Cat

There was a cat named Midnight. He was black, named by my brothers, very intelligent and very very mellow. I would have been about 4 when we found him between our house and the house next door. I would often carry him on my shoulders, with his front paws on my head. He tolerated this with an attitude of a well toked hippy. He never scratched when he realized that it was human skin, only accidentally. Loved paper bags. Could open the back door by jumping up to the door knob. Disappeared one day, and never came back.

There was another cat, named Patches, because she was a calico, who had ear mites, became pregnant, messed behind the couch and bit my mother. She was taken to the vet, and not brought back. Given that she was mostly my mother's cat, I never questioned this. Not a generation, or of a class, that believed in the kind of responsible companion animal ownership that is expected today. Animals were animals. My father's farm childhood was even less sympathetic- extra cats were routinely drowned. Patches woke him up by licking his nose when she wanted to go out. Which brought out a gruff tenderness in him, and he would let her out at any hour. She was not a happy cat, and I never much liked her, although I would pet her.

In college a roommate had two cats, Samson and Delilah, brother and sister cats, the male much larger because he hogged the food. Roommate moved out, failed to pay bills, only took Samson, I kept Delilah. After a few months figured she was mine, took her to the vet & scraped together enough cast to get her shots. One day the old roommate turned up, and took Delilah. I tried, in my young ineptitude to say I'd paid for her shots and wanted her, but she just offered to reimburse me and took the cat. I was shocked and ashamed, but had no way to retrace my steps. I felt worse because she had begun to come out from the edges of rooms, which she had stayed to when her brother cat was around. He was a big abusive bully, and roommate preferred him. But I didn't save her, couldn't save one small cat.

I later found a large feral cat, she took a few ounces of skin off me, and after a week I took her to the shelter, telling them I had just found her. Which is when I found out she was pregnant. I tried, but I did not want a cat who bled me. I didn't blame her, but I didn't like her either. I don't know what they did with her. I never actually named her. A friend, more a mentor, who was devoted to cats, blamed me long for this. I can see her point now, but I did not have it in me then to be better.
The then-future-ex had two cats that he fed, and not much else. I don't know why he had them to be honest. I got Tiger used to me, so I could pick him up. Maynard was a strange little cat, dumber than rocks, that loved me immediately. When we moved in together to another apartment, both ran away, and despite several attempts to return them they never would stay.

The soon-to-be-ex would try to adopt another cat while I was in Army Basic. When I got home, I put my foot down about it, knowing what discord was likely. I am glad I did. Took the wee thing to a no-kill shelter, to the ex's persistent anger and worry that they would put her down. I would find out during that violent and dangerous year that the ex had killed his first wife and son's puppy and kitten in a rage. It would be the last red flag, and the last outburst that got me to get the help I needed to get out. When I mildly say that I escaped, I was not joking. I paid alimony like I would have paid ransom for myself, or a bribe to escape torture. I lived, and I got the cat out before the worst came.

My life improved, but I did not live any place that allowed cats. My dear D and I would rescue one small kitten, and foster her for long enough for a friend to adopt her. We called her Nekko-sama, honored cat. Mike and Rachelle would name her Natasha, as she tried to be sneaky, but not very well. She would be beaten up by neighborhood cats repeatedly, and visit the vet often, move to California with them, put up with other rescued cats, and eventually lose her life to a car. She lived longer than she would have otherwise, and was well loved.

One of M&R's rescued cats wound up with Dave, semi-feral, whom he named Chance, a huge black brute with a fierce loyalty to Dave. Probably because he'd drawn so much blood from him. He liked me when I was the only person he saw in a day, when I fed him with Dave away. Hates stomping feet, loves hot sauce.

I would have two cat tattoos, one on my leg just at toddler height. Wearing shorts in a crowd has gotten me at least one small finger touching my calf, where a black cat sits with it's tail wrapped around my leg. Another cat leaps on my stomach, an outline, my first shy tattoo.

We moved here, and found out we could have a cat. One on the Rescue League's website was a black male short-hair named Midnight. We went to see him, and despite not being happy to be picked up, he did not put out his claws. He was not overjoyed to see us, but didn't seem to mind either. We both thought him wonderful. D brought him home a few days later, a very unhappy cat in a box on the Train. He hid a lot. But gradually he came out, and gradually came to find us interesting and kind. We would name him Moby because it just seemed like the right name. Neither of us has a scratch yet. He listens for the ding of the elevator when we are expected.

D is ridiculously sweet about him. Gentle with him. Plays with him. Moby makes him laugh when even I cannot. Moby sleeps on D when he is ill, though he is not a sitting-on-you kind of cat. More like leans-on-you-if-you-are-still. He is a much bigger cat than we realized after we measured him (to his deep annoyance). He is about 12 pounds, about 20" long nose to base of tail. He loves to drag stuff, like a rope he plays with, to the rug, that is now his. He enlivens our home, and warms us. Distracts us when we are moody. Sits most often equidistant from us. Circles us when we come home. He has claimed us, and we have a larger family because of him. One we can take good care of.