It was
December, icy cold and lonely. My first
holiday away from my children and I was feeling the tug at my heart yet trying
to be festive. Our neighbor invited us to a Christmas
luncheon with lots of great food and good company so the least I could do was to
be cordial. Dad, of course, was
joining us (free food), and despite my achiness for my children it turned out
to be a very enjoyable day.
The next day
I had to run a quick errand and as I got into my car I noticed a tiny face
peeking out from under the back porch of my apartment. I realized it was a kitten and my first words
were “go home little cat”. After all, I
already had two cats and my sister had a cat: we didn’t need any more
cats. Mother had always liked animals
and we had hoped that our cats would be a nice companion for her and we briefly
tried housing them with her. However,
none of our cats seemed to like being around her and they complained
loudly. So we kept them separated from
her in our own apartments. We really did
have our hands full with mother after all so another cat didn’t seem like a good idea.
When I
returned from my errand the kitten was still under the porch, and he was there
the next day and the next. And, with
each passing day the temperature grew colder and colder. I told my sister about the kitten and of
course she thought it was cute and yeah so did I, but…
That night the
temperature was expected to fall below freezing, so what else could we do? We took him into the main house with
mother. Of course she was delighted with
the kitten, and being a kitten, he didn’t mind her at all.
So I took
him to the vet to have him checked out.
I told the vet he was a stray and I wasn’t sure I was going to keep him. The little guy was curled up under my arm and
I was stroking him and the vet very nonchalant said, “Yes you are.” I guess that confirmed it. So we named him. We named him Thomas O’Malley, the alley
cat. Okay, so that’s not very
imaginative but he had been found under the back porch facing the alley. It seemed appropriate.
A week or
two later we went out to my dad’s place in the country. His house faced my cousin’s cow pasture which
also had a huge barn. My sister and I
noticed that one of the barn cats had markings similar to Thomas. We mentioned this to my dad and he just
chuckled. My sister and I both shouted,
“It was you. You dumped that little cat
on our porch.” His response? “You didn’t have to keep him.” Yeah, right.
So now it
was me, Thomas and my mother. One of the
blessings of this little cat was his adaptability to both my mother’s moods and
mine. As much as I hate to admit this, I
absolutely hated for my mother to hug or kiss me. It is common for Alzheimer’s patients to get
huggy and kissy with people, even with strangers (now that’s another
story). Mother was never affectionate to
us when we were children or later as adults, so it wasn’t easy for me in the
best of times to be affectionate towards her.
To make matters worse she often would try to be affectionate with me
after she had vomited out the most hateful things about her family. It saddened me that I felt so strongly about
this, but I couldn’t help it. Anytime mother would try to cozy up to me, I
would hand Thomas over to her. She’d
love on him and coo over him like a baby and he thoroughly enjoyed the attention. When Thomas wasn't playing with his toys he was in my arms. If I put him down he'd jump on my back or climb up my leg. Fortunately it was winter and I was well covered. Many comments were made that Thomas was a needy cat, but I think it was the other way around. Thomas knew we needed him: I needed him, and he proved to be a soothing balm for both of us.
The
importance of Thomas went beyond helping me with my relationship with
mother. I had promised to keep in touch
with my granddaughters but it was so difficult to find anything pleasant to
write about. But now there was Thomas –
eating out of my soup bowl. Thomas
stealing mother’s stuffed bears to sleep on or to share his food with, and Thomas
stealing Josephine’s watch and earrings.
Oh how he liked shiny things.
Now there
were plenty of stories to share with my granddaughters. Most were true and some a bit embellished,
and of course there had to be pictures of Thomas and his adventures. And so
our days passed with Thomas entertaining us and easing the burden. Even to the end when mother could no longer
get out of bed, he seemed to know that it wasn’t time for mischief, it was
time for comfort, and he was that for all us.
The story I
have titled The Importance of Thomas is a summary of several stories. I wanted it to stand alone before going into
the Thomas Chronicles. In my next entry
I will print the entire story, and from there I’m just not sure yet.
May you all
have a wonderful new year.
