When Chloe first arrived to live with me, she had a terrible skin disease which covered her with bloody scabs. In addition to consulting with my regular vet who prescribed an antibiotic cream that Chloe would have no part of, rushing to hide under the bed if she caught sight of the spray bottle, I also consulted with anther veterinarian friend. She said, “A good diet and a stress-free life will go a long way toward a cure. Cats have a remarkable ability to recover from almost any illness. They are practically indestructible. They have nine lives, you know.”
Within a month, Chloe was cured. The scar on her back, the only reminder she was ever a miserable, bloody fur ball, is covered by her long hair. But that incident got me thinking about proverbs which feature cats, especially those proverbs I’ve known all my life, and how they explain cats, me and life in general.
When I think about that cat with nine lives, I am reminded of the feral cat that lives where I work, a pretty grey tabby. She stays far away from humans. She’s painfully thin. When I arrive at work early in the morning before the others have arrived, I see her skulking through the few brushy spots that border the parking lot near my office building. She must be searching for rodents, birds and insects to eat. I can’t help but compare her life, a constant struggle for existence, to the life Chloe and Annie enjoy: unlimited water and kibble, a warm, cozy bed where they can lounge all day, a human caretaker who greets their approaches with cat treats and affectionate caresses.
I compare myself with my friend Jane, especially during her last, difficult years. At the end of the month when her disability check was exhausted, she went hungry. She spent time in a homeless shelter near Port Authority that required her to stay on the streets from early in the morning until dinner time. In the interim, during the winter months, she walked New York City’s frigid, windy streets, wrapped in a motley assortment of jackets, blankets, scarves and quilts I sent her. They were regularly stolen by other shelter inhabitants or else she would lose them during her travels.
For those few, difficult months, Jane was a feral creature, eager to live at any cost so she could save her daughter, her husband and her father the pain of her death. A deeply faithful Christian, she was convinced her life – a life plagued by mental illness and poverty – was part of a divine plan. She prayed daily for the wisdom to understand her plight and the strength to endure it.
I’m a non-theistic Quaker. I don’t believe in a personal god. I’m not counting on an after life. I have a comfortable existence, a pleasant home, a job I love, a broad circle of friends, a small but close family, sufficient financial resources and two bad cats. Do I want nine lives? One is sufficient, especially the one I have now. While I write, sitting in the upstairs study, Annie eats some kibble at the feeding station in the hallway and enters the room. She rubs against my ankles; then looks at me, meowing insistently.
“OK,” I say, “Up you go!” I put my notebook on the end table by my cup of steaming tea. Annie jumps into my lap. I scratch her behind the ears. She stretches and purrs contentedly before curling into a ball. I watch her tiny ribcage rise and fall in perfect rhythm with my breath.
Why would I want nine lives? I ask myself. This moment contains all I desire.
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