y Harriet May Savitz
There is no more intrepid explorer than a kitten.
~Jules Champfleury
New beginnings are like getting ready for an exciting trip to a place you've never been. Or like falling in love without a parachute. There is always the promise of adventure and none of the security of knowing the outcome.
There is no more intrepid explorer than a kitten.
~Jules Champfleury
New beginnings are like getting ready for an exciting trip to a place you've never been. Or like falling in love without a parachute. There is always the promise of adventure and none of the security of knowing the outcome.
When my twelve-year-old cat had a stroke and died, my grown children suggested I get a kitten. I was uncertain whether I was ready for this new beginning. No matter how tempting the journey, for the first time in all my years of loving pets, I wasn't certain that I should continue bringing animals into my life.
Though I still had my five-year-old dog, another twelve-year-old cat, and a parakeet living in a cage in the kitchen, it occurred to me that perhaps I was being selfish at my age, adding another animal to my family. When I'd adopted a pet in my thirties, I was confident that I would outlive him. But now, at more than twice that age, my certainty had disappeared. Chances were the animal would outlive me. And then what? I had never thought of the future in these terms before, and did not enjoy thinking like this now.
There were other reasons for not introducing a new pet into the house. I told myself, "Be reasonable. Be practical. There are benefits to keeping the pet population down. Less work emptying kitty litter. Less money spent for pet food. Fewer trips to the veterinarian. When the one cat remaining is gone, that will be the end of it. No more cats. Eventually no more pets. And then you will have more freedom."
I knew it was good advice, but the house took on shadows I never noticed before. And a stillness that seemed ominous. There had always been two and sometimes three or four inside cats. Now, the one remaining cat, who had daily groomed the other, slept with her paws wrapped around a stuffed animal. Something was missing from her life and she knew it. The dog, who had been a loving companion to his deceased cat friend, appeared listless. Bored. His nap times increased. And so did mine.
Yes, it was easier now. Too easy. I lay in bed one day, persuading myself to remain there another hour and another. In fact, when I piled up all the sad stories I could think of and all the pets I had bid goodbye, I thought it would be quite easy to remain in bed the entire day. After all, what did the outside world offer? Trouble, that's what. If I didn't go out, why even bother to get dressed? Who would know anyway, if I walked the dog in my long coat?
"You need a kitten," my daughter told me one day as she frowned in my direction, sensing my mood. "This place needs some excitement."
That's how Sunny came to live here. A tiny thing rescued from the woods, he arrived in my daughter's arms, rehabilitated, cleaned, de-fleaed, and inoculated. "He's perfect for you," she said. I had not yet reached that conclusion. Neither had Sunny.
It took only a second for him to step onto the living room rug, but in that moment, silence rushed from my home -- exiting through the front door -- and chaos entered without warning.
The dog ran after the kitten. The older cat hissed and spit. The two ganged up on the new kid in town. What ingratitude, I thought. Here I'd been concerned that they were lonely, in deep depression, and they were rejecting my solution.
"I'm too old for this," I said at one point in the evening, as I tried to catch the kitten that had hidden in the basement.
"I'm too old for this," I repeated after four trips to the basement, two stiff knees kneeling on the kitchen floor, two attempts to scramble beneath the bed to retrieve a frightened Sunny hiding from the dog that was on guard duty.
Exhausted and certain I had made a mistake, I pleaded, "Take him back. I'm too old for this," as soon as my daughter entered the house the next day.
At that moment, I meant it. I believed it.
I stood in the kitchen, tears in my eyes. I was crying not only for the cat in my mind already gone, but for the part of me that had vanished also. My enthusiasm to try something new. The belief that I could. The energy to do it.
I wanted everyone who told me I was young enough, to be here, running after this kitten. I wanted them to be with me at five in the morning when Sunny arose and decided to attack my feet beneath the covers and then woke up all the other animals in the house. I wanted them here when he explored the lampshade until he knocked over the lamp, or decided everything on the kitchen table needed reorganizing, removing all napkins, spoons, glasses filled with water, and of course any tempting food on the plates that begged to be shared.
But I knew I could not blame it all on Sunny. It was just too difficult to begin again. To love again. To take on the responsibility again. I was frightened because I did not know if I had it in me. I didn't want to find out.
While I agonized over his future, Sunny had settled in a basket and was enjoying a nap. The sun settled on his beige fur. The old cat had left her stuffed animals to sit by the basket, suddenly interested in the new member of our family. The dog, exhausted from kitten guard duty, had settled in the same sunny spot, sharing it. It was as if they understood things had changed. Nothing would ever be the same. Something had left and something else had entered. Now they would have to adjust. I understood the message in their eyes. We could do it together, accept the change, and perhaps even enjoy the challenge of beginning again -- if I let myself.
The next morning, Sunny investigated the kitchen with renewed interest. Something was different and he noticed it immediately; it was raining for the first time since he had come to live with me. The raindrops splattered on the roof and made tantalizing sounds. He looked up as he explored each room. As if he expected whatever he heard to eventually come down and introduce itself. They were just raindrops falling. But their sound was new to him. And suddenly, through his eyes, the falling rain became refreshingly wondrous for me, too.
I hurried to get dressed. Sunny started his adventures early, and I didn't want to miss any of them.
Though I still had my five-year-old dog, another twelve-year-old cat, and a parakeet living in a cage in the kitchen, it occurred to me that perhaps I was being selfish at my age, adding another animal to my family. When I'd adopted a pet in my thirties, I was confident that I would outlive him. But now, at more than twice that age, my certainty had disappeared. Chances were the animal would outlive me. And then what? I had never thought of the future in these terms before, and did not enjoy thinking like this now.
There were other reasons for not introducing a new pet into the house. I told myself, "Be reasonable. Be practical. There are benefits to keeping the pet population down. Less work emptying kitty litter. Less money spent for pet food. Fewer trips to the veterinarian. When the one cat remaining is gone, that will be the end of it. No more cats. Eventually no more pets. And then you will have more freedom."
I knew it was good advice, but the house took on shadows I never noticed before. And a stillness that seemed ominous. There had always been two and sometimes three or four inside cats. Now, the one remaining cat, who had daily groomed the other, slept with her paws wrapped around a stuffed animal. Something was missing from her life and she knew it. The dog, who had been a loving companion to his deceased cat friend, appeared listless. Bored. His nap times increased. And so did mine.
Yes, it was easier now. Too easy. I lay in bed one day, persuading myself to remain there another hour and another. In fact, when I piled up all the sad stories I could think of and all the pets I had bid goodbye, I thought it would be quite easy to remain in bed the entire day. After all, what did the outside world offer? Trouble, that's what. If I didn't go out, why even bother to get dressed? Who would know anyway, if I walked the dog in my long coat?
"You need a kitten," my daughter told me one day as she frowned in my direction, sensing my mood. "This place needs some excitement."
That's how Sunny came to live here. A tiny thing rescued from the woods, he arrived in my daughter's arms, rehabilitated, cleaned, de-fleaed, and inoculated. "He's perfect for you," she said. I had not yet reached that conclusion. Neither had Sunny.
It took only a second for him to step onto the living room rug, but in that moment, silence rushed from my home -- exiting through the front door -- and chaos entered without warning.
The dog ran after the kitten. The older cat hissed and spit. The two ganged up on the new kid in town. What ingratitude, I thought. Here I'd been concerned that they were lonely, in deep depression, and they were rejecting my solution.
"I'm too old for this," I said at one point in the evening, as I tried to catch the kitten that had hidden in the basement.
"I'm too old for this," I repeated after four trips to the basement, two stiff knees kneeling on the kitchen floor, two attempts to scramble beneath the bed to retrieve a frightened Sunny hiding from the dog that was on guard duty.
Exhausted and certain I had made a mistake, I pleaded, "Take him back. I'm too old for this," as soon as my daughter entered the house the next day.
At that moment, I meant it. I believed it.
I stood in the kitchen, tears in my eyes. I was crying not only for the cat in my mind already gone, but for the part of me that had vanished also. My enthusiasm to try something new. The belief that I could. The energy to do it.
I wanted everyone who told me I was young enough, to be here, running after this kitten. I wanted them to be with me at five in the morning when Sunny arose and decided to attack my feet beneath the covers and then woke up all the other animals in the house. I wanted them here when he explored the lampshade until he knocked over the lamp, or decided everything on the kitchen table needed reorganizing, removing all napkins, spoons, glasses filled with water, and of course any tempting food on the plates that begged to be shared.
But I knew I could not blame it all on Sunny. It was just too difficult to begin again. To love again. To take on the responsibility again. I was frightened because I did not know if I had it in me. I didn't want to find out.
While I agonized over his future, Sunny had settled in a basket and was enjoying a nap. The sun settled on his beige fur. The old cat had left her stuffed animals to sit by the basket, suddenly interested in the new member of our family. The dog, exhausted from kitten guard duty, had settled in the same sunny spot, sharing it. It was as if they understood things had changed. Nothing would ever be the same. Something had left and something else had entered. Now they would have to adjust. I understood the message in their eyes. We could do it together, accept the change, and perhaps even enjoy the challenge of beginning again -- if I let myself.
The next morning, Sunny investigated the kitchen with renewed interest. Something was different and he noticed it immediately; it was raining for the first time since he had come to live with me. The raindrops splattered on the roof and made tantalizing sounds. He looked up as he explored each room. As if he expected whatever he heard to eventually come down and introduce itself. They were just raindrops falling. But their sound was new to him. And suddenly, through his eyes, the falling rain became refreshingly wondrous for me, too.
I hurried to get dressed. Sunny started his adventures early, and I didn't want to miss any of them.
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