Live Free: Cat’s in the Cradle

Charlie, awake and ready for mischief.

The cat’s in the cradle. OK, we don’t have a cradle. But the cat’s in a wicker basket full of dirty laundry. He’s atop a pile of precious vinyl records. He’s inside a mesh pet carrier that nearly killed him when he got himself twisted in one of its handles.

That’s because he’s not a cat. He’s a kitten. And kittens are crazy.

Charlie arrived at our home nine weeks after he was born and only a couple of weeks after we said goodbye to our 14-year-old cat, Lincoln, who had a tumor that was robbing him of his ability to breathe.

My wife and I hadn’t planned to adopt another pet so fast, but when Jeannie learned a friend had kittens who needed a home, she couldn’t help but respond, even while she was deeply grieving her precious Bubba Goose.

Her friend’s daughter visited with three kittens for us to meet. Charlie, a Siamese with a bobtail — a fancy name for a stub — won the audition after falling asleep in my arms, Jeannie’s arms and on one of our living room chairs. We would soon learn to appreciate every moment he is asleep.

Charlie slept with us in our bed the first couple of nights. He did OK until the morning light starting peeking into our bedroom, then our fabric-covered headboard became his giant scratching post. I’ve adjusted to getting up for the day at 5:20, though I’m still working on weaning him from nipping at my feet while I try to make a cup of coffee. I’m not fast enough with a spray bottle of water that early in the morning.

I don’t get much accomplished for at least the first half-hour of the day, though I’m pretty good at wielding a cat streamer toy with one hand and sipping coffee with the other. Whenever I wonder how long this routine is going to last — I could be working out at the gym right now — I remember how brief it will be, an accelerated version of watching an infant evolve from drinking milk from a bottle to pedaling a tricycle. 

Lincoln and I had a similar routine. As an adult cat, his morning ritual was following me into the kitchen, where I would spoon out some wet cat food for him, usually before I had a chance to make my coffee. Often, he would wander into the living room, returning to eat only after I had left the kitchen. He liked to dine alone. Lincoln, party of one.

Lincoln, AKA Mr. President, cozy in a sandal.

While he would spend some time with me, rolling over on his back to be rubbed, after a few minutes, he’d scamper back upstairs. There he would sleep with Jeannie, who’d let him curl up near her despite her dander allergy.

My stepdaughter, Lauren, brought Lincoln home as a kitten, naming him after the New Hampshire town home to Loon Mountain Resort, where she and her now-husband, AJ, love to snowboard.

We had dozens of names for Lincoln. I called him Mr. President and, for short while, Kit Romney. (It’s a nonpartisan thing: Charlie right now is Joe Bitin’.) Everyone in our neighborhood knew Lincoln’s real name, thanks to his frequent escapes from our backyard, where our “indoor” cat would hang with us on the grass, showing no signs of fleeing under the fence unless we left him alone for a moment. Then we would be wandering around the block calling after him, though he almost always ended up in the same place, hiding under our neighbor’s backyard shed, out of reach.

We’re holding onto those memories as we make new ones with Charlie, conscious of how much time we’re spending with him, just as we are with our children and grandchildren.

The time to have a good time is now.