Cattitude

By Beth Yarbrough

My grandmother had a cat named Topsy. He had come and gone long before I was born, but stories of him were still very much alive in our repertoire of family tales. They said he used to drape himself across her shoulders and the two of them would walk in the garden, Nana conversing with him along the way, with Topsy answering her in the only language he possessed. The bond that they shared was strong enough to survive well past his life-span. He lived large in her memories.

My own true feline love was named Tylenol. Ashley rescued him from the pound the summer after her high school graduation so that she would have a companion in her new apartment at college, but after the second weekend trip home with her, he politely refused to get back in the car. She has sheltered and loved many cats of her own since then, but that was the day that Tylenol made his choice.

For the next 16 years, he became mine, and I most certainly became his. Tylenol was a huge tom cat with gorgeous black and white markings that classified him as a “masked Tuxedo”. For frame of reference, the terra cotta pot in the photo above is two feet across. As beautiful as he was, however, his personality sealed the deal.

He was a great big no-nonsense alpha cat, laid back, secure in his own skin, with an attitude for miles. And while there was not a mean bone in his body, you did not want to mess with him or any of his tribe.

When my daughter found an abandoned puppy by the side of the road on Christmas morning and brought him home (do you see a pattern with her?), Tylenol became his protector. Even after the “puppy” grew into a giant (he was a sweet mutt with traces of Husky and Saint Bernard and we named him Harley), Tylenol remained on duty.

There was one memorable family cookout when my son brought his (very large) dog. All had been peaceful during the afternoon until the dog made a wrong move toward Harley. Before any of us were barely aware, Tylenol had already assessed and was airborne, landing on the dog’s back with claws extended on all four paws. It was a sight to behold.

On another occasion, a friend of my husband’s pulled into the driveway for a quick chat. With the family pooch on his lap, he was startled when Tylenol jumped onto the hood of his car and began glaring into the front windshield. “Don’t worry”, he reassured my husband, “my dog won’t hurt him.”

“It’s not my cat I’m worried about” said Joe, “it’s your dog. You’d better roll that window up.”

I could belabor this post with endless such tales - there was that time my mother-in-law carelessly and unceremoniously swept him off his favorite chair so that she could sit down. We still laugh about the cold hard stare she received in return that lasted a full minute before he turned and walked away in a huff. And while she was off the hook that day, she was never off his list after that.

These days there are two cats in residence - one named Mickey, who presented herself as a kitten in distress, living in a hollow of one of our big oaks - and another named Jack, also rescued as a kitten when my daughter discovered him in a ditch, barely a week old. (Okay, yes, she has a soft spot.) Mickey and Jack are not best friends, but they have forged an uneasy truce, deciding between themselves to divide our property into two distinct territories with specific boundary lines that are not to be crossed. Jack ignores them, but when Mickey accidentally strays, there is hell to pay.

And while I love them both, they never have been, and never will be the singular love of my life that was Tylenol. The day that he died still brings me to tears, even though he left us twelve years ago. On a walk through the garden this morning, I passed by the large hunk of granite that sits atop his grave at the edge of my hydrangea bed. There are days when I sense his presence there, sitting on top of the big rock, still watching over me and the rest of our motley bunch.

Some cats are immortal. I’m forever grateful that one of them chose me.