Dewey's Nine Lives

“Okay, I’ll take you,” Yvonne whispered back.

She named the kitten Tobi. She was browner and rounder than a typical Siamese but had the luxurious softness and gorgeous blue eyes so typical of the breed. And soft wasn’t just a description of her fur. Tobi was a soft cat. Soft spoken. Soft in manner. She wasn’t courageous, either. She ran when anyone entered a room; she ran when she heard a door open anywhere in the house; she sprinted to the safety of Yvonne’s bed when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She went outside only once, running right past Yvonne as she stood in the doorway. Yvonne stepped out onto the concrete stoop and saw Tobi disappearing around the corner of her parent’s Spencer house. She ran the other way around the house and met her in the backyard. Tobi came tearing toward her and leapt straight into her arms, a look of terror on her soft little face.

“Oh, don’t do that again, kitty,” Yvonne begged. “Please don’t do that again.” It was impossible to tell who was more scared.

“Tobi was a cuddler.” That was the way Yvonne described her. “She always wanted to be on top of me. She slept in my bed every night.”

“I bet that made you feel good,” I replied.

“Yeah, it did,” she said. Then she sat looking at me, waiting for my next question.

After high school, Yvonne joined her father at the Witco plant. The factory produced handheld hydraulic tools, known as grease guns, that squirt grease into small spaces inside car engines and other machines. After her struggles at Spencer High School, the line was a relief. The work was fast-paced and physically demanding, but Yvonne was young and strong. She could fasten bolts as quickly as anyone on the line, and it didn’t require talking to her colleagues.

“It wasn’t the best job in the world,” she told me, as if uncomfortable with her obvious pride in a task well done. “But it was work.” And there is nothing better, as I well know, than meaningful work.

Yvonne didn’t have much of a social life outside the factory, but whenever she finished a shift, she could count on one thing: Tobi would be waiting. The kitten liked high places, away from kicking feet and swinging arms, and she often watched for Yvonne from the top of the bookcase. Other times, Tobi was staring from the top of the stairs when Yvonne opened the front door. If the house was empty, Tobi followed her around: to the kitchen, to the den. But when someone came home, they both headed to Yvonne’s room and closed the door. Tobi, Yvonne soon realized, spent most of the day in her bed, under her covers, waiting for the only person she felt comfortable with to return. And while the idea never consciously crossed her mind, that was exactly what Yvonne wanted: a friend who would always be there for her.

In her twenties, Yvonne moved out of her parents’ house and into a fourplex apartment house with her older sister. Tobi loved the quiet. Yvonne loved being on her own. She thrived on the assembly line, affixing small bolts to grease guns. For years, Spencer’s grid of numbered streets had intimidated her, and everyone she passed seemed like a stranger. But slowly she developed an appreciation of the patterns, and she began to recognize the faces around her. She shopped in the stores along Grand Avenue or at the new mall on the south side of town. She bought clothes at the Fashion Bug and Tobi’s favorite food, Tender Vittles, at a little locally owned pet store. One Halloween, she bought a scary mask. She put it on and tromped heavily up the stairs. She came through the door to the bedroom with a low moan—“ahhhhhhh”—and Tobi’s beautiful blue Siamese eyes popped right out of her head. She started to rear back, her fur fluffing out in fear, and Yvonne felt so bad that she tore the mask right off.

“Ah, Tobi,” she said. “It’s only me.”

Tobi stared for a few more seconds, then turned and looked away, as if to say, I knew that.

The next day, Yvonne decided to scare Tobi again. She put on the mask and stomped through the bedroom door. Tobi took one look and turned away in disgust, as if to say, Please. I know it’s you.

Yvonne laughed—“You’re a smart one, aren’t you, Tobi?”—and gave her a hug. Life was simple, but life was good. Yvonne Barry had found her comfort zone; she had found a companion; and she was happy. Her life was lived in repeated details, small moments in time. At Christmas, Yvonne built a little tunnel out of presents, and Tobi sat in that tunnel for days. “I thought she was unique. Oh, Tobi loves the Christmas tree. But then I found out a lot of other cats did that, too.”

In the evening, in her bedroom, she spun Tobi in a swivel chair, the little cat lunging at her hand every time she passed by. Even decades later, Yvonne smiled at the memory. Tobi loved that swivel chair. And if Tobi loved it, then Yvonne loved it.