Fun fact: A cat and her three kittens became known as symbols of hope after they were found in a carton of napkins in the ruins of the World Trade Center in 2001.
Four days before the World Trade Center fell, my thirteen-year-old tortoiseshell Tabby, Rascal, underwent a bilateral thyroidectomy. Afterwards, with her neck shaved, exposed, and scarred, my usually feisty old gal was subdued, still reeling from surgery and the pain of recovery. I empathized with Rascal because my world, too, had seismically shifted in recent weeks. In addition to my cat’s medical needs, my dad was battling pancreatic cancer, I was in constant pain from a lower-back injury, and the unthinkable had just happened: the 9/11 attacks with their subsequent loss of thousands of lives and the spiraling devastation of countless families, friends, and heartsick citizens.
A little before noon on Friday, September 14, 2001, I sat down on the sofa with my Episcopal hymnal and prayer book in hand, ready to honor lives lost and changed forever. The televised National Day of Prayer and Remembrance service provided a much-needed collective opportunity for folks to mourn all the victims. The second I settled on the sofa, Rascal claimed a spot beside me. We’d spent a lot of time together on that couch in recent days as I watched endless news feeds and Rascal quietly recuperated. My heart was heavy as pre-service TV footage rolled. My eyes burned with tears. Hearing me sniffle, Rascal snuggled close, nudging and consoling me.
“I’m still here, and I’m here for you,” she seemed to say.
As government officials streamed solemnly into Washington National Cathedral, the broadcasters became quiet. Welcoming the temporary reprieve from talk and tears, Rascal hunkered down for a nap. And then the service began. Inspiring music filled the church.
When the opening hymn began, I sang with abandon, relieved, at last, to be able to participate in some small way. The second I started singing, Rascal’s head popped up and she swiveled around to gaze at me. Strangely fascinated by the sound, her green eyes glowed intently. As my emotion-charged voice continued, Rascal stood up, marched onto my lap, positioned her face inches from mine — and started to sing!
Although cat-erwauling might be a more apt description, at that moment there was no doubt in my mind that my spunky cat was singing along with the rest of us. Rascal’s commiserating meows continued unabated, her head inching steadily closer to my mouth as if she were actually trying to locate the source of those baffling sounds. At once touched and tickled by my kitty’s delightfully odd behavior, my singing became riddled with giggles. As each subsequent verse began, I expected Rascal to lose interest and back off, but her curiosity never waned. Even after the final note of that hymn trailed away, she hovered expectantly, eagerly awaiting one more verse.
As lessons were read and homilies spoken, Rascal curled up beside me and fell asleep. Even the voice of an eloquent soloist failed to wake her. But as soon as another congregational hymn began — and I broke into my amateur squawking — Rascal scrambled into my lap, craning her head across my hymnal, sniffing my warm breath as it fanned her face and looking deep into my mouth, searching for the source of that strange racket.
As she persistently head-butted my hymnal, chiming in with her kindred cries, Rascal and I sang a heartfelt duet. At one point, when my father briefly visited, we both got up to greet him in the kitchen. Returning to the living room after Dad left, I realized Rascal was nowhere in sight. And then another hymn began….
“This will be the test,” I laughed aloud. “Was it a fluke, or will Rascal sing with me again?”
To my amazement, it wasn’t a fluke. Hearing me belt out the next hymn, my elderly companion whipped around a corner from the kitchen and climbed into my lap again.
Laughing, choking back tears, I savored the miraculous connection of song that on the saddest day imaginable filled a feline with incredible compassion and support for her grieving mistress. Rascal meowed continuously that day, verse after verse, her ancient eyes riveted to mine, her silky head nudging my hymnal until, finally, I balanced the book in one hand and gently stroked her fur with the other, soothing and being soothed in return.
Prior to that poignant service, Rascal had never before joined me in song, and from that day until her death in January 2005, it never happened again. On some inexplicably awesome level, my furry friend sensed the gut-wrenching grief of that long-ago time. On September 14, 2001, an elderly cat wearing the battle scars of her own valiant fight against disease joined our nation in a profound outpouring of sorrow and support. Alone in my home, I sang with millions of people worldwide… and one compassionate Tabby.
~Wendy Hobday Haugh
