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Authors: Jennifer Basye Sander
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already in decline, and the sheer numbers of kneecaps and laps simply overwhelmed him.
On the day Geri and I carried him to the vet for his final injection, it was we who were anxious—upset and tearful. Weheld and caressed him; as he sensed and yielded to the phenobarbital, he regarded us one last time with that calm, transcendent gaze. “Don’t grieve for me,” he seemed to say. “It was a good run, but it’s time for my karma to be reborn.”
Good boy, Frank.
Little Orange
Trina Drotar
I first saw the cat one late spring evening, and he seemed to say, “I’m here, and if you can spare a bite to eat, I’d be most appreciative.” Of course, he didn’t speak those words. In fact, he didn’t meow or purr or make any other sound.
When I returned with a bowl of food, he stepped left into the hydrangeas and camellias. I waited for him to approach. He waited for me to leave. I went back inside and peeked at him through the peephole. He sat and ate without greed.
He returned several times, usually in the evening, over the next few weeks, and we formed a sort of dance. He always led. I’d step out, squat and speak to him before extending my hand. He’d take one step back, always remaining just out of arm’s reach.
I’d check each evening for Little Orange, calling his name, even though I wasn’t sure that he knew he had a name, much less what it was. I’d walk to the sidewalk, searching for him;I’d sneak peeks through the front door peephole; and I’d even check the backyard. Days passed. I was called out of town for two weeks. The caretaker didn’t spot Little Orange.
Days and weeks passed, and then one sunny morning, when I pulled the blinds in the living room, I saw him sunning himself in the backyard. “Little Orange,” I yelled. I placed some food and water on the back patio. We danced. We kept that appropriate distance. He spent the better part of the day in the backyard, first in the grass, then under the azaleas near the fence. It was much cooler there, in the dirt, under the shade of the evergreens, the red maple and the Japanese maple. He left sometime before dinner.
I looked daily for him. Scanned both yards, looked up and down the street, called his name. I peered from behind curtains and through the peephole, but there was no sign of Little Orange. That was nearly two months ago.
About two weeks ago, on a Monday morning, when I was headed to the store, I saw an orange/yellow presence on the back patio. I ran to the door. The cat was limping, favoring the left side of his body. He was thin, much thinner than the cat I had danced with. I opened the door and went to him, forgetting that we’d never actually had physical contact. He turned his dirty head and hissed, but he didn’t run. I backed up, told him he was safe, and assured him that I’d return with food and water.
He hissed as I placed the bowls on the cement. He hissed again as I backed up. He wobbled to the bowls. He didn’t sit to eat, as he’d done before. He stood. I also stood as I watched himeat all the kibble in the dish. I stood as he drank from the water bowl. I wept. Where had he been these past months?
“I need a towel and the cat carrier,” I said.
I waited until Little Orange had finished drinking before I approached with the towel. I figured that I’d wrap the towel around him in case he tried to bite or scratch. Just then, another stray entered the yard and a chase ensued. I screamed. I cried. I chased both cats. The other cat had been friendly toward me and had a companion, but I was worried about Little Orange.
Thinking they had both jumped the privacy fence, I ran to the front. One cat. Not Little Orange. I went back through the house to the backyard and spotted him. He ran with all that he had, hobbling and favoring that left side. He leapt at the back fence. I knew we’d lose him if he crossed it. He clung to the top, unable, or as I’d prefer to think, unwilling, to pull his body up and over. I
On the day Geri and I carried him to the vet for his final injection, it was we who were anxious—upset and tearful. Weheld and caressed him; as he sensed and yielded to the phenobarbital, he regarded us one last time with that calm, transcendent gaze. “Don’t grieve for me,” he seemed to say. “It was a good run, but it’s time for my karma to be reborn.”
Good boy, Frank.
Little Orange
Trina Drotar
I first saw the cat one late spring evening, and he seemed to say, “I’m here, and if you can spare a bite to eat, I’d be most appreciative.” Of course, he didn’t speak those words. In fact, he didn’t meow or purr or make any other sound.
When I returned with a bowl of food, he stepped left into the hydrangeas and camellias. I waited for him to approach. He waited for me to leave. I went back inside and peeked at him through the peephole. He sat and ate without greed.
He returned several times, usually in the evening, over the next few weeks, and we formed a sort of dance. He always led. I’d step out, squat and speak to him before extending my hand. He’d take one step back, always remaining just out of arm’s reach.
I’d check each evening for Little Orange, calling his name, even though I wasn’t sure that he knew he had a name, much less what it was. I’d walk to the sidewalk, searching for him;I’d sneak peeks through the front door peephole; and I’d even check the backyard. Days passed. I was called out of town for two weeks. The caretaker didn’t spot Little Orange.
Days and weeks passed, and then one sunny morning, when I pulled the blinds in the living room, I saw him sunning himself in the backyard. “Little Orange,” I yelled. I placed some food and water on the back patio. We danced. We kept that appropriate distance. He spent the better part of the day in the backyard, first in the grass, then under the azaleas near the fence. It was much cooler there, in the dirt, under the shade of the evergreens, the red maple and the Japanese maple. He left sometime before dinner.
I looked daily for him. Scanned both yards, looked up and down the street, called his name. I peered from behind curtains and through the peephole, but there was no sign of Little Orange. That was nearly two months ago.
About two weeks ago, on a Monday morning, when I was headed to the store, I saw an orange/yellow presence on the back patio. I ran to the door. The cat was limping, favoring the left side of his body. He was thin, much thinner than the cat I had danced with. I opened the door and went to him, forgetting that we’d never actually had physical contact. He turned his dirty head and hissed, but he didn’t run. I backed up, told him he was safe, and assured him that I’d return with food and water.
He hissed as I placed the bowls on the cement. He hissed again as I backed up. He wobbled to the bowls. He didn’t sit to eat, as he’d done before. He stood. I also stood as I watched himeat all the kibble in the dish. I stood as he drank from the water bowl. I wept. Where had he been these past months?
“I need a towel and the cat carrier,” I said.
I waited until Little Orange had finished drinking before I approached with the towel. I figured that I’d wrap the towel around him in case he tried to bite or scratch. Just then, another stray entered the yard and a chase ensued. I screamed. I cried. I chased both cats. The other cat had been friendly toward me and had a companion, but I was worried about Little Orange.
Thinking they had both jumped the privacy fence, I ran to the front. One cat. Not Little Orange. I went back through the house to the backyard and spotted him. He ran with all that he had, hobbling and favoring that left side. He leapt at the back fence. I knew we’d lose him if he crossed it. He clung to the top, unable, or as I’d prefer to think, unwilling, to pull his body up and over. I
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