Cats

When I was in elementary school and middle school, one of my classmates always had a big family of cat in her home and my friends and I would often stop by after school to play with them. I especially loved the newborns who looked so fragile and the teenage cats who looked innocent as well as troublemaking. I liked to tease them with table tennis balls (by the way, like many pupils in those years, I carried a table tennis bat and a pack of balls in my backpack most of the time). I threw the balls directly to their tiny paws and they would pat on the balls with one quick, flat strike which would shoot the balls to an unpredicted direction. I had wished to have one of them at home to play with. Each time a cat mom gave birth, my friend would give some newborns to whoever wanted to adopt. I begged my parents a few time to adopt one and was never permitted. They said playing with a pet was one thing, however, raising him and taking care of him was another. They did not think I was ready, which was probably true.

 

Two summers earlier, my son’s friend, who lived a few blocks down the street, asked if my son would be kind enough to take care of his cat while his family went away on vacation, which my son agreed. Once a day, my son would bike to his house, open the door to let the cat out for a while, and then chase her back to the house before leaving. One day he stayed longer than other times. He told me later that, thinking the cat must have wanted to have a company for a while, he stayed there with the cat cuddled on his lap for half an hour, running his palm along her soft fur, feeling very responsible as well as relaxed.