Mothers, Daughters, and Cats

Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat

BY: Harriet Cooper

A cat can be trusted to purr when she is pleased,
which is more than can be said for human beings.
~William Ralph Inge

My mother phones. "Puss Puss is constipated."

I stifle a groan. Puss Puss, an overweight tabby, is Mother's constant companion. I rescued her from the SPCA and gave her to my mother for a Mother's Day gift seven years ago. Puss Puss repaid me by immediately worming her way into my mother's heart, driving me farther down her list of loved ones. I can live with being displaced by grandchildren, but by a cat?

"Give her some of that laxative, Felaxin, like you always do," I respond, not seeing why this health update rates a phone call.

"I can't," she says. "I finished the last tube yesterday and the vet doesn't have any more. It's backordered because the manufacturer is missing an ingredient." Her voice lowers. "Puss Puss won't take any other brand, will you Puss Puss? Such a good girl."

The last is directed to the cat. Good cat nothing. A good cat would take what she's given, regardless of brand, rather than keep her legs crossed in protest. Still, the cat adores my mother and keeps her from getting lonely.

With a promise to help locate some of this wonder drug, I assure my mother the cat will be her old self in a day or two. I hang up and call my vet. He doesn't carry this particular brand, but the receptionist gives me the name of someone who might have it. No luck.

I start calling clinics in my area. Nothing. I try ones farther away. Fifteen calls later, I get the same story every time. Either they don't stock it or they're out of it and it's on backorder.

By now, my frustration level has reached the stratosphere, but I am not giving up until I find the stuff, even if I have to call every vet in the phone book. My finger continues down the page. On my twentieth call, I hear the words I've been waiting for, "Yes, we have Felaxin."

It's like finding the Holy Grail. "Could you reserve three tubes for me?" I ask. "I promise I'll be there before 5:00 P.M. to pick them up." The receptionist agrees. I'm tempted to call my mother with the good news, but decide to wait until it's a done deal and I have the tubes in my hand.

One bus, a subway train, and a fifteen-minute walk later I arrive, breathless because I ran the last two blocks. It's 4:45 P.M., and I'm terrified they've given the Felaxin away to another desperate cat owner. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself and ask for my prize.

The receptionist hands me the three tubes as if it's nothing, as if everybody carries this magic elixir. I take them reverently. As she's filling out the bill, I glance at their product shelves and see another six or seven tubes. I daringly ask for a fourth tube.

"No problem," she says.

Thirty-eight dollars later I leave.

Now comes the other tricky part. I live in Toronto. My mother and Puss Puss -- the joy of her life -- live in Montreal. Having attained my prize, I have to get it to Montreal as quickly as possible before the poor cat explodes.

Canada Post comes to the rescue with its next-day delivery service. For a minute, I'm tempted to send the package via Outer Mongolia, but I relent. I pay, knowing my time and effort will be greatly appreciated, if not by the cat, certainly by my mother who will be thanking me for weeks.

I'm already envisioning a really big birthday present as an appropriate show of gratitude.

I can't wait to get home and tell her the good news. The moment I'm in the door, I head for the telephone. "You and Puss Puss are in luck," I crow. "I found a vet who had a large stock of Felaxin. I picked up, not one," here I pause for the grand finale, "but four tubes. You'll have them by 5:00 P.M. tomorrow."

With that, I sink back in my chair, expecting to hear words of praise. Instead, she says, "You mean they had more than four tubes?"

A sinking feeling fills my stomach. "Yes," I say.

"So why didn't you buy them all? Go back tomorrow and get the rest of their stock."

I slump down, hand clenched around the receiver so tight my knuckles are turning white. Gone are the visions of a huge birthday present. Instead, I think about the time spent calling various vets, the two hours of travelling, the Visa bill, the post office bill, and the phone bill. I say -- nothing.

This is the woman who carried me for nine months, gave birth to me, changed my diapers, and did the million other things that mothers do for their children. Still, I want to kill her.

I count to ten twice, then a third time for good measure. I tell myself to cut her some slack. She's worried about the cat. Once Puss Puss is fine, I'm sure she'll be more appreciative.

I mumble something and hang up. And you know what? I go back -- because she's my mother and she loves her cat. But if she expects a Mother's Day present this year, she's crazy.

This is it.

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