Caramel Petunia, the mother, still a kitten herself, who brought me her children, Ampersand and Play

original post 4/7/07/Yahoo

Last night at a Passover seder, I was greeted by a dog. It came bounding down the hallway of the apartment building, barking, bonking, raising one helluva reverberating racket. I had made its acquaintance last year, and most likely it didn’t remember me; barking, bonking and raising one helluva racket is what dogs do. All night long, I thought my hostess’s father was playing footsie with me, but it turned out to be the dog. The dog, kept time with its tail knocking against the table as we read the Haggadah. The cat, on the other hand, initially aloof, began competing with the dog for attention. Then it left.

My hostess’s father, a wise, older man, observed: “cats are takers. I don’t like them. They come when they feel like it. They relate to you on their terms. Not like dogs. Dogs are companions. they’re always there for you.”

What he said startled me. First, he said it in his French accent, because he is Parisian born. Anything sounds nicer with a French accent. Second, I never thought about cats as takers. A taker generally gives nothing back. A giver gives, a taker takes. But think about your friends. Doesn’t it work the same way?

In the summer of 2004 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I got the call at a very inopportune time; the day before my retirement party commemorating thirty-three years of service with the New York City Board of Education. I got through the party in shock the next day–without telling anyone. I got through the consultation with the surgeon; I got though three lumpectomies (there was no lump, just indicator cells), I got through not telling my son who was leaving for his first year of college, and keeping the surgeries from him. I got through the phone call with the surgeon while we were bringing my son to school; I barely got through hearing I needed a mastectomy. I got through the mastectomy and a reconstruction; a twelve hour procedure, the three day stay and disorientation from morphine. I got through it. But I no longer knew who I was. I had been mugged.

During the summer that changed my life, I lived in a blur of gray cloud, but through the mist there was a little calico cat in my yard. She had just had a litter (little did I know she was six months old) and was having another. My neighbor took one of the kittens and helped find the other three homes. But now more were coming. Her husband, a waiter in an Italian restaurant, brought home leftovers each day and the little cat dined on osso bucco. The second litter was born at the beginning of September, three boys, each with some of their mother’s colors: two orange and white, one black and white. She hid them behind my shed, and Tony kept feeding the thin little cat who would come to his door and wait patiently.

A month later, in October, I was in the hospital. When I came home, I had issues with feeling safe, with reorientation, with fear. But I watched the mother cat from the window tirelessly wait for food. When the kittens got older, they would all come out and wait in a silent line for their mother to bring to them what was left for her.

I watched her teach them how to hunt, climb fences and trees. They ran races in the yard and sunned themselves on the shed roof. When it snowed, they skated on my patio table and pushed the snow down the hole where the umbrella went.

I was a pedigree snob; I had a wonderful pair of Siamese cats years ago and nothing could replace them. But this kitty family was needy, and before I knew it, I was more focused on the cats and less on myself. There I was making them breakfast–I knew if I bought cat food I was in trouble, so I made them eggs and little safe bits of leftovers. Fresh water. Aluminum ball toys.

See what’s happening?

There they were at my door each morning, waiting patiently on the deck, even in the rain. As they ate I was able to stroke them. One let me pick him up. I began to bring the food into the house, and in they came for short visits.

It started to get cold; I put little boxes near the door at the radiator; the boys jumped in; mom howled to go out. She waited outside in the dark, even in the rain, watching the boys who refused to leave.

One day I returned home at about 6:00 P.M. and as I turned into the driveway, my headlights caught their big eyes and white fur. They were lined up waiting; I was in trouble.

The bottom line is: we took them in. My neighbor took one of the three boys and I took mom and the other two sons. I had all their health needs taken care of. But now they were frightened hissers, and hiders; they had only known the safety of sheds and decks.

This group was as hard as any of the special ed kids I worked with; plenty had emotional problems. I had my reservations about us all living together in harmony.

It was a matter of trust.

And now it wasn’t about me and cancer, it was about me and cats.

It’s two years later and I am still cancer-free, but not cat-free. The mother cat flops at my feet, demanding to be petted, the boys are curled up on couches and beds, they bonk into me as a good as any dog, and converse with me rather than bark in my face.

Look closer at those who “take;” they may be giving quietly.

• redhe…

Wow, I’m crying here! What a beautiful story on so many levels. I am so happy to hear that you are now cancer free, and so happy to know that you are NOT cat free! I have had my own experiences with two feral cats that I took in, and I grew to adore them both.
There is certainly an important lesson in that story, again on so many levels. Thank you so much for sharing it with us, and I am so glad you have gotten past such a dark time. I know that the furry friends in my life have always gotten me through the worst of times as well, and I agree that I would never describe the cats in my world as takers. Big hugs my friend!!

Friday April 27, 2007 – 08:57am (EDT)

• James…

I didn’t know you were a cancer survivor!  I’m happy to see that you are still around, giving to all of us.
I hope your health remains strong and that you don’t mind some of us taking from you now and then. Taking your time, taking your attention, taking your insights, taking your warmth, ….
Thank you for sharing a piece of your life with me,
James

Wednesday August 29, 2007 – 02:37pm (MDT)

• Shirl…

This was so beautiful. I am so glad you mentioned it to me. Aren’t the little fur balls wonderful. They change your life. My husband had lymphoma cancer in his throat. Our cat’s mother was wild and I got them when they were 3 weeks old. They stayed with my husband during all of his chemo treatment. He sat in his lounger and they were both with him at all times. Sammy is his special cat. Wow, do they love each other. So I know what you are saying in this blog. Honey, I’m sorry for all that you went through. But God brought you through it. Bless your heart. No wonder I am drawn to you. You and my hubby are survivors of the dreaded disease that is taking our loved ones. We didn’t think he would be able to use his voice again. But God had plans for him. He is a fine minister and a great pastor. He is so loved by his saints. He is the most wonderful husband. So God knows what is best. I have enjoyed reading this so much and I’m so glad you are well.  Praise God for his blessings. love you dearest, God Bless you too, shirley xoxoxoxoox

Saturday September 8, 2007 – 02:29am (EDT)

• DaniB

Sue, you did it again: your wonderful story has filled my eyes with tears. Sorry I missed this when you first posted it. I find it marvellous to discover your personality – so rich in every sense – a little day by day. I’m also a cat lover. I have two girls at present, a ‘countess’ and a stray, and they’re my best furry friends. I also have an old dog, a sweet Alsatian, but somehow I can’t relate to her as I do to my kittens. I must have been a feline in another life. And I’ve heard that animal therapy is one of the most successful remedies. There you are.

Sunday October 7, 2007 – 11:58am (CES)