Macavity

"Stand back! Let me handle this." He moved forward assertively.

"No!" I cried. "You don't know about these things. You'll get hurt!"

"Don't be scared," he said. "I'll have this taken care of in no time. Look, it's just a flitty little thing. Lots of fun to play with." He jumped up and batted at it. It buzzed at the screen and swooped down at my hero, who promptly scampered behind the couch.

"It's a hornet, you see, Macavity. They sting."

His head popped out from the corner of the couch. "You won't let him get me, will you?"

This is what I love about Macavity. He's a take-charge kind of cat, but he's not afraid to show his vulnerabilities. And he doesn't see or acknowledge any contradictions in his reactions to changing circumstances.

What am I doing with a cat? I'm not, or so I once thought, a cat person. A little over ten years ago, I happened to be walking through the library when I overheard Paulette say to Cyndi, "And if we can't find anyone to take him, we'll have to take him to the pound." I could have just shrugged and moved on. Why didn't I? Too late to ponder "what might have been" now.

I stopped and asked. Paulette explained that her husband had discovered a mother with her litter living in the wood pile in their backyard. They had been bringing plates of food out, but a few days later the family had disappeared--except for one little ginger and white head poking out from the wood pile. Paulette's cat had feline AIDS, so they couldn't bring the kitten inside. They kept feeding it in the backyard, but the weather was turning colder, so they knew they had to find a home for him or take him to the pound.

The impulse erupted--I have no rational explanation. Bring him in, I said, and introduce us, and I'll take him home and try to live with him. I spent the next few days scurrying around buying litter and kitten food, and Paulette said she'd lend me her carrier until I got one.

Not at all sure this would work, I told Paulette if it didn't work out I'd find him a home--my step-daughter runs her own personal rescue league and will take all strays. She married a man of similar sensibilties, and now they and my two grandchildren have a dog, three or four cats, a gecko, and some other amphibian thingy.

The morning Paulette brought the kitten into the library I was quite nervous--animals pick up on all sorts of feelings, I'd heard, and he would sniff out my reluctance and uncertainty. Not to worry! He had the situation well in hand. He greeted me with a purr that sounded like an over-flying jet, sniffed and batted at my hand, and gave me that wide-eyed, I'm-so-frightened-won't-you-help-me kitten look.

Thus conquered, I took him home, where he easily established himself as Lord of All He Surveyed. He loves to supervise my work, especially the changing of the sheets, which ripple invitingly when they're shaken out.

His behavior is quite admirable: He's prudently wary, approaching anything unfamiliar with caution. He won't be coaxed into doing something he doesn't want to do, and guilt is a foreign concept to him. He expresses his needs openly and without manipulation, making it plain that he wants to cuddle, be petted, or play.

I often wonder what happened to the rest of that litter. The mother abandoned him, the vet told me, because she judged that he was least likely to survive. Ten years and going strong. The twist of fate that brought him into my life was not a cruel one--it saved him, and gave me an endlessly entertaining companion.

Having read this (he really is precocious), he tells me to write not "companion," but "friend." Then he commands me to get away from that computer and take up my book, so he can settle comfortably in my lap.

Be right there, Macavity my friend.