Fun fact: There are more than forty varieties of Tabbies, making them the most common breed of cat.
After thirty-six years of marriage, I was alone, living in a nice rental townhouse near my work. My three wonderful kids, now grown, had families of their own. Thankfully, I had a job that took up my days, but the nights were long and lonely. My life fell into a dreary routine: wake, work, home, eat, sleep, repeat.
A few months after my move, a co-worker found a stray cat living under her porch. She could not take him in because she already had three cats. I was reluctant, even though I was allowed to have a cat in my unit. I had always been one to nurture and care for helpless critters. I had even raised two orphaned robins to adulthood. But right then, to agree to adopt a homeless cat, sight unseen, seemed a little crazy. But perhaps I was feeling a little crazy that day because I suddenly blurted out, “Okay! I’ll take him!”
At first, he huddled in a tight ball inside the carrier and refused to come out. I could see that he was a tan-and-black Tabby, fairly nondescript. Well, that was exactly how I felt. I went about some quiet chores, and eventually he ventured out to hide under a chair and watch me suspiciously with his big yellow eyes as I moved about. I spoke to him in a soft, soothing voice, and slowly he loosened up. Crouching low to the floor, he began to work his way around the perimeter of the first floor, slowly investigating every corner and piece of furniture. At any little noise or unexpected movement, he would jump and tense, then continue on his timorous exploration.
As I watched him, I could see that he had an impression in the fur around his neck where a collar had been. I looked at my hand where there was still an indentation left by my absent wedding rings. We had similar losses. Neither of us belonged to anyone.
The Tabby looked directly at me now. I looked back, with my eyes half-closed so as not to seem threatening, and wondered: What happened to you? What have you gone through out on your own? I thought it must have been very frightening for him, suddenly out fending for himself, because that’s how I felt. The world was so big, and I felt so small. He was pretty thin, too, so he obviously had not been doing very well. I could also relate to that. I had lost twenty pounds.
Watching him creep along the baseboards, the boundaries of his new world, I saw exactly how I had been living for months, creeping around the boundaries of my own newly single life, peeking around corners, afraid to venture too far out into the open, keeping to the routine. I no longer knew where or how I fit into the world, just like that poor, homeless cat.
Later on, I lay stiffly in my bed, straining to hear any sound from my feline guest. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he use the litter box? I did not even know if he had come upstairs yet. Cats are so quiet! Time dragged on. I got up once and looked for him to no avail, so I went back to bed, straining to hear any sound. At some point, though, tense as I was, I must have dozed off because I was suddenly wakened by a solid thump at my feet. I lifted my head ever so slightly and peered toward the foot of the bed. The cat stood facing me, statue still. Neither of us even twitched. My sleepy brain wondered: Was he going to attack me? Had he ever been vaccinated? I dared not move. The small nightlight in the room gave off a soft glow that reflected eerily from his big, round eyes. Was he glaring, staring, or just looking? My imagination had to choose which before I could decide what to do next, like defensively burying myself under the covers. I chose “looking,” and slowly put my head back on the pillow, took a deep breath and resolved to be calm.
Then an extraordinary thing happened! The cat uttered an audible sigh, sucking in a deep breath that I could hear as he expelled it in a soft whoosh. I felt movement, then warm pressure on my feet as he curled up against me with his head resting on my ankle. Relaxed. Another sigh, and he closed his eyes. He had made the choice to trust me and began to purr, that gentle, contented rumbling that seems to say “all is well.” My heart melted. We chose each other that night and spent the next day bonding before I had to go back to work on Monday. I named him Bailey. I no longer had to come home to an empty house because he was there, always sitting on the back of the chair by the window, looking for me or curled up beside me on the sofa, warm and comforting.
My three-year-old granddaughter was sleeping over one night and asked me to tell her the story of how Bailey came to live with me. I told her a brief version, and since I was scrapbooking at the time, I thought it would be fun to gather pictures of him and create a storybook for her. I bought a spiral notebook to begin writing what I imagined his life had been like while he was lost. I took the notebook to work every day and wrote longhand on my lunch breaks and more during the evenings. The words and situations poured out from my heart onto the pages, and I realized that I wasn’t just writing a fiction story of a lost cat; I was writing my own story. It became a way to release my feelings in a safe way through creative writing. My anger and anxiety flowed onto the pages as I eagerly wrote, to see what would happen to my reluctant hero. I had to purchase a laptop in order to write more and faster!
I told my friends about my new “hobby,” and they urged me to self-publish. The result was an actual book I could hold in my hands, with a cover and 247 pages filled with my words! Those who read it loved it, but I wondered how that could be. Me? An author? I couldn’t write a book! I had not set out to write a book, after all. But I’ve always believed that God works in mysterious ways, opens windows when doors seem closed, and works all things for good. In my case, God opened a window and let in a cat I named Bailey… and a new and different life began.
~Beth DiCola
