In honor of our adoption of two new cats, I am re-posting the blog I wrote 18 years ago when we adopted the last two. If you want more info on the newest ones, Gerty and Bob, email me at kaydee@gypsyteacher.com.
Cats vs. Kittens
I haven’t had a kitten in 23 years. Now we have two.
My legendary cat, Maxwell Perkins, a calico Maine coon, finally gave up the day after Tony and I returned from our three-month trip. She had waited for us.
She was one month short of her 23rd birthday, so we’ll give her 23. She was a great cat. Maxi outlasted at least three different “fathers” from my single life, all of whom had to pass her test. If she didn’t like him, she’d leave me a turd in the living room.
Maxi replaced Clement, healthy as a hawk for four years, who then gave in to feline leukemia. He was an indoor cat, but on his tombstone it should have read,
He would rather have been outside.”
Maxi never wanted to go out. She would stand at the doorway, look out, and say,
No, thank you.”
I chose her name—the name of the legendary Scribner’s editor of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald who was the subject of my thesis—before I chose her. She took to it well, sitting on my desk, munching on index cards, pens, and magazine covers. My students knew there were two answers to the question,
Who was Maxwell Perkins?” “(1) The editor of Hemingway and Fitzgerald and (2) your cat.”
Maxi waited when I went away to live in Ireland with Tony for a year; she traveled by plane when Tony and I moved here (when the flight attendant got water for her it was Evian). Maxi retired to Florida in a fur coat.
After she was gone, we weren’t sure if we’d be moving, taking a job in another city, getting a new apartment, whatever. We had a good excuse to not replace her.
Besides, if we did get a cat, his/her name would be
You’re-not-Maxi.”
Using one of my creative-problem solving rules,
Do the opposite,”
I decided the replacement would be two newborns, named William Butler Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory, after the founders of the Abbey Theatre, the subject of my dissertation. Time to move on from the master’s to the Ph.D. We had the names, but not the cats. Yet.
The cats in the alley came around, hopeful.
We’re not interviewing,”
I’d tell them.
Then one morning I had a vivid dream about Maxi. I woke up really thinking about her. When I opened the front door to get the newspaper, there was a kitten sitting on the front stoop. Tony said,
Is this a new promotion? A kitten with every copy?”
The kitten belonged to the new neighbor. But I knew it was time.
My friend Debbie in central Florida was on the lookout. Her vet had candidates. I e-mailed my requirements.
Two brand new kittens, William Butler Yeats and Lady Augusta Gregory, brother and sister. If that’s what you’ve got, we’ll come get them.”
She did, so we did.
Tony and I took a road trip. Waiting for us on Debbie’s bathroom floor were two black and grey fuzzballs, the exact opposite of Maxi, except in the cute department.
Willie and Augusta traveled well and lived the first few days mostly in our air-conditioned bedroom (while I type, sweating, in the dining room).
Kittens are different from Maxi. They can hear. And see. And they JUMP up on the bed. And they don’t have a set place to sleep yet.
They will.
But there’s a bigger difference. Maxi was mine. When she replaced Clement I was in a long-term relationship, and I had contributed the cat. When I moved out, she came with me.
Now I’m married. These are OUR cats. Tony and I have rented apartments together, bought a car together, relocated to Florida together.
But this is big.
What if something happens to them? They are sooooooo little. What if one of us rolls over on them? What if they get sick? Half of me assumes they will last until they are 23. The other half thinks they are done for every time they fall asleep. (Gussie falls asleep face down in her food dish, snoring. Very lady-like.)
But they are here now. And they wake us up in the morning. And again in the middle of the night. And they are waiting when we come home.
Just like Maxi.
