Early in 1984, a friend I worked with asked me if I would take in a stray kitten she had seen living alone in a parking lot on Erie Street. She would have rescued it herself but she had too many and couldn’t afford one more. I demurred at first but finally gave in.
My friend captured the kitten and brought her to my house where I was living alone. For the next 11 years, Grumbles and I would share a bond that helped me through some lonely times, especially in the early years. In fact, it was a question who had rescued whom.
Not long after the kitty took up residence with me, I was asked by someone what on earth I was doing with a cat and I was advised to get rid of her.
That didn’t happen.
Years later, after I had gotten married, I was standing up on a ladder in the garage when my back gave out. I called for help from my wife to get down the ladder and I hobbled, bent over, across the kitchen floor in the direction of our bedroom. My progress was hampered by an excited and anxious Grumbles who leapt at me as I shuffled along and got tangled in my feet.
Once I finally was stretched out on the bed, she jumped up and sat on my chest, facing the open bedroom door. Thinking the weight of the cat would hurt my back even more, Barb picked her up and set her on the floor. The kitty jumped back up and took up her sentry position again. Barb put her back down; she jumped back up.
“Just leave her,” I said.
The cat knew I was hurt. This upset her and she had to do what she could to help. Strangely enough, her sitting on my chest did help. Seeing her there so dedicated to my well-being took my mind off my pain.
I was raised with many cats on the farm but they weren’t pets. Nevertheless, I liked them.
Until Grumbles, I didn’t know it was possible to love a cat.
But I’m pretty sure the cat knew.
©2023 Jim Hagarty
