The Gift

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.