One of my cats and I have a
morning routine. When I awake, one of the first things I do, as do
many people, is to visit the bathroom. The routine part of this
equation is that my cat, Little, is there waiting for me. I sit, she
sits on my lap. I give her her morning dose of affection; she rubs
her head on my face and gives me mine. It's really a very pleasant
way to start the day. This morning, while having our morning
affection fix, I got to thinking about cats in general – my cats in
particular. On very few occasions have I actually gone out and
intentionally acquired a cat. I got to wondering if, in fact, cats
pick their person, as opposed to people going out and picking a cat.
This thought spun on to my reflection of the cats I have had over the
years, and how they ended up in my house.
One autumn day, many years
ago, my husband, my six week old son and I went for a walk at the
beach. We weren't actually on the beach because strollers don't
behave well in the sand. This particular beach was a block from our
house in Florida. Autumn in Florida can be very pleasant. A
reprieve from the summer heat is something to be anticipated for most
of August. It was a blustery day. The sky was gray with heavy
clouds that promised rain, and the wind was whipping through the palm
trees, but not strong enough to pelt us with sand. Even though it
was September, the air was warm and humid. One might think that
weather like this might keep people in their homes, for fear of being
caught in the rain, but the truth is the opposite. The beach was
packed! There were lots of people like us, walking on the sidewalk,
but there were just as many people out on the beach, playing in the
washing machine-like surf.
As we strolled along,
enjoying the breezy day, I thought I heard a cat. At first I wasn't
sure, because the wind competed with all the other sounds of the day.
So we walked on a little further. Then I thought I heard it again.
I stopped. I listened. I heard it again. When I asked my husband
if he heard it, he said “no”. I think he was lying. Another few
moments passed and I heard it again, more constant and insistent this
time. I finally located the source of the meows. Across the street
from the beach were a few houses. In the driveway of one of the
homes was a little tiny kitten. He must have been about the same age
as my son. He was staring at me, crying, and trotting in my
direction. Out of all the people walking at the beach that day, he
picked me. I met him in the middle of the street and scooped him up.
I couldn't imagine who would leave a barely weened kitten out in the
yard. At this point, my husband had his hand over his eyes and was
shaking his head: He knew how this was going to end!
I guess it goes without
saying that we took him home. My husband named him Astro and, for
many years after, referred to him as “The cat Willow stole.” I
don't see it that way.
