Dewey's Nine Lives

Alarmed, Lynda rushed Cookie to the veterinary office. They performed a battery of tests but found nothing wrong. Finally, the veterinarian unhooked his stethoscope and looked at Lynda.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

“Are you sick?”

“No, but I’m having trouble with my back. I’m having major surgery in a few days.”

The doctor nodded. “How long have you known?”

“Six months.”

The doctor put away his instruments. “It’s not a physical problem,” he said. “It’s psychological. Cookie is so worried about you that she is pulling out her own hair to relieve the stress.”

Lynda looked at her kitten, at her sweet face and mangy belly and torn-up legs, and began to cry. Cookie had been a wounded animal in a cage. She had watched dozens of people walk past her every day. Out of all those people, Cookie had chosen Lynda. In an instant, it seemed, Cookie had dedicated her life to her. Lynda never understood the reason. What had she done to earn that trust? What had she done to deserve such a fierce and genuine love?

The surgery was over in a few hours, but the recuperation was long and slow. Cookie refused to leave Lynda’s bed. Not for a moment. One night, about a week after the surgery, Lynda became intensely ill. The house started spinning so badly that she felt sure she was dying. Terrified, she cried to her daughter for help. Cookie stared at Lynda, then looked at Jennifer, then stared at Lynda. She meowed a new meow—urgent and unsure. Instead of calling the hospital, Jennifer called her grandparents, who rushed over. But as Lynda’s mother approached the bed, Cookie jumped up and screamed at her. Lynda’s mother sat down on the bed; Cookie hissed and spat until she retreated, afraid Cookie would bite her. Cookie stood where Lynda’s mother had been sitting and spat and hissed even more. Her beloved Lynda was in trouble. Nobody was coming near her, Cookie had decided, nobody but her daughter and her cat.

It was only a case of severe vertigo, caused by the manipulation of Lynda’s spine during surgery, but it changed Lynda and Cookie’s relationship forever. I suppose change isn’t the right word, because I don’t think Cookie’s attitude changed that much. Revealed might be a better word, because for the first time, Lynda understood the depth of Cookie’s love. Yes, Cookie knew everything about her and did everything she could to make her happy. Yes, Cookie literally worried herself sick over her friend’s health. But that night, Lynda saw sacrifice. She saw that when it came to protecting her, Cookie didn’t worry about herself. She would suffer any harm to defend her friend.

After that night, Cookie’s love was insatiable. She lay beside her when Lynda was in bed; she sat beside her when Lynda sat up; she walked beside her when Lynda was finally able to stand. As part of the recuperation, Lynda sat in a hip chair, which was tall and straight like a baby’s high chair. Cookie learned to climb onto the back of the sofa, then onto the hip chair, then into Lynda’s lap. She would sit there all day. Reluctantly, Lynda would have to ask her mother or daughter to take Cookie away because the weight was too much for her recovering spine.

Even after her friend recovered, Cookie didn’t relax. Lynda could barely read a book because her cat insisted on sitting on top of it. She couldn’t open the door without Cookie running in front of her and trying to prevent her from leaving. Cookie never liked television. When Lynda had watched it before, Cookie wandered in and out of the room, sitting for a moment, then jumping up, agitated. Now she sat on the sofa with Lynda and watched. If Lynda wanted to lie down, she had to make room so Cookie could stretch out on top of her head. At exactly 10:00 P.M., Cookie would get up from the sofa, stand in front of the television, and meow.

The first night, Lynda was shocked. “Cookie,” she said, “what’s the matter with you?”

Cookie walked out of the room. Thinking something was wrong, Lynda followed. Cookie went straight to the bed. Lynda looked all over, but couldn’t find anything wrong. Eventually, she went back to the living room. Cookie came in screaming and led her back to the bed. It took Lynda a while to realize there wasn’t anything wrong. Cookie had simply decided it was time for the two of them to go to bed. From that night on, unless there was something special, bedtime in the Caira house was 10:00 P.M. Cookie insisted on it.

Not that there was much sleeping. Cookie was a bundle of nerves in the bed, climbing all over Lynda, playing with her feet, walking around on her pillow. She rubbed her nose on Lynda’s lips, her cheek, her nose, anywhere on her face she could reach. When Lynda turned off the light and closed her eyes, Cookie waited a minute and then ran a paw across her face. If Lynda didn’t respond, Cookie bent down and pried her eyelid back with her paw.

“Honey, I’m alive,” Lynda would tell her softly, closing her eyes.