Dewey's Nine Lives

When I brought Luke home, Marshmallow surprised me again. He moved out from under his plant and started sleeping under my son’s bed. When Luke was in the living room, Marshmallow shambled in and sat by his carrier. People told me, “You have to be careful with a cat. They will pounce on a baby’s chest.”

I thought, Marshmallow? Are you kidding me? He wouldn’t hurt Luke. And even if he wanted to . . . have you looked at that cat? He’s seventeen years old. He can barely walk. He hasn’t pounced since I was in high school.

After Luke’s birth, Marshmallow’s health continued to decline. Five years after our move to Sioux City, he stopped being able to walk to his litter box. He couldn’t climb up or down stairs. Some days, he could barely make it to his food dish, and he suddenly seemed forgetful. There were times when, I was sure, the Godfather had no idea where he was. Arthritis had twisted every joint in his legs. His hearing was gone. His face was a mess. I knew he was in pain. And I didn’t need a veterinarian to tell me it was time. It wasn’t a hard decision. Not at all. At ten years old, I had watched my grandfather eaten away, in great pain, day after day. Marshmallow was such a good buddy. I couldn’t let a friend of mine suffer.

I took a day off from work. I turned off the television. I held my infant son on my hip, so that I could lift Marshmallow into the center of my lap. As I petted him, I watched the loose hair float up into the streaming sunlight and settle over everything, even my sweater. “Mawshmawow,” I said to my infant son in baby talk, imitating that little child from so long ago. “This is Mawshmawow. Wemember him.”

I looked from my son to my cat to the sunlight shining through the window, still thick with fur. My window. My house. My adult world. The room was quiet, except for a gentle purring. Even at seventeen, Marshmallow was kneading his claws into my leg. I felt the slight pain, and I smiled. A sad day, but a sweet moment, sitting on the sofa with the ones I loved.

I opened my photo album. There I was in a purple zippy wind jacket with my straggly hair, the little girl I used to be. Marshmallow was just a kitten, and I was holding him up to the camera. I was so proud of him. You could see it in my face. I was so proud. It was just a Polaroid, it was starting to fade, but you could see the happiness in my face. We didn’t own a Polaroid camera, so our neighbor, Katherine, must have taken the picture. She was an older lady. She loved Marshmallow. She watched us from her window, or when she was gardening, and I’m sure she heard our conversations, too. I’m sure she heard my parents arguing, and my sister and I beating out our fear on each other. She took the picture and gave it to me, I’m sure, because I was just a little girl, and I was so proud of my cat.

I flipped the pages. There were pictures of me and Marshmallow buried in the leaves. Me and Marshmallow in the backyard. There was a section with nothing but me, in a series of formal dresses, holding Marshmallow. I took a picture with Marshmallow, I remembered, before every school dance I ever attended. Me and Marshmallow lying on our blanket in the sun. Me and Marshmallow when I graduated from high school. Me in my wedding dress, smiling, holding my cat. “Mom,” I remembered saying over and over again throughout the years. “Go get the camera, Mom. I want a picture with Marshmallow.”

It’s hard for me to think about that day. I’m sorry, you probably think I’m weird, but it’s hard. I won’t talk about his death. I just can’t. Because I miss him. Even fifteen years later, I miss my Marshmallow. But there was so much joy in his life. So much joy. He was with me from ten years old to twenty-seven, and it was an awe-some journey. I wouldn’t be where I am today without it, so I count it as a blessing. Obviously. Even the bad parts were a blessing. I mean, how many people get seventeen years with an animal, you know? How many people ever get to experience that kind of love?

EIGHT

Church Cat

“Words cannot express how much the book Dewey meant to me. . . . We adopted a stray cat at our church many years ago: ‘Church Cat’! She was pregnant and when her babies came, members adopted them. Then a collection of funds got her to the vet to be spayed. She lived in the church until we had major renovations and I took her home.”