Kritique Kritics

The cat is the only animal which accepts the comforts but rejects the bondage of domesticity.
~Georges Louis Leclerc de Buffon

In 1998, I moved into my first home. It was an incredibly exciting day despite the relentless summer heat and the long string of crazy snafus that are typical of moving days. When I purchased the house nestled on a quiet cul-de-sac, I thought I would be the only tenant, save for the three felines I called friends. The move was not even finished when I discovered that was definitely not the case.

Taking a break, I collapsed on the stairs of the small deck that served as my new front porch and gulped water. To my surprise, a thick-chested tomcat sauntered out from under the deck. Looking at my sweat-drenched form, he announced quite loudly that watching me haul all of those boxes had made him hungry. When could he expect dinner to be served? I already had three furry mouths to feed; a fourth was not on the agenda.

He pled his case while eyeing me warily and keeping his distance. This brown tabby tomcat clearly meant business. I acquiesced, but when I stood to do his bidding, he scrambled under the deck with the breathtaking quickness displayed by ferals who do not grow up around people.

When I reappeared on the deck with a bowl of dry food and started down the stairs, the tomcat hissed at me, then growled. He moved back under the deck and cried at me until I set the bowl down on the front walk beside the deck and backed away. Studying me like a cop sizing up a suspect, my visitor edged over and began munching cautiously. His eyes never wavered from me more than a few seconds. I kept my distance and, after setting out a bowl of water, left him to his meal.

We quickly fell into a pattern of him squawking at me most mornings until I proffered a bit of food. Our relationship was tenuous. We were fine when I was quietly sitting or far enough away to pose no threat. When in close proximity, we were both cautious of each other’s next move. I named my boarder Toby and we continued the dance of uncertain friendship for a bit.

Then one day, he was gone and I dearly missed him. A couple of months later he sauntered back into my life. My home became Toby’s bed and breakfast; he occupied his “room” beneath the deck when not away on adventures.

During his visits, we continued the odd dance. I slowly positioned his food bowl closer and closer to the front door until, after a couple of years, he was eating on the edge of the deck. It took nearly five years before we’d grown to trust each other enough for him to approach my outstretched fingers. After sniffing them, he lurched forward, causing me to quickly withdraw my hand, my heart thumping a million miles an hour.

Toby gave me a quizzical look like he thought I was nuts. After repeating this scenario several times, I realized he was not being aggressive, he was head-butting my hand — a sign of affection, albeit an odd one.

When a fire burned my home, I was away from the place for nearly six months while it was rebuilt. A few weeks after I returned, I was greeted one morning by Toby’s familiar guttural greeting. If you have ever encountered an old friend after a long time apart and within a few minutes joked and laughed just like you were never parted, then you know what our reunion was like. Toby and I slipped back into that familiar pattern of a meal every morning when he summoned me to the front porch.

One afternoon, I returned from work, and Toby greeted me with a loud and persistent request for dinner. I reminded Toby that he ate in the morning. He objected and we argued for awhile — suffice it to say he wore me down. When I set the plate down and backed away, Toby swaggered over to the dish, sniffed it, then ambled to a spot about a foot and a half away and settled down.

“I don’t get it,” I chided my old friend. “You asked me for food and when I give it to you, you just sniff it and go sit down? You’re getting awfully picky in your old age, aren’t you?” While Toby meowed me a lengthy explanation, I could not figure out why he would do such a thing unless he just had no appreciation for my menu selection.

That’s when I spotted a tiny gray-whiskered nose skittishly nearing the plate of food. Silently I watched. Another tiny muzzle appeared, then another and another. Stunned I watched as a mother and five kittens scarfed up the food, and then scampered back under the deck for safety.

“Well, well, well.” I was enthralled. Mama was a striking bicolor shorthair cat — deep Russian blue coloring contrasting with a dramatic white tummy, feet and a blaze up her nose. The kittens were even more dazzling. Their fur was long and silky and their coloring unique in its patterns. With vivid blue eyes that crossed in varying degrees, the kittens clearly had some Siamese in their lineage. I would come to discover they were Snowshoe kittens, each more beautiful than the next.

My relationship with Toby changed that day, perhaps because of my newfound respect for this husky tomcat, who begged for food to feed a mother and her kittens, then settled nearby to protect them while they ate. Our friendship grew until I was finally able to pet his forehead with the tips of my fingers. One morning not too long after his rescue of the kittens, I went out on the deck and called for the tomcat. Toby didn’t respond for a bit.

When I finally heard that grumbling meow, I spotted him limping through the ivy. He was covered in blood and appeared to be in terrible pain. I was not at all sure Toby would let me tend to him. That day I promised the old guy that if he would let me take him to the vet, he could retire to a life of luxury in the house. Battle-scarred and one-eyed now, he lives mostly in a bedroom suite where he even allows me to stroke the soft white fur on his belly when he’s in the right mood — a feat that took nearly a decade to achieve. Though he no longer comes and goes as he once did, my gentleman caller Toby dotes on his kittens who cuddle around him. He remains a quirky and protective friend.

Developing a friendship with Toby over such a long time taught me that trust is a precious and tenuous thing. Trust, or the lack thereof, defines the relationships that we have, whether they are positive, uplifting connections or filled with uncertainty and pain. Toby taught me that trust is something that takes time to grow, but it is truly worth the effort.