[Susan Kimmel Wright] Somewhere a Cat Is Waiting

June 4 is Hug Your Cat Day (with your cat’s permission). I’ve always had pets and enjoy including them in my novels. As this important holiday approached, and my cat Cirrus scratched off the days in her litter, I started thinking about the cats I’ve shared my life with.

In childhood, Puss trotted after me as I walked along our country road. Passing drivers sometimes commented they’d never seen such a devoted cat.

Diana, my husband’s and my first cat, had previously made her living as a mouser in a trucking terminal. Dave rather hoped she’d perform the same service for us, but soon learned she now considered herself retired. She enjoyed her life of leisure and bountiful cat food, and soon became pleasantly plump.

The Best Inheritance I Ever Got

We inherited Sammy, the Siamese, from Dave’s aunt. Sammy grieved deeply but eventually transferred his devotion to me. Every day, he waited to welcome me home from my stressful job. We sat on the kitchen rocker, and I let go of my anxieties as Sammy rubbed his chin against mine, purring his affection.

Peter, a skeletal stray, had been days from starvation when I picked him up, according to the vet, and likely hit by a car. His crooked jaw had been broken, and for the rest of his life, he attacked every meal as if it might escape. While I fixed dinner, he cried. If I didn’t set it down fast enough, he’d have a seizure…another result of the head injury that had damaged his jaw. He wasn’t bright, but he loved us.

Next came Paw Paw, a sweet girl until the vet pronounced her overweight and put her on a diet. She trimmed down nicely but spent the rest of her long life blaming us.

Nine Lives Are Never Enough

Cappy, a filthy calico kitten, came begging at a family picnic, eyes and nose gummy with discharge. Besides near-starvation and life-threatening infections, the vet informed us, she was pregnant with several dead kittens, anemic, and leukemia positive. Having already used up six of her nine lives, she spent the next year racing through the remaining three. She rarely slept. She pounced at us from atop furniture, and once burst through a second-floor window screen. Most dramatic was the whirling dervish of white plastic grocery bag, spinning wildly through the house with a cat inside.

Cats Know Best

Ferris arrived next, crying pitifully at our door at 3 am. Though I insisted we had too many animals already, she returned nightly for a week, trying to get inside. When she finally showed up with one eye swollen shut, I relented, only to discover next morning she’d miraculously recovered. She was the soul of sweetness—I never had a dearer cat. I thanked her many times for choosing our door and being smarter than I was.

I Mean They Really Do Know Best

Nowadays, we’re owned by a Maine coon from a hoarder house, via the humane society. Devastated at losing my beloved Ferris, I hadn’t planned on another cat so soon. Cirrus selected me when I stopped to drop off a donation. From the moment she was scooped into her carrier, she’s made it clear this was her choice.

Released at home, she stepped right out, explored the room, and pronounced it acceptable by leaping onto our bed and sprawling out for a leisurely personal grooming session. When she met my barking dogs, she placidly stared them down till they looked away. Moments later, she jumped onto the couch next to them and snuggled her body against theirs. The dogs looked up as if to say, “What have you done?”

It was as if she’d always lived here and was simply returning from a trip. We were not strangers. Thinking about Cirrus and all her predecessors brings to mind Derek Tangye’s book, Somewhere A Cat Is Waiting. He felt cats are assigned to us, and as one passes out of our lives, another is patiently waiting in the wings. I have to believe it is so.