By Kelly Boyer Sagert
Cats don't belong to people. They belong to places.
~Wright Morris
"No," my father said. "We are not keeping that cat!"
Cats don't belong to people. They belong to places.
~Wright Morris
"No," my father said. "We are not keeping that cat!"
Some people might interpret that message as "No. We are not keeping that cat!" But my sister and I interpreted Dad's message as, "I need a bit more time before we can let that cat into our house." And that was okay. We knew that this cat was a perfect match for our father.
After all, the gray tiger cat with a triangle-shaped chunk missing from his left ear was found in one of Dad's funeral cars, taking an afternoon snooze in a nice patch of sunshine in the back seat.
Dad owned the funeral home located next door to our house, and the cat quickly got into the habit of greeting him on our back steps first thing in the morning. He then escorted Dad to the funeral home, where they worked hard, both Dad and the cat. The cat took on the awesome responsibilities of chasing squirrels, dogs, and other cats from the parking lot, and greeting visitors who needed the company of a loving and sympathetic friend.
At the end of each day, the cat walked Dad home from work. Sometimes Dad would say, "Now, let's not feed that cat," which my mother interpreted as "Please wait until I'm asleep before you sneak him some leftover meatballs."
People attending funerals would sometimes ask Dad about the feline in the parking lot. If they appeared to be cat lovers, Dad would say, "Oh, that's Mr. Gray." If they didn't, he'd say, "That's a neighborhood stray."
Mr. Gray was savvy. He recognized that his ability as an escort, master of parking lot security, and official greeter weren't enough to secure him a new home. So he added a new task, that of printing supervisor. Dad printed his funeral home leaflets in our garage on an 1880's printing press — one that had a plate on top of it that was perfect for Mr. Gray to jump on to make sure that Dad didn't make any errors.
When my father was elected president of the local Rotary club, a newspaper reporter came to the funeral home to interview Dad and take his picture. A couple of days later the reporter called to ask Dad the identity of everyone in the photo. "There was no one besides me," Dad said, but then paused. "Oh, no! By any chance is there a grungy-looking gray tiger cat in the photo?"
When that was confirmed, Dad declared, "That's Mr. Gray. He's an employee of the funeral home."
When that photo appeared in the newspaper, we were delighted. And, when Dad came home from work that evening, he simply said, "Well, if you're going to keep that cat, you'd better get him to the vet for a checkup."
So we did. Mr. Gray was estimated to be three or four years old, and he lived more than a dozen additional years, a most loyal and wonderful friend to our family and the bereaved we served.
After all, the gray tiger cat with a triangle-shaped chunk missing from his left ear was found in one of Dad's funeral cars, taking an afternoon snooze in a nice patch of sunshine in the back seat.
Dad owned the funeral home located next door to our house, and the cat quickly got into the habit of greeting him on our back steps first thing in the morning. He then escorted Dad to the funeral home, where they worked hard, both Dad and the cat. The cat took on the awesome responsibilities of chasing squirrels, dogs, and other cats from the parking lot, and greeting visitors who needed the company of a loving and sympathetic friend.
At the end of each day, the cat walked Dad home from work. Sometimes Dad would say, "Now, let's not feed that cat," which my mother interpreted as "Please wait until I'm asleep before you sneak him some leftover meatballs."
People attending funerals would sometimes ask Dad about the feline in the parking lot. If they appeared to be cat lovers, Dad would say, "Oh, that's Mr. Gray." If they didn't, he'd say, "That's a neighborhood stray."
Mr. Gray was savvy. He recognized that his ability as an escort, master of parking lot security, and official greeter weren't enough to secure him a new home. So he added a new task, that of printing supervisor. Dad printed his funeral home leaflets in our garage on an 1880's printing press — one that had a plate on top of it that was perfect for Mr. Gray to jump on to make sure that Dad didn't make any errors.
When my father was elected president of the local Rotary club, a newspaper reporter came to the funeral home to interview Dad and take his picture. A couple of days later the reporter called to ask Dad the identity of everyone in the photo. "There was no one besides me," Dad said, but then paused. "Oh, no! By any chance is there a grungy-looking gray tiger cat in the photo?"
When that was confirmed, Dad declared, "That's Mr. Gray. He's an employee of the funeral home."
When that photo appeared in the newspaper, we were delighted. And, when Dad came home from work that evening, he simply said, "Well, if you're going to keep that cat, you'd better get him to the vet for a checkup."
So we did. Mr. Gray was estimated to be three or four years old, and he lived more than a dozen additional years, a most loyal and wonderful friend to our family and the bereaved we served.
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