The Story of Charlie

 

Charlies at four weeks,
when he was rescued
After years of both Christianand me saying, “No more cats,” a kitten lives in the family room in the mainhouse. Jordan was visiting at a neighbor’s lake house, and the two of themfound an apparently feral kitten, probably about four weeks old. Far too youngto survive on its own. They brought it inside, gave it milk, and decided toco-parent. There was no sign of the momma, though in later days they did seeother kittens. None were as lucky as Charlie to be adopted.

Since Christian really didn’twant a cat and since they already had Cricket, the remaining Cavalier Spaniel,the kitten went to live with the neighbors. Jordan made regular trips to feed,play, and love. When the kitten was about ten weeks old, the neighbors decidedit was time for it to be an outdoor cat. Even I, not particularly a cat lover,know that the survival statistics for outdoor cats are pretty grim: an averagelife span of three years as opposed to fifteen or more for an indoor cat. Atten weeks, the poor thing was doomed, and Jordan of course couldn’t stand that.I’ll never know what she said to Christian, but the kitten, still unnamed, cameto live in our compound.

The first order of businesswas to find the kitten a name. Charlie seemed to fit, for whatever reason. Fornow, he periodically gets the run of the house but for the most part isconfined to the family room, an add-on that sprawls across the back of thehouse. Jordan spends time loving on him, playing with him, and so on. Jacob,who has a perfectly good bed in his adjacent bedroom, chooses to sleep on thewrap-around couch in the family room—and then complains the kitten wakes himup. When he’s past kitten stage, Charlie will have the run of the house.Charlie at three months

A bit of an explanation here:Jordan has always loved kittens. Me, not so much, though I had one cat, WynonaJudley (commonly known as Wywy) that I adored. Christian says he had catsgrowing up, but I think his first real experience came with the cat Jordanbought ($5 at a pet store) when she was in middle school. Pardon my French butGraffiti was the cat from hell. She peed everywhere, in obvious defiance—sometimesright in front of you. I spent hundreds of dollars reupholstering furniture andeven then our house smelled of cat pee. When I found myself living alone withGraffiti and Wywy I banished Grafitti to the guest house, which was empty, soshe lived alone; Jordan came to visit, and I made her pay a monthly fee for thea/c to keep the cat cool (give me credit: I was trying to teach responsibility).I was also honestly at the end of my cat rope. Graffiti ended her long lifeliving in the bathroom in Jordan and Christian’s first apartment. She died onenight where she was happiest: sleeping on the floor next to Jordan. The detailsof what ensued after her death are hilarious, a story for another time. Butthat background is why I was not enthusiastic about a kitten, and I was amazedthat Christian acquiesced as easily as he did. I think that boy really loves mydaughter.

Charlie has been once to thecottage, a complicated maneuver in which Christian kept Sophie in the house.Sophie has demonstrated, in various veterinary trips, that she hates cats, andI see no reason to bring him out here again. Sophie knows where he is, and itbugs her. Jordan has put paper across the lower panels of the windows in theback door, but that’s an exercise in futility. The vet tells us Sophie isblind, so it’s not vision that tells her a cat is in there. It’s instinct,hearing, and smell. Some days I can see Charlie from my desk, sitting in thewindow, surveying that world he cannot be part of. Once I saw him stalkingSophie.

I suspect Charlie will outlastme as a resident of the Alter/Burton compound. And that’s okay with me. I wishhim no harm. I’m just not intrigued. But I have to redeem myself with the manycat lovers among my friends: I absolutely adored Wywy, the cat Jamie found as akitten abandoned on a roadside in Minnesota (do not ask what he was doingthere). For the first year of his life, we thought he was female; after the vetcorrected us (another hilarious story), Wywy lived a life of gender confusion.Today’s aggressive Christians would have had a field day had they known of histransition. We like to believe Wywy was part Maine Coon—he was big, with afluffy gray coat and a wonderful full tail. But beyond that he was sweet andaffectionate, and I loved him dearly. Wywy was helped over the Rainbow Bridgeat the age of nineteen, when he was truly miserable and trying to sneak off tothe back of a closet to die. He holds a special place in my heart yet.Wywy on my desk, ready to help me work

I am ambivalent about Charlie.I’ll never feel about him the way I did about Wywy, but Charlie and I haven’tcrossed paths much and probably won’t. Meantime he makes Jordan happy. Sheloves him. Who am I to quibble. You know what? He’s kind of cute when he staresout the window. I think he’s looking straight at me and trying to win me over.