Dewey's Nine Lives

But he did. Marshmallow won, of course. He wiggled and scratched so ferociously and for so long that we finally gave up and left him alone with his tangles. Marshmallow may have been slow and arthritic, but he was still the boss. That was obvious. When Marshmallow entered a room, Steven’s huge Labrador, Molly (a real man’s dog most of the time!) would almost bow to him. Molly wasn’t scared; it was more an unspoken respect for this wise old cat. After a dozen years of outdoor living, Marshmallow had that aura about him. He was a survivor. A bad boy. A cool cat. He may have been retired, but he was still the Don. He was content to sit all day under a house plant by the front door, hardly moving, but we weren’t fooled. Marshmallow knew—and approved—everything that went down in our house.

Like my jogging, for instance. With hard work and a loving husband (and my unbelievable cat, of course!), I had conquered my eating disorder. I had even turned the experience to my advantage, using it to reach and teach my learning-disabled teens and young adults. (Do you understand now why I felt so blessed to have gained weight, on purpose, to compete in a higher division of the marathon? And why my husband—and even my father—had tears in their eyes as they cheered me on? I mean, I might have only finished third, but . . . I won! Forever.) I’m not sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take care of my body. I eat well, and I jog every day. Molly learned that last part fast. Every morning, she practically chased me to the front door with her leash jangling in her mouth. While I laced up my shoes and Molly worked herself into a frenzy, complete with flying slobber, Marshmallow lay under his plant watching us. Like the Godfather, he didn’t have to talk; everyone knew what he was thinking. The only reason I’m letting you go out with her, dog, is because I’m too old. One day, dog, you may be called upon to return this favor I now give to you.

When Molly and I left, Marshmallow hauled himself to the top of the sofa, where he could watch for us out the front window. When we returned, he always lumbered down to the floor and watched me stretch. This time, he would talk, talk, talk. That was a great thing about Marshmallow. No matter how old and tired, he never stopped talking to me.

After two years, he even taught Molly to find her voice. She started with a whimper, like an old door opening on squeaky hinges. Then she added a rumbling ah-rer, ah-rer, ah-rer, like a weed whacker straining through a pile of thick brush. I came home for lunch every afternoon, and the three of us would sit in my kitchen, chatting away.

“How was your morning, guys?”

Meow.

Ah-rer.

“Yeah, my day’s going pretty well, too.”

Me-oww.

“It’s the usual, peanut butter and jelly.”

Ah-rer-rer.

“No, you can’t have any.”

Meow, meow. Me-oww.

Ah-rrreerrrrr.

“Oh no,” my husband said, when he realized what was happening. “Not the dog, too.”

A few years later, I got pregnant. “I buy food for that cat,” my husband grumbled, when he found out a pregnant woman shouldn’t clean a litter box. “I clean up his vomit. Now I scoop his poops. And all he does is ignore me. Why can’t he be more like Molly?”

Yeah, whatever, Marshmallow sighed, lifting his head for a moment and then drifting back to sleep under his beloved plant.

I will always cherish, until the moment I die, the night I went into labor with my son Luke. There is an interminable stretch of time, on the edge of motherhood, when it’s too soon to go to the hospital and too uncomfortable and exhilarating to relax. So I paced the living room, fighting the tightening in my belly and trying to focus on my breathing. By this time, Marshmallow was sixteen years old. He had lived with Steven and me for four years. He was stiff, arthritic, and nearly deaf. I hadn’t seen him move from under his plant, except for food or his litter box, in more than a year. But he got up that evening and walked with me. He always came to my side when I was sick, but this was different. Marshmallow walked with me every step for two hours, meowing the whole time. Molly, hunkered down near the sofa, eventually added her voice, ah-rer, ah-rer, meow, meow, breathe, breathe, meow, until the room echoed with sound. And love. Uninhibited, animal love. I was having a conversation with my two pets, while walking in labor on my swollen, calloused feet, and I couldn’t have been happier. I couldn’t have wished for better support.