Hanging with my bud.

The very day after I e-published The Demon of Histlewick Downs (a tale of a young man’s quest to rescue his parents) in July of 2014, our much-loved 25-pound lynx point Nero passed. Within the month, my wife Genelle moved from California for a year to test drive a faculty position at the University of Kansas, while I stayed behind to ready the house for potential sale. Loss of my two constant companions was rough, but I kept busy–we’d been in the house for 13 years, with all the attendant deferred maintenance that implies.

When Genelle came to visit at Christmas, I happened across a small orange tabby sunning himself on a tin shed roof within arm’s length of our backyard wall. Thinking Genelle could use a cat fix, I invited him over. He was a slip of a thing, no more than ten pounds–but he seemed starved more for affection than for food. Still hurting from our loss, we were happy to oblige.

From that day, the Orange Cat was a regular visitor. He’d pound on the front door in the morning and I’d invite him in for a bowl of milk before work. He’d be back for more when I got home. On weekends, he’d often spend the whole day with me–sometimes binge-watching Netflix on my lap, other times directing the house repairs. Come evening I’d tell him he had to return to his family. If it was chilly, I’d get a disappointed hiss–it was the only time he wasn’t upbeat, curious, and well-behaved. He loved our bed’s white feather comforter, and anytime he wasn’t with me, I knew to find him there. I’d go move him, patiently explaining that outdoor “kittehs” (that’s catspeak) who roll in dirt were not permitted there. He’d rowr and move onto some other exploit (at least, until I wasn’t looking). 

The gift.

When it came time to sell the house, his routine was firmly in place, though there were occasional surprises. One morning he pounded on the door, mewling with particular excitement. On the way to the car, I learned why–he’d brought me a nice plump rat, which he’d displayed in the very center of the front courtyard. He beamed with pride as he posed near his prize. Presuming a “thank you” would suffice, I hopped in the car and headed to work. Of course, the rat would be gone by the time I returned at 6, right? Turns out I’d misunderstood. He was still waiting for me beside that rat when I returned 9 hours later–apparently, it wasn’t merely a trophy rat, it was an eating rat. When I demurred again, he shrugged, and ate it himself.

One day I came back from work to find him sitting squarely on the dining room table, posing smugly next to the flowers I set out for house-staging purposes. I still have no idea how he got in–whether I forgot to let him out, or if he darted in when the realtor showed the property.  Whatever he did, it worked–the family shown the house that day bought it. I may never know whether he wooed them with his personal charm, or whether he simply bribed them all with rats.

Showing the house.

By May 2015, we were caught up in the whirlwind that is packing for a cross-country move, and we still didn’t know to whom the Orange Kitteh belonged. By then, Genelle had discovered the reason he scratched so much–he was covered with fleas. It finally dawned on us that perhaps he was actually a stray. We bought a collar and put it on him with a note with our phone number and directions to call. Someone actually called that day and left a message–to the effect it wasn’t his cat. Odd, right? The next morning, our buddy returned with a brand new collar. We were disappointed, but resigned–clearly His Orangeness belonged to someone after all–though we still had no idea who. We braced ourselves for farewell.

Two days before the move, we were out in front packing up when a lady walked by, her two leashed puppies in tow. She spied our little buddy and called out to him.  “Linus, want to go for a walk?”

“So,” I said. “This is your cat!”

“No, she said, “It’s not my cat.”

“Well, then, whose is he?”

Turns out, she had replaced his collar. She hadn’t known who we were, but had wanted us to know someone was looking out for him. Linus had once belonged to this lady’s neighbors, but when they got dogs, they and Linus didn’t get along, and Linus was turned out. Now on his own, he set about wandering the neighborhood, making a broad network of friends who provided food, temporary lodging, and occasional de-worming tablets. His new friends helped out when they could, but were unable to adopt him because they already had multiple pets of their own.

“Would anyone mind if we were to take him with us?”

“He’s been on his own for seven years–we’ll be sad, but he needs a forever home.”

With only one day to spare, Genelle dropped what she was doing and hauled him to the vet. After seven years homeless, the fleas were his only health issue. We adopted him on the spot, and rechristened him “Reshi.”

On moving day, folks from the neighborhood dropped by–some we’d never met–to say their fond farewells. More showed for Reshi than for us.

Yes, he is all that. And if he hadn’t taken that time to win our hearts, we might never have realized just how much we needed rescuing.

Moving Day.

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