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FOUNDER’S LETTER
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Having dogs and cats works just fine. No question, the cats are in charge. OF CATS AND CHARACTERS
October means Halloween. I don’t have to be reminded that kids love it (some 150 of them ring our doorbell), or about witches (I’ve met a few), and certainly not about black cats. I have one—a now-famous one named Annie because her furry face appeared on “Missing” posters all over Riverside and the internet this summer. Lovely neighbors rallied to my cry, along with dozens of landscapers, construction workers, mailmen, UPS drivers and Animal Control personnel. Then, lo and behold, three weeks later, Annie knocked (well, scratched) at the back door, meowing loudly—thinner, dusted with what looked like dandruff, collar frayed but very happy to be home.
Cats have never gotten enough credit, except from the ancient Egyptians. I like all animals, really—especially the kind you can hug. That rules out snakes, snapping turtles, frogs and porcupines, but they also have their fans—like Mr. Arden at Country Day, who had this huge frog he’d hide under a flowerpot on his desk on Parents' Night. When he lifted the pot and the thing raised itself up onto its hind legs, I witnessed one mother run for the exit.
Growing up, we were told we weren’t allowed cats in our apartment in Cleveland. In truth, my father hated them (I never understood why). My mother gave up that fight after one of us kids brought home a stray who proceeded to have a litter in the living room, and she had to make an emergency call to the ASPCA to come get them.
All I ever asked Santa to bring me for Christmas was a kitten. In fact, the story goes that when I was little, a woman asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, and I told her I wanted to run a cathouse. (I never did live that one down.) So when Jack proposed to me, I told him there were three things I wanted in life besides him: a piano, a fireplace and a kitten. And he came through.
My first cat was named Sybil. She was marmalade color, exceptionally bright, and had something very Greek prophetess about her. She would sit on my shoulder as I drove down Shaker Boulevard, look both ways at stop signs, sashay up the front path into my mother’s building, get into the elevator, ride up to the second floor, walk into the apartment and stretch out on top of the lavender velvet Louis Seize couch with the gold fleur-de-lis. She knew she was beautiful.
Sybil’s life with us was short. She got hit by a car and didn’t make it. But the wise old father of a friend of mine had forewarned me: “Once you start getting pets, you’re going to cry a lot of tears over a lot of little graves. But they’re worth it.” He was right.
Next came Tina Marie, a longhaired gray that was unbelievably patient with children. One morning I found wee Jonathan in his Dr. Denton’s sitting on the silver lid of a big crystal punch bowl in a corner of the dining room. Inside, eyeing me wistfully, was Tina Marie. When
she would deign to sit beside our two-year-old daughter, Audrey was ecstatic. “Look, Mommy,” she’d say. “Tina’s purring on me!”
And on it went. From Nancy and Bob Lane we got a kitten we called Toughie, until we discovered it was a female, so we pronounced it Toofee. Then there was Titty, Rutabaga and, oh yes, Brute, a little black one that our golden retriever Charlie, feeling paternal, liked to carry around in his mouth.
Having dogs and cats works just fine. No question, the cats are in charge. Even with their bowls brimming with Alpo, our goldens refused to step into the kitchen until the cats finished their meals.
Vincent, the seven-pound black-and-white Tuxedo cat Jonathan brought home from college, made history. “Skinny Vinny” lived to be twenty-three, the oldest cat our vet Steve Zeide had ever cared for. He even survived our house fire. We saw him run out the front door and thought he was safe; but after making the final sweep of the house, a fireman emerged carrying Vinny, his nose covered with a tiny oxygen mask. He had been spooked by the commotion outside and had run back in to hide under his favorite chair upstairs in our bedroom. This, we were told, is unfortunately pretty common among pets and children.
How did Vinny manage to live so long? Dr. Zeide said it was because he was so thin and adaptable. Being neither, I guess I’ll die young.
Annie used to have a brother, Amos, who was very courageous. Once we saw him chase a huge red fox out of our backyard to protect his sister hiding under a bush. That’s almost up there with the cats we saw at the Moscow circus jumping through hoops of fire.
Amos was Jack’s nanny cat. They did everything together—take naps, read the paper, greet guests, everything. Amos would even hitch a ride on the seat of Jack’s walker and enjoy being pushed around the house. Then they went to heaven almost at the same time, so now it’s just us girls.
Cats deserve to be celebrated. In London, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical CATS ran for twenty-one years, and in New York it became the second-longest-running show on Broadway. Agile actors costumed as cats stunned the audience by pussyfooting their way along balcony rails, and during intermission everyone was invited onstage to have Old Deuteronomy autograph their programs.
We were seated with friends up in the mezzanine, but by the time we worked our way down to the stage, lo and behold, Jack was already there! He’d slid down a chute the actors used from the balcony and almost landed in Old Deut’s lap.
Anyway, I say: Here’s to cats! They deserve some ink as well as gratitude for the pleasure so many of them have given to so many of us. G
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