Grandpa's Cat

 I was maybe fourteen when this occurred.  It was the first time I can recall an interesting, actual interaction with a cat. 

Growing up, my mother and my sister were allergic, so no pets, ever. I never really interacted with dogs or cats. I assumed that I wouldn't understand them and they probably wouldn't be interested in me either. Back then I didn't realize that cats, or animals in general had preferences, individual personalities or even souls. It's difficult for me to articulate how I felt for them. They existed. 

Harsh, I know. But as you know that changed in spite of my upbringing. Even now, my mother doesn't understand how much I love my cats. She tries, but she really doesn't get it. But when my allergic, vegan sister stays at my house, she takes medication. She realizes they live here, and she doesn't. Freya likes her and often goes out of her way to greet Jody. Jody can't resist her, because Freya is so pretty and sweet. Jody has also been instructed NOT to pet Freya's tummy, no matter how inviting. She knows to shut her bedroom door, or she'll wake up with cats in her face. She knows she won't go to the bathroom alone. Still, she calls herself 'Auntie' to my cats. 

But I digress. 

Dad was from a hamlet named Elma in Manitoba, and we visited Grandma, Grandpa and other family as often as we could. Once a year, if possible. We'd stay at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Jody and I slept in cots in the attic. 

So this one year, there was a cat that Grandpa named Pretty Kitty. She was a feral that Grandpa befriended and domesticated when she'd come to his garage.. She was a pure black cat, and easily the FATTEST cat I'd ever seen. When I say fat, I mean she was a ball with legs. I wish I had pictures. You'll have to settle with a photo of Grendel and Amir...as if that's a bad thing...

Grandpa and Pretty Kitty had the weirdest bond I'd ever seen. She waddle her way in front of Grandpa's armchair, and he'd reach down and rub the living crap out of her with all two and the other three quarters of his leftover fingers. He'd shout "Pretty Kitty! Pretty Kitty!" And she'd roll over and bite the Hell out of him, trying to wrap her front paws around his vigorously moving partial digits. Then he'd sit back up, and the cat would get to her feet and saunter away. Weird. 

Pretty Kitty would make her way through the living room during visits. I remember my father putting his hand down, watching her with a hopeful smile on his face as he did her circuits.  She never went to him, or Mom, Jody or even Grandma. She came to me. 

One day, she meandered in front of me, and stopped. She's a pretty girl, for sure, with her shining yellow eyes, and glossy black fur....I reached out and pet her. Pretty kitty immediately rolled to her back, grabbed my hand in her paws and bit me. I let go.

Later, I complained to Dad. "Pretty Kitty doesn't like me." 

"Nah, " He scoffed. "She just wants to play with you."

But the same exact thing happened again! Dad had his hand out for her attention, but she ignored him and everyone else and bit me when I tried to pet her. He thought it was funny. 

"She likes you!" Sure she does. I have scratches and teeth marks.  

That night, I don't know what time it was, but well after dark in a Manitoba summer, I heard little footfalls. I know it's her, and I'm impressed. That's a lot of steep stairs for a cat of her....girth. I hear her claws tap their way to my cot. I feel about two seconds of new presence on my bed before she falls off and makes a sizable THUMP, followed by a disappointed, irritated and ouchy noise that sounded like: "Ooouuuurrrwww."

Poor sweetie! After all that effort! I tried not to laugh. She didn't try again that night, and when I awoke the next day, she was gone. 

Afternoon means I get the same thing. I pet her, she tries to rip the skin off my hand. 

"Are you sure she likes me, Dad?"

"Uh, yeah. She tried to sleep with you, didn't she?" I'm not convinced, and I have marks to prove my theory. "Well, she's a feral cat. That's probably how she plays. Grandpa plays with her like that all the time." Yeah, sure, but Grandpa has calluses and missing joints. Maybe he doesn't feel it? Weirdos, both of them. 

Darkness comes and I hear the same sound as the night before. Pretty Kitty has conquered the steep and narrow stairs. This time, when she launches herself onto my cot, she's successful. I suppress a guffaw as my bed squeaks with her weight and I swear I heard a relieved and satisfied sigh. 

Sure as Hell, she's parked herself between my feet, and although I had no experience with cats, I instinctively knew not to move. I spent an uncomfortable night, unwilling to shift, so as to not disturb her. Well....It obviously required a lot of energy on her part. Honestly? I was pleased that she wanted to be with me. It made me feel '' Chosen'. 

She wasn't there when I woke up. She did her thing in the afternoon, rolling over and clutching me as she sank her teeth into my hand. I wasn't sure if I should get rough. How rough was too rough?  So I pet her neck and chest gently.

She left in a huff and didn't bother with me again. I think I must have been boring and untrainable, and she'd decided she'd wasted enough time on me. She went to grandpa, and he yelled her name and scruffed the Hell out of her until she was satisfied. 

If you don't like sad endings, don't read any further. 

We didn't visit again. Time and work got in the way. Dad got a chance to fly in for their 50th anniversary, but it was his last visit too.

Grandpa developed Alzheimer's and had to be put in a home. He passed on not long afterwards. Grandma told me that when he died, she was crying in the kitchen. Pretty Kitty jumped into her lap, and placed both front paws on Grandma's face, covering her tears. She looked into Grandma's eyes for a moment, and ran out of the house. 

Pretty Kitty was never seen again. Grandma turned one hundred years old last July. She misses Grandpa and my father. She misses Pretty Kitty and having a cat in her life.