I don't really recall exactly how old I was when I was struck with cat fever. Probably around about that age when other little girls started loving horses and unicorns. Not me. I wanted a cat so badly I would pretend to be one. Friends grew exasperated when we would play Star Wars or Hide and Seek or Checkers and I would declare, "I'll be the cat."
My parents are caring and wonderful people. I want to establish this early so that you will forgive them for what happens next. One day, after ages and ages of begging and insisting I would only drink milk from a bowl, they agreed to get me a cat. Not just any cat, a kitten. Perfectly snow white from nose to tail with one big blue eye and one green one.
He was perfect. We named him Buttons and the moment I heard him purr I was in love. I finally had a cat of my very own and I was in heaven. Ooo, his wee paws, his wee nose.
My parents were in hell.
Little blue-eyed Buttons was deaf, you see, and so none of the regular training (essentially shouting "Don't climb that! Don't pee there! GET OFF THE CURTAINS!") was working. My mother's newly refinished furniture, shredded. The living room curtains, shredded. Every last ounce of my parents' not inconsiderable patience, shredded.
Finally, it was all too much. I know they struggled with the decision, one they did not take lightly, so I am certain it was with relief but also great sadness that they bundled Buttons and I into the back of our little red VW Rabbit, drove back to the farm they had adopted him from, pried him from my tiny fingers, stuffed him out the window and left in a spray of gravel and my heartbroken tears.
It was one of those difficult decisions that parents must make for the greater good of the family. Buttons really was a very difficult cat to train, especially for people who had never trained a cat before. I was sad for a long time, but my parents knew eventually I would move on and I did. I eventually forgot about playing the cat in every game, learned to climb trees and began pretending to be a bird.
That's not where the story ends.
You see, less than a year later, and not that long after my little broken heart had mended, came Christmas. I would like to reiterate that my parents are decent people. Really. So I have no explanation why, on Christmas morning, they handed me a small package and watched closely while I unwrapped... a photo of the very cat they had forcibly ripped from my arms, but not from my heart, never my heart, earlier in the year.
As psychological scars go I have to tell you, that one took three different types of the wrong boy to heal.
If the rest of the family is snickering at this, or tutting to each other at this tragic tale, then ask yourselves why each and every one of you felt it was necessary to shower me with cat figurines and stuffed cats and adorable little kitten play sets for the next 12 tormented years.
I am not attempting to start a new Mother's Day/Dad's Birthday tradition by airing grievances. I hoped to remind everyone that not every childhood memory is a Hallmark moment, not every parental decision works out as they hoped and not every child is easy to parent. I know my mom and dad pulled out their hair in frustration, stayed up nights wondering what to do about me, and still loved me as hard as they could. I love them, too.
This is your day, Mom and Dad. It's yours to share, together. I hope it's wonderful.
