The Legacy of LouLouBell, one cats journey (part 1)

Once, when I was little, I got a card from a distant great aunt. Animated kittens tumbling out of a knitting basket, wishing me a happy 4th birthday. I was 7. Inside was a single dollar, not 7 to celebrate each year I had actually lived. Not 4, for the years she thought I had been on earth. Not even 2. 1 for each hand maybe, 1 for each pocket, 1 to keep the other company; 1, and 1 to grow on. Nope, just 1. 1 wrinkled and creased face of George Washington, peeking sheepishly out from under a card that even he seemed embarrassed by. A cutesy card of frolicking baby felines, playing with little woolly balls of yarn, telling me that I was only 4. Adding insult to injury on my special day by giving me a singular, soiled and rumpled bill. Is this a joke? Why didn't she just throw 3 quarters into the damned envelope, that way she could have recouped the cost of the stamp. Who was this cheap, crazy, cat lady anyhow? The nerve of this woman trying to pass herself off as my Aunt. She was definitely no relative of mine. My Mother thought is was sweet, and wanted to sit it on the mantle. I was having none of it, I ripped it apart like a tiger mawing its freshly killed prey. With lion pride, I tore it to bits and threw it on the floor. My "warm and fuzzy" birthday greeting lay there shredded, and bedraggled, like a freshly coughed up fur ball. She can take her stupid kitty card and shove it up her... (I would be almost 11 before I learned that phrase) I stuffed the dirty, lone buck into my "winnie the pooh" shorts, (I was no fool, money is still money) and stomped off to my bedroom full of grown up indignity. I sat on my bed, wounded, a thorn still stuck in my paw. I was seething with "cat scratch fever". From that day on, I held no affection for cats. To me, they were no more than self indulgent, self absorbed creatures, with no time or care for anyone but themselves. Draped deliberately over sunlit windowsills soaking up the sun, as if it was shining just for them. Brazenly sharpening their claws on sofa cushions and chair legs like it was their birthright. Preening and grooming on counters and kitchen tables; snobbish and stand offish, with a solitary air of royalty. You can't make cats sit, roll over or beg for treats. Can their bark chase away unwanted intruders, or warn you that little Timmy has fallen into the well? I think not. You cannot take them for walks or jogs, and they won't catch a Frisbee in their teeth, no matter how many you fling their way. Mans best friend is not a cat. They say that the world is divided into two kinds of people: dog people and cat people, and I was definitely on the canine side of the universe.




I had lived on my own for a few years, and although living without parents, siblings or roommates was really great, I guess I was just a little lonely. I really wanted a dog, I needed a dog, I had to have a dog. I lived in a one bedroom apartment on the 2nd floor, and a dog has to be a dog. They have to run, play, bark, dig holes in the yard, chase the mailman, all the awesome things dogs do. I was fine with that, but I knew the neighbors wouldn't be. It was out of the question, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise. Regardless, I still had visions of me and my Irish Setter Whisky sitting by a roaring fire, me in my tweeds and pipe, and Whisky, cozy at my feet. My faithful Bulldog Winston, taking leisurely strolls with me, Winston; stalwart and proud by his masters side. Blondie, my spirited yellow Labrador Retriever playing fetch in the park on a spring day, nuzzling my hand with her warm muzzle, imploring me to throw the stick again and again. Me and my Jack Russell terrier... alright, okay; you get the picture. Holding on to my "Marley and Me" illusions tighter than a puppy playing tug of war with your best shoe, I pined for a pooch of my own. I started taking trips the ASPCA, no particular reason I kept telling myself. Just little jaunts to the nearest Humane Society to make sure they are doing their job. I made donations, I had a right to see my money at work, didn't I? My sporadic visits turned into weekly rituals. I became a faithful, devout member to the church of the Great Dane. I prayed fervently and consistently for divine doggie intervention. The more I prayed, the more tortured I became. A martyr really. Not willing to let sleeping dogs lie, I cried out to the canine gods for mercy. I would climb up onto my milk bone cross daily, bemoaning my fate in life; to be dogless, and alone. Hiding my stigmata with shame, wanting no one to see my empty leashless hands. Running out of faith, I took one last pilgrimage to my area dog house of worship. Each mile closer confirmed my suspicions that I was rapidly losing my religion.





She was an ordinary cat, at least that's what I thought when I first saw her. I walked right past her, focused directly on the dogs for my final baptism of canine love. I entered the hallowed sanctuary and genuflected at the doggie dishes, offering up a conclusive prayer amongst the kibble and chew toys. I petted and played with the beagles, terriers, hounds and mutts, knowing this was it. My hopes and puppy dreams were forever dashed, my dog days of summer at their end. With great sadness, I bid them all a final farewell. They wagged their tails, and barked out a chorus of goodbyes until I could take no more. Quietly and reverently, I made my way toward the exit. On my way out, vowing to banish my heart forever from this barbarous Parrish, I spotted her. A sole cat, in a sea of empty cages. Rows and rows of little metal jail cells, all uninhabited except for one. She sat there behind the bars trapped and alone: reminiscent of a death row inmate awaiting her last meal. Looking dejected, afraid, and on edge, I felt sorry for her. True, I wasn't fond of felines, but I wasn't completely without humanity either. I went over and scratched her under her chin, talking soothingly, reassuring her, like a priest giving her last rites. She responded fully and instantly. Purring and rubbing her face against my fingers, wrapping her tail around my wrist. Whoa, wait a minute, hold up sister. No need to get all frisky with false hope. I'm just saying hello, I'm not taking you home. She seemed to understand, respecting my decision, she backed off, but still looked at me with pleading eyes. There was a torn piece of lined note paper taped carelessly to the front of her cage. Scribbled in a sloppy scrawl was the name Midnight. Midnight? This cat was black and white, with a little gray mixed in. Midnight indeed. Stormy, maybe. Dawn would be a stretch. Dusk at very best, but Midnight? It seemed even her name was picked without any heed or thoughtfulness. Poor thing. A Veterinary assistant, with a painfully slicked back ponytail and shiny black rubber soled shoes came goose stepping precisely and purposely down the hallway. Noticing that I was having a tender moment with the incarcerated "Midnight", she turned on her heel abruptly to tell me that there was no need to become attached to this animal, as she was scheduled to be euthanized this very day. With all the caring of a paid assassin, she stated that due to "problems", this animal was going to be "put down". Put down? Euthanized? What the @#&%? I stood there reeling. Riddled with her stinging apathy, tearing at me like bullets, each slug digging painfully deeper. Problems? What do you mean problems? Was she a kitty sociopath? A feline psycho? A puss in boots serial killer? Define "problems". She smiled a toxic smile. Oh my God, this freak was actually enjoying this. Quick, precise and lethal, she check listed all of Midnights crimes. She doesn't get along with other animals, she is allergic to plastic, she has trouble digesting certain foods. She was abused by her last owner. Starved and neglected, a paw was broken, and never properly healed. She doesn't like people, and is aggressive toward them. The words spat off this reptiles venomous tongue, with no emotion, no concern. She was as a warm as a bag of pit vipers. Each petty offense now a death sentence, extolled without so much as a hint of compassion, understanding or charity. A caricature of evil, she had the look and manner of a Cruella Deville that took fashion tips from the Marquis de Sade, and adopted social graces straight from the Gestapo handbook (S0, you vant to be mein Fuhrer). Standing there tight haired, tight assed, and black hearted; an arrogant smirk pulling on her knife slash of a mouth, arms folded with perverse satisfaction. As vicious as a junk yard dog, she definitely had a personal vendetta against this particular pussycat. Ill take her, I said: a little too loudly, a little too quickly; my voice cracking slightly. The smirk dripped slowly and poisonously away from her tight lipped face. Her flinty eyes scoured over me like a belt sander; rough and painful. Her withering glare made me feel flushed and weak. For a split second, I thought she might reach into my chest and yank out my heart. I wanted to run, but I held my ground, my stare matching hers. After what seemed like an eternity, she jerked her head up and down violently and hatefully. Fine, she said; acknowledging my decision with unhidden rancor and loathing. Turning on her cruel heel once more, she marched away to fill out the paperwork. Whew, this woman scared the hell out of me. I took a minute to steady myself. I was sweaty and hot. I had the urge to lay down on the floor and rest my burning cheek on the cool linoleum. No time for that, I had more pressing business at hand. I mentally went through Midnights problems. Alright, she had some issues, but didn't we all of have a "problem" or two? Did a few challenges automatically equal extinguishment? I was completely sure that if this Sadist knew I was lactose intolerant, or prone to inner ear infections, she would have me shipped off to the gas chamber faster than I could say Heil Hitler. Maybe I was insane. An impulse buy at the local pound, and I didn't even like cats. What am I gonna do with a cat? Well, whats done is done. I never really believed in regrets, things happen for reasons. Its up to us to figure out why. I was shaky, but resolved. I paid my fees, throwing in another $5 for a cardboard carrier. Signing on all the dotted lines, there was no looking back now. I thanked Nurse Ratchet for her "kindness" by telling her she would have made a "swell" Nazi. Swooping up my corrugated suitcase firmly by the handle, I turned on my heel (just as she did), and like a cat on a hot tin roof; I pounced to the door. Once safely in the car, I sat there trying to make some sense of what I had done. A cat, I now have a cat. Why? Because you are a fool, I told myself. I reached over and pulled the seat belt across the front seat, securing the carrier with the click of a metal fastener. Safety first, I said to the box. The box was silent. I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward home. I talked to the box the whole trip. Babbling, nervous about what lay ahead. Telling it all about my life, my expectations etc... Droning on and on all my misgivings and doubts about this union, and still not a sound from the box. Pulling up in from of my apartment, I turned to the box and said: Well, this is it, welcome home, I guess. Nothing. Hmmm, I opened the lid gingerly and peered in, not knowing exactly what was in store. There she was looking up at me. She was very calm; she seemed content, almost happy. She didn't try to run, or scramble to get away, she wasn't skittish at all. She just sat there serenely, gazing my way peacefully. Whats the matter I said: Cat got your tongue?

To be continued...