Nine Lives Of Love
Albert W. Caron, Jr.
©
Copyright 2024 by Albert W. Caron, Jr.
|
Photo by
Cong
H on Unsplash |
The
tree climbed toward a cerulean sky as sunlight peeked through the
autumn leaves flickering like a disco ball between the branches. The
bright sun also glistened off the nickel-plated spade resting against
the lofty oak.
I
crouched brushing
away leaves and twigs carpeting the woods behind our house exposing
the topsoil rich with composted nutrients. Placing my foot on the
short-handle shovel, I began to dig in the soft earth. But my mind
wondered back to a day a decade earlier…
After
a long day teaching school, I sat at the kitchen table reading the
mail. The garage door motor grinded to life signifying that my wife
Eileen and our youngest daughter Andrea were home. As the back door
opened, I heard a distinctive meow. Looking over I saw the tiny
creature clutched in my seven-year-old’s small arms.
“Another
cat?”
I muttered. “Just what this home needs.”
“What
dad?” Andrea asked.
“Oh,
nothing sweetheart. Long day.”
We
already had two cats and it was all I could do to contain my “joy”
at my smiling wife and our youngest excitedly cradling her first pet
which a friend’s parent offered her and she eagerly accepted. It was
hard to say no to her as the Christmas holidays were
fast-approaching. “Well, guess you got one of your presents
early,” I said with a wide coat hanger smile. My wife shot me
“the look” and I knew what it meant. But what I was
thinking was simple: two’s company and three’s a crowd.
“I’m
naming her Tiffany,” my seven-year-old said confidently.
“That’s a beautiful name,” I murmured. I was
trapped yet again by another female in the house as I was the only
male, human or animal.
Tiffany
was a tiny two month old calico with the traditional mixture of
black, brown and orange markings. Her fur was short and she had big
brown eyes. She mewed softly and drank from a little bowl of milk
that my daughter refilled often. Anytime I was in the kitchen and
her dishes were empty, Tiffany rubbed against my leg, meowing that
she was hungry and I would oblige her. When the Christmas tree was
up, Tiffany found ornaments on the lower branches to bat and water to
drink from the tree stand.
*****
There
was no cool breeze to help me get through this solemn charge that
afternoon. I scooped dark soil deeper from the ground. I rested and
drew my white handkerchief, dabbing the dripping perspiration from my
forehead and cheeks as the sun shone brightly in the blue sky.
*****
Tiffany
grew like a weed and skittered around the house and yard. She wanted
to play with the other two cats but they were older and much more
content to eat and sleep. They tolerated her kitten playfulness but,
when they tired of her friskiness, they swatted her and walked away.
Make
no mistake, Tiffany was Andrea’s cat. On days that Andrea was
sick, she curled up next to her for comfort. When my daughter did
her homework in another part of the house, I became the object of
Tiffany’s attention. Invariably she pestered me for company
because my wife was surrounded by our other two cats. As I read a
newspaper or magazine, Tiffany would jump and sit in my lap. She
wasn’t heavy and this calico made herself comfortable. Occasionally I
would stroke her chin and, like an engine, she purred
loudly. My wife looked over at me and commented “I guess she
likes you.” Using a double positive I replied, “Yeah,
right.” Eileen added, “Scientifically it’s
demonstrated that petting a cat can lower blood pressure.” But
as Andrea came back downstairs to join us, Tiffany jumped off my lap
and went straight to her mistress. I guess Tiffany didn’t want
to let Andrea know that she may have enjoyed being cosseted by the
male head of the house.
*****
Again
I paused to catch my breath and pull my damp t-shirt clinging to me. My
shovel struck small stones and rocks nearly a foot into the hole
and I put them aside for use later.
*****
As
Tiffany grew older she developed some unique behaviors. She was not
a destructive cat clawing furniture and always used the litter box.
When she wanted to go out, she stretched up at the doorknob with her
antelope-like legs, attempting to open the door herself. We thought
that if we attached Velcro on the door handle, she would be able to
let herself outside where she would bound down the driveway without a
care. Tiffany enjoyed the warm weather and stayed out all night
sometimes giving me fits. She had some secret place that she would
not share with us, even Andrea.
Some
days when she was outside, Tiffany would see Andrea coming down the
street from school and act like a dog then a cat greeting her and
follow her home. Other times when I drove the car into the yard and
clicked the remote to open the garage door, Tiffany would run in
front and I’d hit the brakes. We thought that one day she
wouldn’t be fast enough to dart across avoiding the car but she
never lost one of her nine lives.
She
remained affectionate and continued to lick my hand throughout the
years. Nevertheless, Tiffany remained devoted to Andrea. Over the
years I was always second fiddle and I accepted that role. The name
given to this calico feline suited her well because she was a gem.
One afternoon her cry pierced the room and she walked with difficulty
down the stairs to the kitchen. We were traumatized as Tiffany lay
down and breathed her last. She crossed the rainbow bridge. We shed
tears. Lots of tears. We believe Tiffany had a brain aneurysm. I
wrapped her in a small blanket and carried her outside.
*****
Now
the hole was large enough and deep enough for my purpose. I dropped
the shovel and looked at the fabric which seemed to stare back. Andrea
joined me as we lay the shroud holding Tiffany’s remains
into the makeshift grave. We paused to say a prayer for a family
member who gave us joy and happiness for more than a decade. The
tears flowed freely once more and I blinked them away to complete
this solemn self-imposed burial task until we lost sight of the
blanket covered with soil. On top of the mound I placed the flat
stones and rocks on top. Andrea’s small handmade cross marked
the location. One never knows if there’s an animal heaven as
we walked away with my arm around Andrea.
Although
Tiffany’s presence was secondary for me, I will always remember
that she gave me one of her nine lives: unconditional love.
Al
Caron is a retired inner city English teacher who was nationally
recognized in “Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers”
four times. In retirement he teaches a memoir course for seniors and
has pioneered a highly successful memoir program between a local
healthcare facility and Honor Society high school students who
interview, record and type these recollections for the residents to
pass along to their families.
In
addition he has had three non-fiction stories published. Currently
he lives in Marion, MA with his wife Eileen of more than 50 years. They
have two daughters and two grandchildren.
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