What Cats Mean to Me

From Wednesday through Saturday, I had the privilege of looking after my neighbors' cat Manny.

Over the past year or so, Manny and I have developed a rapport with each other. We'd see each other out in the hall or out on the back deck. He would try to get into my apartment, but I would always manage to stop him. I called myself the cat goalie.

Every once in awhile he would slip out of my neighbors' apartment or be out the back deck unable to get back inside and I would alert them. This earned the trust of my neighbors and when their usual cat sitter wasn't able to assist them for the duration of their absence they called upon me.

I would check on Manny twice a day once in the morning before going to work and again in the evening after having done my laundry or going for my swim. Aside from feeding him and changing his litter, I would pet him and comb his thick hair as he flopped down on hard on the floor onto each side of his belly. As I would brush him, he would try to grab the brush or my hand. I loved every minute of it.

This took me back to my childhood. While I was growing up, the Goldstein household almost always had at least one cat in it. The first cat our family had was a dark calico named Billie (after Billie Holiday). Actually, my parents had her even more before they married in Edmonton. For a time, my parents had both Billie and Ella (after Ella Fitzgerald). But Billie and Ella didn't like each other. So Ella stayed with my maternal grandparents in the Crowsnest Pass. I saw this hatred first hand when we visited them en route to Victoria, British Columbia where my Dad would be working during his sabbatical.

But by this time Billie was nearly 15 years old and rather sick. She would not live to make the trip back to Thunder Bay with us. Shortly after our return to Northwestern Ontario, we got two new cats - Bessie and Sylvie. Of the two, Bessie was more beloved as she reminded us of a younger Billie although Sylvie was gorgeous in her own right, but she would develop a chip on her shoulder. Bessie had this habit of sucking on my armpits. She didn't do this with anyone else. My family thought it was disgusting but I didn't mind. Sadly, she would disappear after only three years with us. I think my parents knew more than what they told us. Needless to say, I suspect she met a grim end.

A couple of years later, we moved from the Fort William to the Port Arthur side of town. One of the things that I remember most about that move was how Sylvie could not stand being in a moving car. While Billie could put up with being driven half way across Canada, Sylvie could not put up with being driven across Thunder Bay. As mentioned, Sylvie had something of a crochety disposition particularly with my mother whose lap she would not sit on for many years. But then over time, Mom couldn't sit down without Sylvie jumping on her lap. Mom wouldn't have minded so much if Sylvie had been able to keep her claws in. No, we didn't declaw our cats. Spaying and neutering them was punishment enough.

It was during the Port Arthur years that I first became acquainted with long haired overweight orange tabbies. The first one we came across was Riley. He wasn't anyone's cat in particular, but he had such a charm about him he would find his way to various homes in the neighborhood. Eventually, he gravitated to our house and we kept him much to Sylvie's consternation. She would hiss at him every time she saw him, but Riley ignored her. Riley had a large set of balls and Mom couldn't bear to spay him. The female cats in the neighborhood were undoubtedly grateful. Unfortunately, Riley was killed by an automobile.

A few months later, some friends from across town gave us their orange tabby Leo. They gave him to us because their next door neighbor intended to do him harm. Unlike Riley, Leo would fight back when Sylvie hissed at him and Mom would have to admonish him. But we all loved Leo. I loved it when he would head butt my knee while I was in a catcher's squat. Every once in a while he would even head butt my face.

Leo would soon be joined by a small, stray calico named Tony who didn't seem to be anyone's cat in particular. He would disappear for a few days at a time and then come back all roughed up. Tony made me uncomfortable. If he jumped in bed with me he would scratch my feet and occasionally would just walk, jump up and bite you. But Tony and Leo were constant companions. Sometimes they would wrestle each other. Nothing was funnier than watching tiny Tony bodyslam the much larger Leo.

After spending nearly the entire summer of 1988 in Israel, I would learn that Tony had been replaced by Izzy. Tony had died under mysterious circumstances shortly before my return. Days later, my mother was visiting a neighbor when she saw a cat who looked almost exactly like Tony. When the neighbors said they were planning to take the cat to the Humane's Society, my mother wouldn't hear of it. She called my Dad to tell him she had seen this cat and he saw no point in arguing. Izzy and Leo were constant companions, but Izzy wasn't nearly as aggressive and meowed every time you pet him.

Sylvie didn't like either of them. But I do remember the night before I left for Britain, I was anxious and distraught. I think Sylvie, Leo and Izzy all sensed this because all three of them jumped on my bed to comfort me. It was the only time the three of them were together for any extended period of time without there being any kind of conflict. Sylvie had become far more affectionate towards me during my high school years and I guess decided to put aside her problems with Leo and Izzy for one night. For that I have always been grateful.

Gradually they all died off. My parents had a couple more large orange tabbies - Oakley and then finally Henry. Dad would make his way to New York and Mom reached the time where she concluded she couldn't handle having a cat around.

As much as I love cats, I have never owned one. All of the cats we had were outdoor cats. Mom never liked the idea of keeping a cat couped up. I share the same philosophy. Unless I were to have a large backyard, I would not get a cat. Of course, I can barely keep myself afloat. How could I afford the expense of a cat?

These past few days with Manny were the longest I had spent with a cat in 15 years when I house sat for my Uncle Neil and Aunt Barbara in the Bronx. I must tell you what a great source of comfort Manny has been. Most of this summer has been dominated by trying to find a roommate while living in the expensive housing market that is Boston. The stress of it has been enormous. Failing to find a roommate would force me to leave the home I've been in for the past 10 years. If I couldn't find a place here then I would have to move to NYC and live with my Dad. While a perch near Central Park isn't the worst landing spot I don't want to have to quit my job to do that. Without getting into any further details, if I hadn't been taking care of Manny this week I might very well have completely lost what's left of my mind.

As a single man of 45 and about to turn 46 next month with a non-descript job and no prospects of marriage much less a girlfriend I often go days at a time without having a lengthy conversation with anyone. When I do try to engage in conversation, I often feel like I am taking up their precious airspace. These past few days with Manny have been a Godsend. I can only hope that I remain at my apartment long enough to have another opportunity to take care of him. Until then we'll have our meetings in the hall on the deck. At least I can take comfort knowing there is somebody in the world who wants to be a part of my life.