At the time I didn’t think I needed a cat. Especially a bald-looking one. ““I hope you find a home,’’ I told her, but for the rest of that afternoon I couldn’t get the cat out of my mind. I realized my own hair didn’t always look so great, either.
A light breeze was blowing when I returned to the park. The only sign that the SPCA had been there was a dented place in the grass where the cages had been. A man sitting on a bench told me that they had given every kitten away but no one had adopted the black cat with bald spots. After a few phone calls I became a cat owner with no idea of Wednesday’s potential.
Her fur grew back a rich, solid black. She developed an almost Persian-like coat, which she spent at least an hour each day grooming. Other than that, she wasn’t the most active cat. During the day she preferred to sleep on the couch, one paw covering her eyes. At night she slept on the bed, taking up part of my pillow.
I was offered a job, and we had to move to Los Angeles. Wednesday hated the cat carrier, a large box with LIVE ANIMAL on the side in big red letters. When I was standing in line with her at the airport, there was a very noticeable yowling coming from our direction. The man in line behind me said, ““Do you have a live animal in there?’’ ““Yes,’’ I said, ““it’s a cat.’’ ““I hope it’s not a black cat,’’ he said, the panic in his voice rising to match Wednesday’s yowling. ““She is a black cat,’’ I replied, ““but she’s very good luck.’’ He decided to find another flight without a black cat aboard. Nevertheless, my words turned outto be prophetic.
At our new house I was up late one night, past 11, writing in the living room. It was a small, one-room bungalow, and I slept on a futon next to my desk. There was convenience in this arrangement: when I got tired of writing, I could just kind of fall off the chair and roll into bed.
As I typed and typed and typed, I had no idea that outside a pair of eyes was watching me. Somebody hiding in the bushes watched me the entire time I sat there writing. Who he was and what exactly he planned to do, I don’t want to think about. But he was out there in the dark, watching and waiting.
I turned off the light. I can imagine this person outside in the dark, glad now that he could make his move. I got into bed. I was tired. I was slowing down. The man outside was gearing up.
There were a lot of stray cats in the neighborhood. When I first heard the scratching at the front door, I figured it was a cat. It wasn’t a cat sound, but I was tired, and at the back of my mind I thought, A big cat, because that was explanation enough and I wanted to go to sleep.
It takes me about five seconds to fall asleep once my head hits the pillow, and I was almost there, thinking about the story I was writing and tuning that persistent scratching out of my mind. Wednesday, a lump of black fur next to my head, suddenly jerked up and started running around the bed in circles. Do you know how irritating this can be when you’re trying to go to sleep?
““Wednesday, what’s the matter?’’ I said. I tried to pet her, calm her down, but she had terror in her eyes. They were glowing fully in the dark, and she started running around in a circle again. I thought she might be reacting to the noise outside, which I still thought was a cat. A big cat. Making all that noise. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Then I turned over in the bed and looked up at the door.
It was one of those old-fashioned doors with a window at the very top through which you can see a very tall person. The man outside was very tall. He had light blond hair, and his head was down as he worked at the lock. I thought, Now who’s coming over to visit us at this late hour? And then my mind very slowly put it together. A stranger was at the door, steadily making this scratching noise as he picked at the lock, and my cat was doing everything in her power to let me know all was not well. It took about one more second before I realized, Hey, this is nobody coming over to visit. I screamed and saw his blond head turn around as he ran away.
The police came over to take a report, and when I got to the part about the cat running around in a panic to let me know something was wrong, they exchanged looks like I was clearly a nut case. ““What cat?’’ they asked.
““She’s hiding under the couch because she’s scared,’’ I answered. It took me two days before I could coax her out with tuna fish. But she had done her job. As far as I was concerned she could retire now with full benefits.
Pets remind me of flowers. You enjoy them tremendously while they’re here, and then, one day, suddenly they’re gone. Wednesday’s kidneys gave out, and I had to put her to sleep after our 15 years together, which seems now like a very short time.
There’s a new cat who sleeps next to my head. His name is Theodore. He’s quite timid, and somewhat clumsy, but I figure he has potential.
I’ve known only one cat that’s scared away a burglar, and I can’t say that all cats will respond in an emergency. I do think every household should have one, to guard the premises or simply to purr contentedly on the couch next to you after a bad day. Sometimes that’s an emergency too.
