cats to dogs: love stories

Going through old files and photos today, I came upon this essay written a decade ago. A colleague read it and thought it would be a great piece for the NY Times Modern Love column, and an editor I knew helped me to shape it expressly for that purpose. Sadly, along with many thousands of other entries it was rejected. Still, it's one of my favorite pieces (and I think, better than most of their columns).  It's also a reminder of a time and place far removed from what that swatch of New York has become, and of where my life is now. That's why it's important to share our stories, so we don't forget these things.

Anyone who has known me for the past 9 years or less only knows me as a dog person when the fact is I had far more years with its frequent nemesis.  Here's one of each: two special friends and how I met them.

Desperately Seeking Todd

We met only once for about ten minutes but I’ve thought of you often since then. I responded to a flyer you had posted on a telephone pole on 8th Avenue and 20th Street, a hand-scrawled note that said, Cat needs good home.  At the time I was living on West 14th Street in a studio apartment with my cat Ginger, just the two of us on a stretch of city street that the word gritty seems to have been invented to define: discount electronics and clothing stores lined the block, if you could see them behind the stream of shoppers and passengers disgorging from the subway stop on either corner.  

Still, at the time it was a perfect home, a place from which I could go out and explore the city right outside my window. The only problem was that Ginger was left alone a lot. So your sign spoke to me, seeming to offer a solution of companionship. I’d never answered an ad before, and I didn’t have the slightest idea of what I was supposed to ask you. 

“Umm, What’s he like? Is he nice? Handsome?”  

“He’s an excellent cat!” you assured me with such a strong and unwavering tone that with just that one word description I trusted you, a complete stranger, enough to come to your apartment. 

You told me his story and yours, a classic city tale of love and real estate: you were living in an apartment in Williamsburg, this scrawny alley cat appeared on your fire escape, quietly yet firmly returned day after day, insisting that you take him in. Being a nice guy, you gave him a home; being a jazz trumpeter, you named him Satchmo. Being completely unfamiliar with cats, you gave him baths, and being unschooled in these things or just so eager for a home, he agreed to take them.  You had a few idyllic years together, and then you fell in love with a girl with an apartment in Chelsea, and alas, an allergy to cats.

It was tough, but you chose the beautiful Russian filmmaker over the beautiful black and white cat. And while she went off to Moscow to make a documentary you promised to find him a home.  And that’s when I met you, for just a few brief minutes. I came into your tiny cramped apartment and you showed me Satchmo. He was an excellent cat, I could see right away: a gentle, friendly animal with a shiny coat and a regal  posture that made it seem like he was puffing out his chest to show off that one tuft of black in the white fur. With no hesitation I said yes, placed him in the carrier you provided, and the two of us made the short trip home.

Throughout the years I’ve thought of you, just fleeting moments of gratitude where I wished I could reach out and tell you what a loving and stabilizing presence Satchmo  has been in my life, from that apartment on 14^th Street and back to Brooklyn, where he started his life and where mine expanded to include a cat-loving spouse and two children.  He contentedly sat at the bottom of the bed putting up with crying babies and then rambunctious little boys, retreating when he needed peace to a window perch with a great view of Manhattan.

And when we moved again, outside of the city where those boys could run around in a yard, he took it in stride.  Satchmo didn’t mind that the house was old and small; he just seemed appreciative of all the new spots he could call his own: window perches and creaking stairs, a nice damp basement and a screened-in porch.

Then this Spring, things changed. He started losing weight and looking haggard. By the time the veterinarian had taken enough tests to find out what was wrong, lesions had spread to several organs. We tried to treat him, but his condition only grew worse and the cat that had been so content all these years was hiding in corners and moaning. In May I stood holding him and crying as the vet put him to sleep.

I’ve never understood the attitude that you don’t have to be nice to strangers, or that people that make brief appearances in your life somehow don’t matter.  I’ve always felt the complete opposite:  that everyone leaves an impression in some way, and every encounter is precious and potentially life-changing.  

For years when that beautiful black and white cat came and sat beside me, purring, I thought of you. I wondered if you still lived in the city and played the trumpet, if you stayed with your girlfriend. I know it was only ten minutes, and you probably don’t remember me but you left an imprint far deeper than I could have imagined that fleeting moment when our lives crossed. So if you’re out there Todd, I just want to say thanks for the past 13 years of life with Satchmo. He really was an excellent cat.

Satchmo, adored cat, 1995-2008

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je ne sais quoi

From French, je ne sais quoi, literally ‘I know not what’,
an intangible quality that makes something distinctive or attractive.
ex: She has a certain je ne sais quoi about her.

It’s been a momentous Thanksgiving week, in a quiet sort of way.  On Sunday, we took a drive up Rt 80 West (if you keep going, you’ll get to California, but we only made it to Warren County, NJ)) to visit Aunt Mary’s Doghouse, a wonderful shelter,for homeless dogs, to check out a possible addition to the family.  It’s something we’ve been talking about for a while, but in a vague “someday that would be nice” sort of way. Then B had a bonding experience with a miniature dachshund in August, and it  became a more regular topic of conversation.   As an 11-year-old boy going on 17, I think it became especially appealing to have someone in the house who wasn’t always asking him to do something (or in his case, not do something, like leave his shoes in the middle of the floor or bounce a ball in the house) , but who could be more of an unconditional friend. 

Earlier in the year I had been researching specially trained “autism dogs”, but like most services for kids on the spectrum there was a long waiting list and prohibitive costs that kept it out of reach.  I also had come to appreciate how important it was to get a dog that would be a companion for both boys, not just a service dog for V.   And the fact is that with the right disposition and intelligence,  any dog could be therapeutic, just by not talking or expecting conversation. (None of that “How was school today?  Anything new or interesting to share?” when you walk in the door.) The more I thought about it, or maybe the less I thought about it and the more I followed my instincts, it just seemed like the right time. 

So late at night when everyone was asleep I’d get on my laptop and troll the Petfinders site,  looking longingly at golden retrievers and beagles in need of homes. It was like a doggy online-dating service, a long series of flattering photos and upbeat profiles  (“I love long walks in the woods, but also enjoy the bustle of city sidewalks.”) and maybe a wee bit of exaggeration in the description: the 1 year old who was probably pushing 3, the svelte looking hound who in reality hadn’t seen 35 lbs for a while. But they were all utterly sincere in their intentions to find that special someone, a forever family with whom they could settle down.  And so we went up to Aunt Mary’s to meet a few eligible adoptees in the fur, with all their imperfections and quirks on display. 

When we arrived they were all standing anxiously at the fence, vying for our attention. Pick me! pick me!   It was charming and yet a bit heartbreaking  how they all sensed that this was their moment to shine, to persuade you of their special gift.

Look at me! I’m young and frisky, and my coat just gleams.

No, look at me! I am a bit older, but I’m still energetic, just in a quieter, more centered way.

I will make you feel loved and content.

I will make you feel loved, content, and I’ll make you laugh! Watch me play with this shoe, it’s a riot!

I will be the most loyal friend, I will sleep at the foot of your bed every night.

I will sleep at your feet every night and I’ll even make the bed in the morning, if you just train me. I’m a very smart breed!

It was hard not to fall in love with all of them, all these wonderful creatures  just aching for a home.  It was equally challenging to determine which would be best suited for us, or to let go of preconceived ideas: that no dog could ever be as sweet as a beagle (my beloved childhood dog Daisy), or as smart as a standard poodle, or as loyal and tolerant as a golden retriever.  

But that’s one of the wonderful and humbling things about doing rather than just thinking about doing something.  You think you know what you are looking for and then get thrown for a loop.  Someone puts her nose on your lap and sweetly gazes into your eyes.   She has a scar on her nose from some past altercation and a bit of a sag in the middle from a litter of puppies; not as young or small and cute as you had imagined. But she has this beautiful brindle coat and face, and an expression that’s both alert and calm. She just has, I don’t know, that je ne sais quoi…

I know it can sound pretentious,  especially coming from someone who doesn’t speak the language, but I’ve always liked that phrase, the way it acknowledges the limitations of words.  I know not what.  Uncharacteristically vague for the French, who place such value on precise use of language.  That thing I cannot describe.  But that’s the point. There are no words, just the knowing.

And so we rode back home with Ruby the Plott Hound in the back seat;  and her nose  is on my lap as I write this, as comfortable as if she’d been here forever.

Ruby, beloved dog, 2009-present.