DAD AND HIS CAT

**In 2005, I and all three of my adult children and my 2 grandsons (had only 2 at that time) traveled to the US to visit my family. It was the last time that I saw my father. Strange intuition-when we parted at the airport as I was preparing to board the plane back to Saudi Arabia, could hardly look my father in his eyes. And he had similar reaction. Seemed to be that we were on the same brain wavelength-had this terribly strong intuition that I would never see him again. And it turned out to be true.

During our visit, I was terribly struck with my father's newly adopted pet...or the cat that adopted him, you might say. So struck that I ended up writing about him and his cat. I was terribly pleased that I was able to get this piece done and sent to him to read before he died in 2007. He did read it, and he enjoyed it.

And so, I invite you also to read and enjoy. Envision my father as he is described.

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DAD AND HIS CAT

My Dad never was a cat person. At least that's the way that we kids remember our youth. There was this resident family dog-a stray that was most likely part golden Labrador-that as family tradition has it, began her life with the family somewhere about the time I entered into the picture. As for me, I'm the youngest in the brood consisting of four-three girls and one boy. And although Lady was the family dog-she and I developed quite a close relationship-seeing as how the others grew up and moved away from home in search of their own niches in life. She needed some companionship, and since there were no other brothers or sisters left at home for me to bother, we clinged onto one another with a naturally balanced pull. She died-or we all supposed because she just wandered off one day never to return-at a ripe old age for a dog of something like 17 years.

Mom and Dad, out of their loving and caring duty as parents, replaced Lady with a completely different type of dog. But it was me, at that funky and finicky teenage, who eventually left home and the responsibilities of that dog-leaving Mom and Dad to shoulder that burden.

The memories of my childhood and Lady brings with it memories of a stray cat that adopted us for a year or so. She had something like two litters in a year, each litter consisting of 8-10 kittens. I was truly thrilled with the cat and her kittens. But not Dad. One of his more strong rules was that the cat and her kittens were not allowed into the house. It was something of miraculous nature that she was allotted a box in a corner of the garage, and not literally kicked out in the street. Although Lady's domain was the garage as well, she did not get scolded as the cat did if she or any of her pups wandered inside the house from time to time. And although she was a dog, she was remarkably patient and understanding of the cat taking up residence as well.

Mom was never objecting to either the cat nor the dog. And she didn't even seem to mind if they wandered into the house from time to time. Her only request with respect to the animals was that they don't stay in the house. Their place of residence was outside. She had enough to take care of with us four youngsters plus her ever-changing shifts as a nurse in the maternity ward at the local hospital. She didn't need the excess stress of trying to potty train a cat and dog and cleaning up their messes. Something that I can fully understand and sympathize with now that I am a full grown woman, wife, and mother.

But it was Dad who was always so objectionable to the cats. That is what rings in so clearly with all the memories. And that is what makes all the more recent developments so strange and even amusing.

I live quite a far distance from Mom and Dad now. On the other side of the world-to be more exact. And the circumstances of life have prevented me from more frequent yearly visits. But we do keep up to date on each other through the other various forms of communication.

One of the more recent tidbits of news was that a second stray cat had adopted them. To be more precise, this second cat adopted Dad! A year or so previously, a cat had adopted them-but she apparently was more inclined towards Mom. Because of her coat's coloring-mostly black with white paws-they named her 'Bootsie'. And then came along 'Blondie'-this new stray that adopted Dad.

As I said-Dad never was a cat person. I don't think he ever really hated cats-or any other animal, for that matter. But he was never attracted by their charms. He was just as aloof in respect to the cats, as are the cats themselves aloof and finicky in general.

So Blondie must have done a real heavy trick to get Dad to respond to her in such a fashion.

On my last visit to them a couple of years ago, I found myself just gawking in amused awe and exchanging secret memory-filled looks with my brother and sisters when we would witness the intense and loving exchange between Dad and Blondie. Looks that only we siblings could possibly know the meaning of. We were all reliving those memories from our childhoods through those looks.

Because Bootsie and Blondie don't get along too well when confined inside together-Mom and Dad have agreed to designate separate sections of their house to each, and rotating their outdoor excursion times, in attempt at preventing the literal cat fights. And no matter what they do to prevent their intermingling and eventual fights, it still happens from time to time. The most predictable result is a terrified Bootsie hiding under the bed with the triumphant Blondie perched nearby, to ensure that her opponent is weakened, frightened, and in hiding.

The most amazing and amusing scene was to see Blondie- obviously feeling rejected from Dad's not noticing her and sitting with her-come raise her paw at the glass door beside Dad's reclining chair. He had been pre-occupied by his visitors from Saudi Arabia, and so had forgotten about his normal sitting time with her. And Blondie, out of her need for his company and attention, and her own impatience to be able to wait any longer for him to realize this on his own, took it upon herself to come and call him out to the porch.

The inside of the house enclosure was Bootsie's domain. She seemed to be older, and had problems with a hyper-thyroid, and needed the relief that air-conditioning provides her in the sub-tropical climate of central Florida. Blondie was the newcomer-they weren't even sure yet how long she would stay-and she was obviously more inclined towards the outside and even did her fair share of hunting. So, because of this, Blondie was assigned the screened-in (non-air-conditioned) porch area-from where she also had quicker access to getting outside.

Now, picture this if you will-here we are at mid-day, in the mid-summer heat of July, and my almost 80-yr-old father is responding to the beck and call of a cat, to sit with it on his lap-first putting a towel on his legs to catch the shedding blonde hairs. My Dad who could hardly tolerate a cat in a box in the garage out of his sight. Petting this cat, talking to her ever so softly, using endearing names for her, even singing or humming to her-enduring the sweat and the heat all in the goal of comforting her heart-to know that her adopted human Dad still loves her, even though he's now busy with his little girl visiting from far away.

We all seem to mellow out and change with age. Amazing-even amusing sometimes-what those changes are.