“I’m sorry.”
I hear this from my wife now and then. Usually it involves a cat.
What she’s really saying is, “I’m sorry we cannot have a cat.”
She is sincere. She would like to have a cat. I think the dog would like it also, until he learned how cats operate.
We can have dogs. But no cats. It’s all about her allergies. I’m not talking about the sniffles. I saw it happen once. Once was enough.
We probably were visiting a friend. A friend with a cat. And cats leave their little dander everywhere. That’s little dried flakes of skin. (Don’t think about it.)
Long story short, her eyes felt itchy. She rubbed them with her fingers. Just a little. But big mistake.
It’s hard to describe what evolved. Rather quickly. What transpired was full moon scary.
The kindest way I can put this is that my beautiful wife transformed into a sci-fi creature.
I was surprised. I cannot recall what I said, but I’m hoping it was something gentle. Like, “Oh, my.”
One thing became very clear. There would be no cats in our house. Ever.
“I’m sorry.” (I know, dear.)
I’ve had dogs throughout my whole life. Loved them all. My attachment to cats goes back to my teen years, living at home.
When Mom brought a kitten home one day, it was a nice surprise. (You cannot look at a kitten and not melt a little.)
We soon learned that Mom had made a deal with a friend who was a cat breeder. Siamese cats.
(Quick online search finds: “One of the most affectionate breeds you will ever encounter.”)
The breeder gave us a kitten with the understanding that we would let that kitten have a litter that would go to the breeder. But we also got to keep one kitten from that litter.
My mom did this three times, which meant we eventually had three generations in our house.
We named that first kitten Ming Ling. Eventually we had one of Ming’s daughters and then one of Ming’s granddaughters.
Beautiful cats with blue eyes. My strongest attachment was with Ming.
Now let me tell you a story about Ming ... and that attachment. (This is a fun story and honestly, it’s why I’m going on about cats.)
So ... Ming slept in my bedroom. It was the same each night. She’d jump on the bed and burrow under the covers. She went all the way down to my bare toes and slept there.
Apparently breathing was not a problem … nor my teenager feet.
I can’t recall if she was there when I woke in the morning for school. Probably not. I suspect she shot out if she heard Mom moving around in the kitchen.
But she started every night down by my toes.
Well, in keeping with Mom’s deal, Ming reached that time when she was going to be a momma cat very soon. She and her bellyful of kittens still slept by my toes.
My mom set up a little bed area on the floor of a hallway linen closet. It would be perfect for Ming to have her babies and care for them.
Ming agreed. That’s where she had her babies. And she stayed close to them. She was a good mom.
So I was surprised when she jumped on my bed one night and scooted under the covers all the way down to my toes.
I began to wonder about her kittens left alone, but then Ming suddenly crawled out and jumped off the bed.
“OK,” I thought. She’s going to check on the babes. But then I felt this warm, furry ball still down by my toes. About the time I figured out what Ming had done, she was back on the bed, under the covers and down by the toes.
And then out again. Back to the closet. And now there were two fur piles under the covers.
I admit, I was getting into it. I thought it was pretty cool. But Mom did not.
She noticed Ming going back and forth and started taking the kittens back to the closet. For a short while she and Ming were crossing paths.
Again, I thought it was funny. Mom didn’t.
Ming lost that skirmish. Mom got all the kittens tucked back into the closet. Then closed my bedroom door.
Yeah, I miss that little cat. But now I have a great dog, who also enjoys the bed. Not under the covers, though.
In fact, each night I maneuver around his hulking 80ish pounds. To find a safe place. For my toes.
LONNY CAIN, retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa, also was a reporter for The Herald-News in Joliet in the 1970s. Email lonnyjcain@gmail.com or mail The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.