There's a New Cat in Town

2/15/09

My mother showed me a picture in the paper last week of a cat at the local shelter in need of a home. Now, I had no intention of getting a cat until our cat, Angel, passed away. She’s fourteen years old, has a heart murmur, deaf for the last two of those years. She’s had seizures for the past five years, and has been in kidney failure for four years. In fact, after the kidney failure diagnosis, the vet told us she wouldn’t make it past a year, six months, really, if we were lucky. But we don’t believe in luck, we believe in love, and she’s still with us. Obviously, she takes a lot of care, and a new cat might well traumatize her. So it never entered my mind.

Until I saw the picture.

I decided that when I got my turn at the paper (usually a week later, when my mother is done with it), I’d call. If the cat was still available, we’d visit. He was. We did. The rest is history.

Angel was in no way upset over the new arrival. The new cat jumped up on the bed and they wiggled noses at each other. Angel mostly shrugged. He bowed up, eyes widened in terror, and fled. Such a drama king.

Frost is two years old, she’s fourteen. He’s a sturdy eleven pounds, she, a dainty six. He is an agile, jumping, soaring, crouching, hunting cougar. She is a hobbling, arthritic elder who had rather sleep than anything. He is long, slinky and limber. She is short, cobby and stiff. He leaps at every sound. Her world is silent. He has round eyes that begin as dark green and end in pale yellow. Her eyes are almond shaped and golden. His hair is short and sleek, hers, long and silky. Yet, if you catch sight of one of them out of the corner of your eye, you might not know which cat you see. They are both blindingly, solid white. Pink eared, pink nosed, with pink pads on the bottom of their feet.

After two days, they both sleep in our bed, Angel at my shoulder blade, Frost at my thigh. She is curled into a ball, paw over face. He is stretched as far as he is able, feet in the air, belly exposed, head back.

Molly, the dog, is very entertained by the new pet. She is eager to be friends, and though Frost feigns fear, he tears after Molly if she stops paying attention. Molly watches him with cocked head and wagging rear when he is chasing imaginary things or playing with string. Molly has no animosity, only curiosity.

So, it looks like all our worry over adjustment is for naught. It’s taken less than two days for Frost to settle in and make himself at home.

I’m happy for the most part. It’s made me well up with tears to realize how little Angel does anymore. I’d forgotten, in her geriatric state, how she used to be, and Frost reminds me of her past life. Angel is slowly disappearing into herself and soon she’ll be gone. I dread her passing. I love her so much! But fourteen and ill doesn’t bode well for a long future. The vet is amazed she’s still alive, that she can still jump on the bed (although if a person is available she meows and we lift her up). Love has triumphed.

And love will help us say good-bye.

But for now, we’re a family with two cats. And I’ll be satisfied for that state to remain for a while.

Frost: Icy, beautiful, majestic.

Angel: Sent from God when we needed her most.

Family: All of us, for now.

Angel passed away two months after this writing.