Little White Feet

Frank and Walter were in love...

There's a certain majesty about someone who drools in your hair at 4:00 a.m. and bites your ankles to herd into the kitchen, where he has deposited a bleeding snake for your pleasure. Walter was particularly fond of sitting just far enough away from you that you knew he was there, in the window of the barn, at the top of a tree, behind a plant, with a look of contentment on his face as though he had forgotten that he was the one who had been rescued. He was certain that he was the rescuer. The saggy-bellied knight of his country castle.

It took a monumental amount of effort to get Walter (and Wiley) Home. Carly found them in 2004, huddled by the back tire of a truck in the parking lot of a restaurant in Shreveport and brought them to me when they were small enough that I could fit both of them in the palm of one hand. Not thinking I'd be able to keep them, I called them "brown cat" and "white cat" even though everyone I knew was determined to give them names. Tim and I took them to a "No-Kill" shelter when they were old enough to open their eyes, feed, and bathe themselves a little, and the woman behind the counter said, "sure, we can put them to sleep by the end of the day." I was horrified and she said simply, "No one wants plain striped cats."

So I took them back.

They lived with me (and Zack and Jonathan) in Shreveport, on Merrick St. for a number of months while I got ready to go to France, and are really the only pets I've every had that were just mine.

White Cat became Walter and Brown Cat became Wiley when it became clear that I couldn't do anything with them but "keep" them, which meant taking them to Mom's. But first, they moved to Tim's parents' house in Plano and lived in the bathroom for a bit before we drove all the way to Colorado with them.

My mom thinks I'm a shithead for always bringing her cats, but she obliged them (and me) by buying them a piece of sheepskin to cuddle at night... like they had at home, and when Walter began his crusade to build a nest in her hair every night I think her initial annoyance developed into something like eternal and undying love.

Within a few months of moving to Crawford, my Great Grandmother died and my mom moved into her house and shortly afterward, Wiley was hit by car. It is a hazard of living in the country, where animals live indoors and out, and people swerve to hit them on purpose.

Four years later, Walter is gone as well.

It probably seems ridiculous to care so much about one cat. We have eight others for God's sake. But honestly, if the others were to wander into kitty Shangri-la and not come back, it would be no tragedy.

There was something very whole, and solid, and comforting and yes, human, about Walter. His death was more horrifying in that he tried to come home, even after he was hit.

There are some perfect animals, who have no flaws. Whose minds and attitudes are finely tuned into our own so that they are, in a way, better friends to us than any person could ever be. Even when they are forcing the bathroom door open while we shower so they can drink from the faucet, dropping half-dead voles in the laundry basket, "helping" us pack, or knit, or eat, or tie our shoes, peeing--yes, peeing--in our hair, or making us chase them through the tall grass with a flashlight at 11:30 at night because, please God, we don't want them to get hit by a car...

It probably seems dramatic to you, but my world is not as nice of a place. And I'm hurting for my Mom because I know she's hurting.


"If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans" ~ James Herriot