Ignoble Beginnings

In 2020, I share a one-bedroom apartment with my two year-old son. If I get Covid, there is no one to care for him. So, Arlo and I isolate ourselves, without childcare or family support. We take a lot of walks. We bake cookies and leave them hanging in bags on our neighbors’ doors. We investigate small church playgrounds. The ones left unlocked in the frenzy of government shutdowns host our impromptu games of hide-and-seek.

When one of us begins to melt down—from boredom or the unique pressure of working from home—we go for a drive. As in, Arlo perches on my lap with the windows down and steers the wheel herky-jerky while I ride on the brake. (Child Protective Services never shows up, so I assume they have better things to do. ) Afterwards, we go walking again to settle ourselves.

During one of these walks, we meet an old gray tomcat the neighbors call Cole. When we pass by, Cole runs out to the sidewalk to greet us. Arlo climbs out of his stroller and grabs hold of the tip of Cole’s Cat-in-the-Hat striped tail. Does he think the cat’s tail is a leash? Instead of hissing or scratching like any reasonable member of the feline species, Cole leads my toddler son on a walk around the block. By. The. Tail. What magic is this in the most frightening chapter of our lives? I follow behind them, attempting to capture the wonder of it on my phone’s camera. Arlo is enchanted, but I am smitten.

For several weeks, we go looking for Cole every day. Ordinarily, he is asleep in the corner of an open-air carport. A neighbor tells me that he belongs to a couple who acquired two large dogs afflicted with unusual dietary proclivities. (The dogs believe cats are for eating.) Cole was relocated to the carport. He has food and shelter there, but no warmth or protection.

On a particularly rainy April day, I watch Cole attempt to avoid a deluge of spring rain. He tries to jump up on a large outdoor trash container. Each time, he lands just shy and slides backwards into a soggy swill of mud. It is pitiful, and also, my tolerance for needless suffering is at an all-time low. Every news report is a reminder of looming mortality. Within this echo chamber, I allow myself to contemplate the unimaginable.

The next day I call a co-worker who, in a previous lifetime, worked as the director of a major animal rescue organization. I tell her I need advice—Cole loves my son, and I love Cole. She explains that if I walk into the yard or the driveway to take the cat, it is considered theft of personal property. In Texas, she explains, it is imperative to retrieve an animal from public property—either the sidewalk or the street. This way, it will be considered an animal rescue and not a personal property crime. I hang up quickly. My stomach churns.

That night, Arlo and I go to a social distancing dinner in a friend’s backyard. Loudly, across the patio, I explain that I’ve found a cat, that I want to bring him home. I describe the situation in broad strokes, confess feeling conflicted about cat-napping. My friend is impatient with ambivalent overthinking. He slams his fist on the table. “For Gods’ sake! Did the allied forces kidnap the prisoners of war? Of course not! They liberated ‘em! Now go and get your cat.” I heft my sleeping son into his car seat, and wave goodbye. Without making any decisions, I drive to the street where Cole lives.

I park down the way—not wanting any doorbell cameras to capture the license plates associated with a getaway car . . . my license plates, my car. I roll down the windows down so that I will hear Arlo if he wakes up. I cut the engine, get out of my car. My hands are shaking. It occurs to me that Cole might not even be around—we’ve only ever seen him during the day. But even if he is there, am I actually going to pick him up and carry him off? I sit down on the curb. The air is close, humid. Have I lost my mind? I’ve decided to go home when I remember an essay Ann Patchett wrote about her dog Rose.

Nine years earlier, before Covid, before Arlo, Ann Patchett and I used to lunch together. Every afternoon, at 12:30, I’d drive to a large shade tree near my office. I’d sit in my parked car reading until my lunch break was over. I started with Bel Canto and then read everything else she wrote, often the same day it was released. By the time I get to her collection of essays, This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, I thought we were more than lunch buddies. Ann Patchett and I were friends.

The details of her essay “Dog Without End” are hazy, of course. I don’t remember how my friend Ann Patchett first came upon her dog Rose. I recall only that Rose had already been adopted by another family, and placed in the arms of their deaf child. Ann Patchett confronted this child’s mother, insisted that their pet adoption was erroneous, a misunderstanding. The child’s mother took the dog from the arms of her own crying child, and handed her to Ann Patchett. It was an ignoble beginning to an epic, sixteen year love affair.

I think of my friend Ann Patchett, try to conjure up her courage, her conviction. I inhale deeply and walk to the middle of the street. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I call, quietly, under my breath. At first, there is nothing. No movement, no sound. But I do not walk away. I wait. And while I wait, I whisper a spontaneous prayer: it-all-worked-out-for-Ann-Patchett-it-all-worked-out-for-Rose.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I call again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. I look over, and there’s Cole, bouncing towards me. Bounding. Really, you would have thought we had an appointment! He meets me in the middle of the street. I reach down and scoop him up. He begins to purr and nuzzle my neck. I carry him back to my car quickly. I have no carrier, no blanket, no towel. No matter. Cole is a noble beast. He sits tall on my lap as I start the engine and pull away. When we pause at a red light, Cole kneads my arm gently. Clearly, he is encouraging me to keep going.

When we get inside our apartment, my small son wakes up. He is incredulous, “You got our cat??” I put Cole in the bathroom with some water and a plate of tinned tuna. After Arlo is asleep again, I sit on the bathroom floor with Cole. I tell him that this might have been a very bad idea. I tell him I’m not even sure this is going to work out. I explain that I cannot abide unnecessary messes, that I will not tolerate the destruction of property. I go on and on, talking myself out of this thing I have already done. Cole listens for a while, but even he grows weary of my ambivalent overthinking. He steps onto my crossed legs, curls up in my lap, and falls asleep.

In the morning, I take Cole to the animal clinic where I am not allowed inside. After his exam, the veterinarian comes out to the curb and shouts at me through his mask: “This cat’s in good health, but he’s old, probably 10 or 12 years, at least. We vaccinated him. Take care.” For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I drive Cole home. To my home.

There is no discernible transition for any of us. When we get inside, I prepare lunch. Cole sits upright in his own chair at my kitchen table/work-from-home office. He watches us eat until I offer him a bit of cheese. His gaze is so sure and so dignified that I decide he will be called Edward Tulane. That afternoon, a same-day shipment arrives—cat toys of every shape and variety. I sit on the floor dangling a toy mouse from a string. Edward Tulane walks over and stares at me. (He finds my interest in polyester mice fascinating and incomprehensible.) Later, after bedtime stories, Edward Tulane hops on the bed and falls asleep with his head on my pillow and his arms draped around my son.

Edward Tulane is the goodwill ambassador of cats. Houseguests are greeted immediately, welcomed warmly. Even dogs are kindly indulged. If Edward Tulane has a flaw, it is a craggy meow that sounds like something from a horror movie. It is so antithetical to his decorous personality that I laugh every time I hear it, mostly when the food bowl looks like it might possibly be empty in the medium-to-distant future.

Over time, we discover Edward Tulane’s strong preference for popcorn, bacon, and especially white cheddar Cheetos. We also notice that when it is rainy or overcast, he avoids walking too close to the exterior doors. On the few days each winter when it is bitterly cold, he doesn’t leave the bed at all. There is no misunderstanding: “outside” is not a place Edward Tulane is interested in returning.

You already know the end of this story. There aren’t any happy endings for old pets or great loves. Edward Tulane is both. He loses his balance one day, and the vet confirms he has no idea where his feet are landing. We prop him up with steroid injections for a few weeks. On a rough day, I called my sister in tears. It’s only been three years since I brought Edward Tulane home. I can’t imagine life without him. My sister offers to come over the following day after work. She volunteers to organize an end-of-life ceremony for him. I sit up late with Edward Tulane, his paws on my soft robe. I text my sister: I’m not ready.

The next morning, Edward Tulane seems slightly recovered. He is losing weight, but I am optimistic. We give him lots of treats. We let him eat two white cheddar Cheetos at a time. He enjoys the extra attention and seems to be rallying.

On a cool Saturday morning a week later, I wake up too early, both my arms tingling and numb. My now five-year-old son is asleep on my right arm. Edward Tulane is in the same position on my left. I look at him. He opens his eyes in the twilight of that morning and then closes them again, slowly. My arms ache. I consider shifting slightly, but I decide against it. Instead, I listen to my baby sleep while Edward Tulane purrs. I feel nostalgic for this moment, now.

Maybe I doze off again after that—I can’t remember. Several hours pass before we get up and begin our day. I serve Edward Tulane the canned breakfast he prefers, and race out the door. When we return home several hours later, Edward Tulane does not greet us at the door. I find him curled up in his litter box, gone. Even in death, he is careful not to leave a mess for me. Edward Tulane is a consummate gentleman.

I still don’t have a pet carrier. I wrap his body in a blanket and drive him to an emergency animal clinic for cremation. My face is tear-stained. The supremely kind receptionist holds open the door and ushers me into an examining room. She tells me to take as long as I need. I rub Edward Tulane’s soft fur, scratch his ears. I tell him how much I love him, how much better our lives were because of him.

When I get home, it is late. I re-read the essay I remembered on the night I liberated Edward Tulane. In it, Ann Patchett writes, “Sometimes love does not have the most honorable beginnings, and the endings, the endings will break you in half. It’s everything in between we live for.”

Everything in between. I owe that to my friend Ann Patchett. To her essay, stored in the archive of my mind. It illuminated a dark night in the early days of a grim pandemic. She changed the trajectory of our lives. We got three years with our cat of all possible cats. It all worked out for Edward Tulane; it all worked out for us.

All these years later, I offer up a second prayer. I hope another author is writing another story about an imperfect pet adoption. And also, that a lonesome new employee sits in her car, reading it on her lunch break. And that somewhere, an old street cat with a craggy meow and a penchant for white cheddar Cheetos gets a second chance at a great life because of it.