Published: November 19, 2008 11:58 pm            

What the cat hair have I gotten into?

Our cat came to us by way of the city dump. Someone had tossed this precious ball of yellow fluff out with the garbage. His tiny body was riddled with fleas and his ears full of mites. But he had a lusty cry and quite a will to live. The boys quickly dubbed him “Terminator.”

Still too young to be away from his mama, he drank from a pet nurser, wrapped in a blanket, every couple of hours for his first two weeks in our house. I’m sure he would have been surprised to find out he was a cat, since he obviously considered himself just another Peck boy. Our youngest son, Tristan, who was nine at the time, spent a good two weeks sitting on the back of the sofa trying to keep away from that hurtling, tumbling bundle of fur and claws that was Terminator!

He grew to be a big, beautiful blonde with pale green eyes and the sweetest of natures. Easy going and friendly, he was the official greeter for all who came into his home. He only ever didn’t care for one or two folks, and frankly, I didn’t care much for them either!

He was by no means flawless. When he felt the need to throw up, it was usually down the back of a chair or in someone’s shoe. During his teen years, he fell in love with a sock monkey to the point of embarrassment - ours, not his. And of course, we never went anywhere without cat hair as part of our attire.

And as they joined our household, he grew to accept and love our two rambunctious female labs who adored him snuggling with him for naps and always allowing him to have the first drink from the communal water bowl.

Then, just short of his 17th birthday, he got sick. He had developed diabetes, had some fluid in his lungs, an enlarged heart and some spine issues. Over the next few months with the help of Dr. Joyce Yauk, we tried to make him as comfortable as possible, knowing all along we were just postponing the inevitable. His ashes now rest in a little tin next to those of his best friend, our lab, Murphy Brown.

We barely had time to properly grieve when our son, Sean, called with an urgent request. Turns out our grandson, Spencer, is highly allergic to cats and they desperately needed someone to take their cat, Winnie. I kind of remembered, in a moment of sympathy and weakness, I said I would take Winnie should the need arise. I was just hoping the need would never arise. Winnie and I have history. She hated me. For no good reason, that gritchy, witchy feline had always treated me like something someone brought in on the bottom of their shoe.

I tried to say no, I really did. Shouldn’t your kids be inheriting stuff from you, not the other way around? But I knew they really needed me to take her.

My boss, Karen, has a lot of nifty expressions, and one of her favorites is, “What in the cat hair?” Those were my thoughts exactly when it took Winnie three days to come out from under my bed. And when she did, she plopped herself down on my pillow and proceeded to hiss at me every time I moved.

After a few weeks, we began to let her have the run of the house. Since she’d never lived with a dog, she developed a quick and easy relationship with our remaining, Maestro. She even started letting me pet her and had softened her glare to something of a mild stare. Brushing her was going pretty well, as long as I stopped before she bit me to let me know she was done.

Much as I hated to admit it, Winnie was growing on me. She’d never be Terminator. No way. (Though I do admire the way she spends about 10 minutes covering her business in the litter box as opposed to Terminator who thought covering was for sissies.) She’s less companionably easy-going and more grittily opinionated. Kind of like me.

My friend, Janie, says the thing that made Terminator special was he always had a smile on his face. It took Winnie one month, three weeks and two days, but when I cautiously crawled into bed beside her last night, expecting the usual glare and gritch, I heard a familiar soft purring behind the tiniest of grins.



Peck is a local mother and grandmother who works in Enid Public Schools. She can be reached at peckaroonie@yahoo.com.