thought.
Two years before, my marriage of eighteen years had ended abruptly. Everything I had envisioned for my future vanished in a matter of months; I felt adrift. While my three young children and my job kept me going, my social life felt empty — almost like a nightmare that would not end. Joe changed all of that.
There was only one problem: Joe was my orange Tabby. Handsome, devoted, brave, patient, playful, trustworthy… he possessed all those qualities and more.
A rescue cat, Joe entered my life when he was six months old. At first, he cared more about playing with strings than anything, but by the time he turned one, he became the perfect companion. He slept by my side at night, comforted me when the kids left to visit their dad, and prompted me to continue living life in their absence — even when I didn’t feel like it — with his incessant requests for food.
When I began the practice of dancing with Joe, he never resisted. He seemed to enjoy snuggling upright next to my chest, his front legs dangling over my right shoulder. As time progressed, and he knew what to expect, he would gladly grab my shoulder with both paws, purr, and snuggle his cheek to mine. He helped me pass the time, and the music and his deep purring began to heal my soul.
Of course, I let Joe have his space. He wandered my two-acre woods, enjoying nature as cats do, eyeing birds with a glint in his eye and challenging any feline interloper. But one blustery winter morning, he did not return when I called him in for breakfast. “This is odd,” I thought. “Joe never misses a meal!”
The kids and I panicked. We called his name over and over again from our front door. My son decided to venture outside. The temperature was well below zero, and we were worried about Joe surviving. I could hear my son calling for Joe as he walked the perimeter of our property. Abruptly, my son screamed for me. He had found Joe, but I could tell it wasn’t good news.
I tossed on my heavy coat and pulled on my boots. Stumbling through snowdrifts and fallen tree limbs, I worked my way toward my son’s voice. Then I heard him. “MEOW!” Joe urgently called. My beloved cat needed me.
My son looked straight up, his head flung back, his mouth open in shock. I followed his gaze, and there was Joe clinging to a branch, high up in an old oak tree. He shook violently, and his greenish-gold eyes expressed terror. Something, maybe the coyote I had seen recently, had chased Joe up the tree.
No amount of coaxing could convince Joe to budge. We tried enticing him with food, but that didn’t work. Given that he was in the middle of a small forest in the dead of winter, the idea of placing a long ladder against the tree seemed impossible.
Joe’s ordeal continued for hours. The kids cried. I wanted to, but I had to remain strong. I had to figure out how to coax Joe down from that tree. With the wind picking up and nightfall approaching, I felt sick to my stomach. How would Joe survive the night? Would he freeze to death? Would he fall asleep and plunge to his death?
I called my elderly father for help. He loved Joe, too, so he came right over. He did the best he could. He pleaded with Joe to move, but nothing worked for him either. When he came back to the tree with a long aluminum ladder, I had to stop him. I couldn’t let a seventy-eight-year-old man try to climb a ladder stuck in a snow bank on a hill. There had to be a better way.
Just then, a friend from work pulled in the driveway. I had forgotten he was scheduled to drop off something. Vince, a forty-eight-year-old police officer, knew something was wrong right away. He heard our shouting, and he sprinted through the snow to get to us, his six-foot, six-inch frame looking heroic.
I had never thought of Vince as anything more than a friend. We worked on projects aimed at reducing drug use among local teens, and we had volunteered at many events together. I had heard from co-workers that he was going through a painful divorce, but if you know anything about police officers, you know they don’t talk much about their personal lives. Yet here was Vince, at my house, coming to my rescue.
After assessing the situation, Vince took the ladder from my dad, and he positioned it against the tree. My dad held the base as Vince climbed carefully up each rung. I watched for Joe’s reaction, as he didn’t really know Vince, but the cat’s eyes didn’t look any more fearful than before. He actually seemed to sense that help was on the way.
In one swift motion, Vince reached out his arm just as Joe inched toward his hand. In a flash, Vince whisked Joe down from the tree. Once again, my beloved cat was in my arms. I ran into the house and wrapped the shocked cat in blankets. Finally, I could cry.
I cried because Joe was safe. I cried because someone had helped me when I really needed it. I cried because I finally understood that there is an end to grief. My divorce may have crushed me, but not permanently. Through it all, I had kept my kids happy, I had excelled at my job, I had made friends, and I had learned that love can and will endure, as proven by an orange Tabby.
Joe and I still dance, and he holds a very special place in my heart. Without him, I wouldn’t have seen my friend, Vince, in a new light. Joe helped me find an excellent husband, one who possesses all the positive qualities that Joe has, plus countless more.
~Lori A. Sciame
