The Cat in the Window by Callie Smith Grant

Author:Callie Smith Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: PET003000, NAT024000, REL036000, Cats—Anecdotes, Cat owners—Anecdotes, Human-animal relationships—Anecdotes
ISBN: 9781441244468
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2013-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

About a Boy

Alison Hodgson

Booooooy! Booooooy!” I called, standing at the very edge of the porch peering into the dark. It was not unusual for our cat to take an evening stroll, but it was raining and I was five months pregnant—exhausted—ready to turn in. I strained to hear the sound of him crashing through the shrubs and his friendly yowl that was his standard greeting. Nothing. This was the third time I had come down and called for him. I didn’t like going to bed without Boy safely inside, but I assured myself he would be on the porch in the morning—indignant, but safe.

But he wasn’t there in the morning. I called and called some more. Nothing. We needed to leave for work. Where could he be? He would be back when I returned, surely.

He wasn’t.

I called the Humane Society. No cat matching Boy’s description: male, large—enormous, really—long-haired Siamese with tiger markings on his belly. Since they didn’t have anyone matching the minor distinctions, I didn’t bother going into the major ones: his intelligence, vocal range, and great personality, engaged and engaging.

Boy’s origin was the stuff of great literature: His mother, a seal point Himalayan (half Persian, half Siamese, with light brown fur and dark brown markings), a very fancy breed, fell on hard times and became a stray. My family lived in a clearing in the woods, and one day this raggedy little cat came walking up the drive. My sister, Torey, who was seven, took her in and named her Tess.

With a large wart on her head and a tail exposed at the end, the cartilage resembling a stick, Tessie was an unlikely heroine. She was a good, sweet girl, and—like many mothers in history—a mere conduit of greatness.

Right before her veterinary appointment to deal with the wart and the tail and to be spayed, she got out and mated with what we have to assume was a massive tiger cat.

The four kittens (two male, two female) were a gorgeous mix of both. One of the males and one of the females resembled Tess, but the male was big from the start, and as he grew, the distinct tiger stripes developed on his belly. Torey named them Girl and Boy respectively. The other male was big, like his brother, but silvery-gray, blue point Himalayan, and we appropriately named him Frosty. The other female was all black and named accurately (if inappropriately), Blackie.

“We are not keeping any of them,” my father said.

My mother was picky about who took the kittens but quickly found homes for Girl, Frosty, and Blackie with family and friends long before they were ready to be parted from Tess.

In the meantime, Torey reveled in them. It was early summer, so they played together all day outside. I will never forget her running around the grass in the middle of our circle drive, long blond hair flying and shining in the sun, the kittens following in a single line, like something out of a storybook.

Once they were weaned, Torey had a little feeding ritual.

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