We are dog sitting. She’s an old dog, I’d guess about 14 or 15, but I could be wrong. She mostly lies around quietly. The first few nights, I tripped over her in the darkness lying at the foot of my bed when I got up to go running. She didn’t eat for the first three days she was here. Yesterday, I picked up her food and fed her a morsel at a time. She seemed to like that. At least she ate something. Today, she ate out of her dish, which we moved a to the family room from the kitchen away from the cat food. She doesn’t touch the cat food. I think she fears retribution from the cat, who freely eats out of the dog dish.
Tonight I talked to the dog’s owner. He’s been in the hospital and is feeling a little like Job at the moment, I think. He said “If I die, you have yourself a dog.” I sincerely hope that he doesn’t, but I did want to assure him that she had a loving home in case it was his turn to go. How do you say that gracefully?
As I was making dinner, Bruce looked out the back window and saw the cat lying on the grass under the swing set flicking his tail and watching the world go by. The cat hasn’t lounged outside watching the world go by in years. He’s old, too. He’s missing most of his teeth, is rather smelly, and so skinny you can feel his bones right beneath the skin as you pet him. When he was younger, he used to go on expeditions. He’d be gone for weeks and I would worry about him, finally deciding he was dead before he showed up at the doorstep pretending nothing happened.
One time he was missing and I saw that a black cat had been hit on the busy street near our house. My sister said that I needed to go pick up the cat on the street or else I would watch for weeks as his black body got flatter and flatter wondering if it was my cat. I went home for a shovel and a bag. When there was a break in the traffic I ran out into the street, but the cat didn’t scoop up on the shovel as easily as I expected and there I was pushing a dead black cat around the street with a shovel while wearing a dress, heels and the big sun hat I used to wear before all the kids at school got head lice and I threw it away to be safe.
Tonight I was lying in bed trying to sleep and it dawned on me that Killer had not come back inside. I went out back and called him. “KILLER! Here kitty kitty!” Over and over I called, but he didn’t come. I went out front and called again. I started to get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What if he was really gone this time? What if he didn’t come back? What if the neighbor’s dog got him because Killer was too old and too slow? I saw him just last week eyeing the wall near the garden like he was going to jump up on top of it. The wall is just five feet tall and the dogs on the other side act like jumpers. I could imagine the black one scaring Killer into falling. The renters next door would never tell me if they found part of my cat in their back yard.
I thought about how much I love this old cat and how much I would miss him. I thought about the way he liked to bat at the white iPod headphones that now dangled from my finger tips. I decided to go out back and call again.
Through the glass door I thought I saw a black shape. Could that be him? Were my eyes playing tricks on me in the darkness? It was him. I was so relieved. Like the call from the guy you really like but are not sure he had as much fun on the first date as you did.
