If you are one of the few people on planet Earth who has never been owned by a cat, I feel sorry for you.
Admittedly, I have not always been a fan of cats. Growing up in a wooded area 20 miles from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I was much more interested in dogs than cats. My grandmother was terrified of cats. Being from the “Old Country”' – she was born on the Russian border – she was superstitious of anything feline and was afraid if she had one in the house it would attack her like a vampire while she was sleeping and drink her blood. Seriously.
Our neighbors were coal miners and steel mill workers. They looked at cats as creatures of the night that would prey on young pheasants, rabbits and quail eggs. This did not set well with families living on a coal miner's salary. I remember many family and neighborhood feasts that would add a spicy dish of rabbit stew or pheasant under glass to our evening meal.
It wasn't until I began dating Grace, a flight attendant who owned six cats, that I learned to appreciate this exquisite purring creature that has long mystified mankind. I still love watching a cat cleaning itself meticulously with its rough tongue or one that lets me rub its tummy while it is stretched languidly on its back. If people trusted like that, we would have a better world and there would be no wars.
Grace lived in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, and flew for Delta Airlines. She was a native of Warsaw, Poland, – blond, beautiful and brilliant enough to qualify as an astronaut. Instead she chose to emigrate to America and became an airline stewardess.
I met her while flying back to oversee the family at my father's funeral. She saw me sitting alone, nursing my grief, and comforted me with a steady supply of glasses of wine. When I disembarked from my plane at Pittsburgh International Airport, I was feeling no pain and had her phone number.
After I returned to Naples, Florida, where I lived and worked as associate editor of a magazine, we began dating. Grace was very special, and I didn't mind the long scenic drive across the Everglades as I followed Alligator Alley through the Seminole Indian Reservation on Friday nights after work. It was worth it to spend the weekend with Grace and her cats. In her charming Polish accent, Grace introduced me to all six of them. Her favorite was Blackie. Cuddling the beautiful black cat, she stroked it, eliciting purrs that indicated its pleasure.
“This is Blackie,” she said. “He has cancer. The veterinarian said it would cost $500 for an operation. I told him to go ahead. The operation is next Tuesday. Please pray for my cat.”
Blackie survived the operation. Grace kept the cats in self-cleaning cages while she was on her flights to San Francisco, Phoenix, Atlanta, Honolulu and other exotic destinations. Her apartment was always immaculate and had a delicious smell because of the scented candles she left burning while she was gone.
I developed an affection for all of her cats, and it wasn't just because of my attraction to Grace. Each cat had a unique personality. They would not come up to you like a dog and fawn for your attention. A cat was much more independent. You had to earn a cat's respect before it would even think about trusting you. But once that trust was won, it was a forever friendship.
Grace eventually was transferred to San Francisco, ending our relationship. Today I still have a great admiration for cats. My daughter, Rossana, for example, has three cats – a big grey, a cat with mottled colors of black, white and brown, and a small black cat that loves toying with bugs, pieces of string, garter snakes or anything that moves.
Although I love all three cats, my favorite is the grey. It has this habit of leaping into my lap when I am sitting down and licking the crook of my arm with its rough tongue. It does this continuously, probably because of the salt. It is a very pleasant experience, and I never tire of it.
Judy, a member of our church who teaches our Sunday morning Bible class, came by for a visit the other day. She was impressed when she saw the cats and our Siberian husky, Sadie, playing in the living room.
“That's amazing,” she said. “Three cats and a big black dog. Don't they fight?”
“They love each other,” said Rossana. “Sadie is very protective of them.”
I smiled and picked up the grey. “We may own the dog,” I said, stroking the grey, “but the cats own us.”
Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter who lives in Springfield, Missouri. with his daughter, three grandchildren, three cats, two laying hens and dog. Contact him by email:
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