And the Cat Came Back

On to the second pet-post to celebrate the publication of my essay “Pet Pack” in Next Chapter LitMag and a definite-maybe from Chicken Soup from the Soul: What I Learned from my Dog, for my essay “Rebel Heart.” Fingers crossed, ya’ll.

Now let’s talk cats. But first, a full disclosure: I’m more of a dog person. In fact, I’ve only owned one cat, inasmuch as anyone can own a cat. His name was Sebastian, and he broke my heart.

I was in college, at my third apartment, down by the river. In this town, “down by the river” was not desirable, but it was cheap and within walking distance of campus, and that was important. Mine was a shotgun apartment, the only example of this fabled layout I’ve ever seen. At some point, an old two-story house had been divided into three apartments – two downstairs and one upstairs (in the attic). The two downstairs sections were mirror shotgun-twins of each other. Upon opening the front door, you could shoot all the way through the apartment and out the back door. Living room, bedroom, hall (bath to one side), dining room, kitchen – all in a row, with their doorways exactly aligned. It was uncanny.

Shortly after I moved in, a cat arrived, lacking a collar and looking hungry, as cats will. He was a medium-sized gray tabby, soft-furred and wise-faced. No, I told that cat. I will not feed you. You can not come in.

Then there he was again the next day. And again and again and again, and I fed him. But I already had two dogs. I did not need a cat. I did not want a cat. I didn’t even like cats. He could be a stray for all I cared.

Then it got cold, and I let him in, because I’m no monster. That poor thing. Short-haired tabby coats aren’t very warm, are they? But I told that cat the house rules:

1. No caterwauling
2. No knocking over my knick-knacks or pawing my plants
3. You must get along with the dogs – no fighting, no tomfoolery

If he broke those rules, he could not stay. And that was final.

But would you believe that cat was an absolute angel? He just curled up to sleep on the back of my roadside-salvaged sofa (or on my heinie, as you see in the cover picture). He gave me no reason to say no. So, with a vet visit, neutering, collar, and a name, I made it official. Sebastian had a home.

To accommodate his free-ranging lifestyle, I cracked the kitchen window, sealing all but a small flap for his access. He could come and go as he pleased.

The arrangement was working well, until I came home and found a snake in the living room. A two-foot black snake. And though I like snakes in their own habitats, I do not like them on my living room floor. With a broom handle, I returned the snake to the great outdoors. I added “no bringing in animals” to the list of rules.

But Sebastian did not listen. Two weeks later, I returned home to find another wild creature in the apartment. Walking through the front door, I could hear a scufflement coming from the dining room. A bang, a clatter, a thump. The dogs were huddled on the couch in fear.

I approached the dining room cautiously – being in the questionable section of town, it could be anything. Someone might be stealing my used furniture or my hand-reared houseplants. But of course it was Sebastian, with another prize.

This time a dove, a big dove, that he was torturing in my dining room. Plants had fallen from their tables and broken on the floor. There were blood smears on the walls, ceiling, and floor. A wing lay tragically disarticulated in the corner. Nature, red in tooth and claw, was in my dining room, breaking all the rules. I closed the door and left the apartment.

When I returned, Sebastian and the bird were gone. I shut the kitchen window. Henceforth, he could wait for the door to be opened. This worked, but I couldn’t leave him home alone – he became crazycat when trapped too long indoors. He stayed outside while I was gone, continuing his prowling behavior.

I thought that cat might leave, but he did not. He stayed, and I was the one who left. My Biology degree was complete, and I was moving south, back to the beach. I took Sebastian with me.

He rode the three hours in the car sprawled across the back of my neck, tense but compliant. Once there, he settled into his new neighborhood nicely. Sebastian came and went as he pleased but always returned for dinnertime and night-night in my bed.

Until he didn’t. I called out the front door – Sebaaastiaaaan, Sebaaaaastiiaaaaan – but no answer came, no cat. An hour or two went by, it was bedtime. I called again, and he came home. This happened repeatedly; he returned later and later. One night, I saw the handsome rogue emerge from the house across the street and come sauntering home.

Two women lived in that house – sisters, very old. I’d not met them, as they rarely came outside, but now, I was determined to find out why my cat was in their house.

Next evening, when I couldn’t find Sebastian, I walked across the street and knocked at the neighbor’s screened porch, but no one answered. I entered the porch. There by the front door was a bowl of cat food and a bowl of water. I didn’t know they had a cat.

Peering through their living room window, I saw Sebastian on the back of their couch, lying on a yellow crocheted doily.

I knocked on the door.

“Excuse me,” I said to the white-haired lady who answered. “I’m Jessi, I live across the street. I’m missing my cat Sebastian. Have you seen him? Gray tabby, red collar, about this big?” I held up my hands, my eyes glued to Sebastian, on the lace doily behind the other sister.

“Nope. Haven’t seen him,” the woman said and started to shut the door.

“He’s right there. On your couch. Sebastian!” I called, but he did not move. I felt so betrayed.

“Oh, is that your cat? I didn’t know he belonged to anyone,” the woman said.

“Yes – he was a stray, and I adopted him. I mean, it’s OK if he comes over here, but I need him back at sunset. At least by bedtime. I want him home safe at night,” I told her.

The sisters agreed to these terms, and Sebastian returned with me.

You’d think this might be the end of it, but no. A few days later he failed to appear again. It was dark and bitterly cold out, and I was worried. I walked across the street, and there he was on the doily. I knocked, reminded the women to let him out at night, and took him home.

This pattern repeated for the next few months.

One night, I found a new litter box on their screened porch. The woman opened the door, and there was Sebastian on the doily as usual. On the floor was a bowl of milk and a plate of shredded chicken.

“Why do you have a litter box?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“We used to have a cat,” she said.

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

“You’re stealing my cat.”

“No we’re not.”

“Look, you can have him. He was a stray. He can be yours, if you want. He seems to like it here. I don’t mind.”

“Oh no, we couldn’t handle a cat. We can’t afford the vet, and we can’t take care of him. We don’t want a cat.”

“Then stop taking my cat.”

“We will. We’ll stop this time. Really.”

Yet the cat-share situation continued. I didn’t know what to do, and I probably would’ve given up, but the problem resolved itself when the two ladies moved away later that year. I also moved, to an apartment a few streets over. But Sebastian would not go with me. He ran back to the old ladies’ house and lurked in their bushes. For months, I found him there and brought him home, crawling through dense coastal brush to catch him. He’d eat my food, take a nap on my bed, then meow at the door to leave. It became harder and harder to find him, and he stopped responding when I called his name. I imagine he found some new sucker to take him in and let him sleep on their heinie or lace doily.

Well played, Sebastian, you old dog. You win.

– Jessi Waugh