Eight Misbehavin'

I wonder if he knows it's his birthday tomorrow (Friday). I wonder if it really is his birthday. All I knew about him was that he came from a house where there were too many cats, and he was about 12 weeks old.

It was between him and another cat. He kept staring at me. What do you want? It was the same stare I used to give my mother when she asked questions for which I had no answer. The black and white was sweet. But this one, this brown tabby--it was bashert.

They packed him up in an old dog biscuit box--they were out of cat carriers. On the drive home he cried, so I opened the box to pet him. Then he was in my lap, head in the steering wheel, what have I gotten myself into? And then he's asleep, curled up in a ball. My first real pet. 2 1/2 pounds.

What was I doing with a cat? I was supposed to go to Great Adventure that weekend. I was on medical leave from work. Who knew if I'd ever go back? What a stupid thing to do.

I had no idea what to do with him. Growing up, most of my friends with pets had dogs--dogs I coveted and dreamed about. I didn't really know what to do with a cat. I playfully knocked him over with my hand. He pounced.

Patti, my friend with cats, came over. She told me I'd gotten a good one. I was so happy. She left, and he started wandering around crying. I called her frantic. What do I do with this thing? Play with him, she said. Head tickles. Bribing him with Fancy Feast. I went to sleep alone. When I woke up the next morning, he was laying on the couch, watching me, pensive, not sure if I was a good thing or a bad thing.

He was almost Ethan, for the contestant on Survivor who wound up winning. I was trying to think of a better name. But Wendell was already in the mix, and Patti called and said, "I discussed it with my mother, and he's just Wendell." And so he was.

My parents, already worried about me, were wary about the idea of me having something else to take care of, something else to pay for. They came bearing gifts like wisemen to Jesus. They couldn't believe how tiny and cute he was.

That night, I went to sleep alone again. When I woke up in the middle of the night, he was next to me. He owned me now.

My therapist told me it was a great idea and wonders why he didn't think of it first. Something to keep my company, to make me happy. Something to focus on.

We went to the vet. I was so proud. Negative for Feline Leukemia and FIV.

I worried. I worried that he had anthrax when he rolled around with the Land's End catalog. (This was fall of 2001, after all.) He got an upper respiratory infection. He saw kittens on TV and went running towards the screen. Should he have a brother or sister? I can't afford a brother or sister.

I haven't always done right by him. My apartment has been too messy. I wish I could afford a cat inhaler for his asthma. I'm sorry he ate the piece of plastic that had to be surgically removed. Sometimes I've been so depressed I want nothing to do with him.

We share tuna and turkey and chicken and steak and whatever I'm eating that was once alive. And corn. He loves corn.

I wrap presents and he helps by diving into the wrapping paper as soon as I've unrolled it.

He likes to sleep with one leg higher than the rest of his body. It's one of those little things that makes him Wendell.

He waits for me at the door. I scoop him up in my arms when I come home from work and he purrs. He stands at the sink demanding it be turned on, and I oblige. He won't shut up if I don't.

He slaps me in the face to wake me up. Sometimes it's 4 in the morning. Sometimes he just wants me to walk him to his food dish. It's a one bedroom apartment. I am indeed owned. He rubs his head all over me. He chases bubbles and plays soccer with his jingly balls and invented a game with his catnip toys where he sits on them for a few seconds before really letting them have it.

We are the interspecies napping champions of the world.

No more fangs; gone. Gum disease. A little too much flab. He sits between me and the laptop. It makes it hard to type. Also to breathe, since I am allergic to him.

The cat sitter calls him a beautiful, sweet boy. I beam.

Sometimes I cry. Wendell prefers this to my singing showtunes.

Sometimes I wonder what I got myself into. The money. The worrying. The incessant meows. Someday, he will die. Is the sadness worth it? I think it must be. The price of love, loss.

Happy 8th birthday, Wendell, AKA Baby Boy, Stinky Pete, Itchy Cunningham. I hope you've been happy here. I love you, little guy.