Featured Image Credit: My cat, drawing by Theodore Blake Wegman
T
rue Confession: I married a man who co-opted my cat and stole my identity as a writer. Darcy, who had earned his nickname for his aristocratic airs, at first refused to sit on my pristine linen couch, saying it was “redolent of dander.” Then when my wizened Maine Coon leapt up on the bed, he hissed at her like an Old Tom, decreeing that when we lived together, there would be no cats.
Part Bigfoot and part Coyote, Zoe had tangled with rattlesnakes, faced down a beaver and been hit by a gravel truck. After the vet put her back together, she followed me to San Francisco, where she slipped out the bathroom window, leaping from one rooftop to another in the evening fog.
Over the years, this cat had seen me through a host of book deadlines and there was no way I was about to give her up. So before I agreed to move in with Darcy, I built a separate studio on the back of his garage. I even made a sleeping alcove where I could curl up with the cat and a good book, but all this planning was for naught. Zoe expired on moving day, just as the van arrived. Darcy was going to be too much trouble so she skipped through her ninth life and walked straight into the Beyond.
When I got to the new house, I kept looking down, expecting to find Zoe’s familiar shadow at my feet.
What is a writer without a writer’s cat? A word-witch without her familiar? Without Zoe, I couldn’t work, and worse, I had no idea how to be. I missed her tranquilizing purr and her quirky “meh-meh-meh,” the cat equivalent of “What, what, what?”
The reason I was at a loss? I was half-cat myself. Raised with kittens in lieu of siblings, I’d made them the center of my life—playing the piano for them, dressing them up in doll clothes, telling them my favorite stories. Over time, I developed a weird psychic bond with them, chatting away in Mewish, like some Tolkien fanatic who’d mastered the secret language of the Elves.
When I couldn’t bear my catless state another day, I went online searching for the hypoallergenic kind. The hairless ones wouldn’t do—they looked like starving rats. But then I discovered the distant cousins of the Maine Coon. Siberians had fur like two-ply cashmere and produced no sneeze-producing dander. So I made an appointment with a local breeder and plunked Darcy down in the middle of the room. He sat there in a state of wonder as twelve-week-old kittens climbed on his shirt, nestled in the pocket of his sweater, and balanced on his knees. A surprised smile spread across his face. This time there was no rash, no wheeze, and no itchy eyes. We put down a deposit and secured our place on a waitlist for the next litter. I wanted a male and I’d even picked out a name for him: Hermes, after the Greek god of invention who developed the alphabet.
But Darcy grew impatient. A breeder in Atlanta had posted a photo of a small gray kitten ready for adoption right away. Her white-gloved paws were crossed coquettishly, her head tilted to show off her golden eyes, and she was posing for the camera like a practiced debutante. Darcy took one look and fell hopelessly in love. Once so anti-cat, this man was now so smitten I was sure he’d feed her caviar and deck her condo out in Chintz. When he flew cross country to pick her up, the unthinkable happened. He took her out of her carrier, settled her on his lap, and offered his right thumb as a pacifier. By the time they landed back in California, she was, irrefutably, Darcy’s Cat.
Our new kitten, Sophie, used my husband’s body like a tree, climbing up his cords and nubby sweater, settling on his shoulders, then wrapping her tail around his head like a fur hat. For naps, she favored the bookcase closest to his desk, chewing on the spine of the Oxford English Dictionary (Volume A-L), and draped herself over his easy chair. Now in possession of a writers’ cat, Darcy produced three historical novels in quick succession and that’s how I discovered this age-old truth: He who has the cat writes the books.
Holy smokes!!! What an adorable share, dear Valerie! And what an incredible storytelling!!! 💙
I was smiling most of the time, giggled when read the story of the 25 adopted Sam, and couldn’t help but get very upset and cry for that furry left by ger owner…
And your adventure with your Sophie eventually creating your magical bond had the power to sooth my soul!
So very well done! 👏💎👏
Valerie, I enjoyed this very much. Although I don’t have a cat, I have many of good friends that do and will pass this on. Blessings!