Weathering the Storm with a Cat at My Side

We are a family of cat lovers. Dogs are perfectly fine for other people, but I am drawn to the beauty, independence and inscrutability of felines. I have been the proud owner of many cats, and they have enriched my life with their distinct and fascinating personalities.

My very first cat was Penny, a black domestic short hair with white paws that my parents gave me when I was about six years old. My next cat, a Siamese named Fluffy but always called Kitty, lived with me for at least 10 years, throughout my Junior High and High School days. When I married and moved out at the age of 19 (way too young, but that’s a story for another post), Kitty disappeared from my parent’s house. To this day I don’t know if someone took her or she wandered off looking for me and never returned.

Sugar lived with me for the longest amount of time. She was a beautiful solid white cat with the sweetest disposition; she loved me and only me. When I divorced I took her with me to my new apartment, and Sugar kept herself occupied by thoroughly inspecting every man I dated. They all lost. She hissed and spit and generally made a pest of herself until they got the message. When I brought Dwight, my second and forever husband (27 years now and counting) to my apartment, she jumped in his lap and started purring. She knew he was the one for me long before I realized it. Sugar was a very smart cat.

We kept Sugar until she was about twelve and we had our first daughter, Rachel, who was born two months premature and had a variety of health concerns in her early years. Living in a cat-hair-filled home was not the best environment for Rachel, so we found a loving family with a farm who was willing to adopt Sugar, and I reluctantly told her goodbye.

We had our second daughter, Christina, three years later and lived the next six years or so without a cat in the family. When they became old enough to start whining about wanting a pet, I suddenly realized how much I missed the sweet companionship of a cat. So the girls and I went to the local shelter and came home with a darling calico kitten that Christina named Callie.

Callie grew up with our daughters. Christina dressed her in baby bonnets and pushed her in her doll stroller; Rachel, a born artist, took hundreds of photos of Callie and drew her picture for many art projects. We all loved her dearly. Callie hated storms, however; at the first hint of rain she would run downstairs and hide behind the washing machine, cowering through the thunder and lightning. Jerry Tracey and James Spann could’ve put her on the payroll and done away with all their expensive storm predicting equipment. We always knew when the danger had passed, because then and only then would Callie emerge from her hiding place.

Callie was on my mind last night as Dwight and I spent most of last night in our basement, apprehensive and worried, watching weather alerts on television and listening to the eerie sound of tornado sirens. Callie passed away several years ago and our new cat, Muffin, a Maine Coon-tortoiseshell mix, doesn’t possess her predecessor’s storm-predicting abilities. Muffin is unbelievably calm about storms; it is mind-boggling, actually. She slept peacefully at my side throughout the long siren-filled night, and I awoke to a calm day and the reassuring sound of Muffin purring in my ear.

I am thankful for many things this morning; that the storm has passed, that my friends and loved ones are safe, and that I have a sweet kitty to keep me company as I start a new day.

When I was a young girl, I was constantly writing. I started with one of those pale pink books with a tiny lock and key on the side, inscribed with "My Diary"on the front in fancy script. Once I tired of that, I began scribbling on everything--note pads, my mother's grocery lists--you name it.

Then, when I started high school, my Freshman English teacher announced that we were required to keep a journal a part of our grade. "You need to buy a spiral notebook dedicated solely to this assignment," she told us, "and you must write at least one paragraph every day. I will give you 15 minutes at the beginning of every class period to write." 

At first we all balked; what could we write about? Or more specifically, what could we write about that we wanted our teacher to read? My first entries were stilted and self-conscious, written just to fulfill the class assignment: "Today I was late to math class because I couldn't get my locker combination to work," or "We got out of class for a pep rally today. I sure hope we win the game tonight."

Gradually, however, I loosened up and began to write about whatever was on my mind at the time. I got used to coming into class and writing every morning, and at the end of that year, I had a chronicle of the ups and downs of my Freshman year. Plus, I got an "A" in the class.

My Sophomore English teacher didn't require we keep a journal so I got out of the habit of writing daily. After a few months I realized I missed it, so I bought a spiral notebook all on my own and began writing at home. I didn't write every night, but at least three times a week I would pull out that notebook a scribble away, just for me. A habit was born.

I was a teenager then; now I am in my fifties and I am still scribbling away in notebooks. Over the years friends have given me fancier journals, with illustrations or inspirational quotes at the top of each page, but I like the utilitarianism of a plain spiral notebook. I have a huge box in my closet filled to the brim with journals, my entire life in enclosed in a series of spiral notebooks. Now I am going to share some of it with you.