An
Event that occurs early in a person’s life often helps to explain
an emphasis or theme in their lifestyle. This is the story of the cat
that brought the magic of feline companionship into my life.
On
Sundays if my sister and I were lucky, we visited Grandpa’s house.
He lived in a typical New Jersey urban dwelling, back to back with
similar homes and a small backyard almost entirely devoted to a
flourishing semitropical garden.
My
grandfather, who always had a twinkle in his eye, called me over to
his garden one day. “Come here, there’s something I want to show
you.” I followed him into the back of his garden. He stopped and
told me to be very quiet. There beyond the fence at the rear of his
garden I could see a whole litter of tiny kittens frolicking and
chasing each other. I was thrilled. I had always loved kittens,
like any self-respecting 7 year old. My family had had cats on and
off throughout my young life. “Want one?” asked my grandfather,
suppressing a chuckle. My eyes were as big as saucers and when I
answered with a big “yessss!” the kittens all scampered and hid
underneath a pile of wood.
“How
will we catch one?”I asked tremulously. I already knew how fast
they could run. Grandpa, a man of few words said “come!” and we
crept up to the fence. He leaned over and slowly removed the top
branches of the woodpile which was right on the other side of the
fence. Finally a furry mass of kittens could be seen in the middle
of the woodpile. They were all grey tabbies, huddled so tightly
together that I could not tell where one kitten ended and the next
began. My grandfather picked me up so I could reach all the way
down and pull out a kitten. I grabbed the rump end of a screaming
squalling ball of fur into a box which my grandpa had conveniently
placed near the fence.
I
was in heaven as my father took us home that night. I carried the
box on my lap ever so carefully. Once safely home, we cautiously
opened the box. To my surprise, instead of a wildcat there was this
tiny frightened kitten huddled in the corner of the box. He had a
pink nose and a white muzzle and 4 perfect little white booties. I
named him Figaro which I felt was a perfect name for such a marvelous
creature. (Later he developed a liking for a new brand of cat food
that just happened to have the same name!)
My
mother instructed me to fill a newpaper-lined box with dirt. Figaro
used it that night and never had an accident in his entire life.
Figaro
grew and grew. He was never an exceptionally friendly cat and did not
like to be held. Not having been handled in his infancy, he had
never entirely bonded to humans. He was loyal and responsive to me
though, and was so aware of my feelings that he would suddenly become
lovable when he found me crying in my bed.
In
those days cats roamed freely outside and neutering was not even
considered for male cats. We were quite poor and in our
neighborhood, mice were a real problem. Figaro became such a good
mouser that my mother would actually loan him out to friends in need;
Figaro always got his mouse.
At
maturity, Figaro spanned 36 inches from nose to tail tip and weighed
12 pounds. One of his most memorable tricks was his method of
procuring treats. He’d stand on his hind legs and impatiently
scratch the metal table top until we gave him some of our dinner.
His favorite food was shrimp and he would perform for anyone. A
sure way to fetch him would be to break an egg. At the sound he would
dash into the kitchen from anywhere. He was an aggressive fighter,
constantly coming home with new battle scars. One day he showed up
with a bloody ear that remained stiff for the rest of his life.
Some
years passed and mother decided we should get out of New Jersey . It
was time to move to California and seek our fortune there. Since
she had never appreciated Figaro’s growly disposition or his
frequent abscesses that usually drained on her nice dining room
chairs, our mother decided to leave him behind. We would give him a
good “country” home. A friend, Mrs Brown, already had a cat and
a dog, and didn’t mind taking care of Figaro. So one day we left
him at her house in Lake Hiawatha.
Soon
after we left my beloved cat behind, his new owner wrote to say that
he was dead. That was the end, and I grieved this loss for a long
time. We stayed in California from June until November but when
things did not work out, mother got her old job back and we returned
to Lake Hiawatha, about 2 miles from Mrs. Brown’s.
The
following spring, I came home from school and was wandering around
the house. Like most normal teenagers, I gravitated to the bathroom
to take residence there. For no particular reason, I climbed up on
top of the toilet seat and stood there, looking out the window. To
my surprise, directly in front of me about 60 feet away I could see a
large grey tabby walking through a neighbor’s yard. I called out
“FIGARO!!” and the cat looked up at me!
Laughing
and crying, I flew down the stairs and ran out the door and up to
where I had seen him. I called him softly and he warily approached
me. It WAS Figaro. He looked terrible, his coat was dull and he was
quite thin. I kept coaxing him until I was close enough to grab him.
He didn’t fight. He growled softly as I carried him back to the
house, but he never struggled. I put him into a walk-in closet with
food and water and sat there with him - - overjoyed at my long lost
friend’s return.
Mother
came home later and couldn’t believe it was the same cat. But look
here, his paralyzed ear, and here, this scar. She finally became
convinced when he reacted to an egg being cracked in the kitchen when
he came running just as he had always done, mother was in tears.
Mrs Brown finally admitted that Figaro had run away the first day she
had him and had not returned.
Mother
had brought a little black Persian from California. Now that we had
two male cats, she took them both to the vet to be neutered, so they
would not fight. At the same time the veterinarian gave us some
medication for an infection in Figaro’s mouth.
Of
course I favored Figaro and personally fed him daily, canned cat food
with an egg on the top. Since our reunion, he did not like to stay
in the house (probably because of the competition) so I gave him what
affection I could at feeding time or out on the porch where he liked
to bask in the sun. Figaro lived for about a year after his return.
He gradually developed a ravenous appetite (and I fed him more) but
he finally died one night from what in retrospect, I believe was the
result of a severe worm infestation – probably heart failure. In
our total ignorance, we had not wormed him in years or even suspected
that he might be wormy. (Nor did the veterinarian!) I found him
curled up in his bed on the porch, he had obviously died very
peacefully.
Almost
20 years later, I am crying as I write this. Poor Figaro suffered
needlessly because of our ignorance. Sometimes knowledge comes to us
at great cost. I will always be indebted to this great cat and will
continually be repaying his memory with care for my present and
future cats and keeping myself and others informed about cat care.
Written
circa 1984 by Mimi Torchia Boothby
