Cleo

I resisted the temptation to call Rosie and boast how our “ugly” kitten was transforming into a beauty. Cleo’s newfound elegance aroused two hopes in me. One, that she wouldn’t realize how gorgeous she was and become vain (few weaknesses are more tiresome to live with than vanity, especially in someone who has suffered the indignity of plain looks in their past). Two, that the theory about dog owners developing a physical likeness to their pets might also apply to cat owners. Neither of these aspirations seemed likely to happen. Cleo was too playful and fascinated with life to start behaving like a movie star. And I continued to resemble a food-addicted golden retriever.

Cleo awakened a depth of tenderness in Rob I hadn’t seen before. He’d always been the baby of the household, the one everybody else looked out for. Now, for the first time, he was responsible for something smaller than himself, and a gentle, caring side of him began to emerge. Feeding, combing, cuddling his lovable kitten (often with enthusiastic advice from Jason) was helping him grow stronger and more self-assured. I watched in awe as he carved a fresh identity for himself at school, and a trickle of new friends made their way down the zigzag to our place.

Our affection for Cleo was fiercely returned. As her adopted slaves, we were duty-bound to include her in everything. If she heard a conversation going on in another room she scratched and called at the door until she was part of it. Occasionally she was content to witness goings-on from a vantage point in the sun on the back of the sofa. Mostly, though, she preferred to be wedged into a warm lap, her paws tucked neatly under her body, purring approval.

If someone was reading a book, particularly if the reader was lying comfortably on his back, Cleo knew she was being invited to position herself between him and the pages. Supremely confident that a cat was far more fascinating than any printed word, she’d be astonished when the reader lifted her, evicting her gently to the other side of the book. How could an inferior human be so rude? Once she’d regained her composure, she would examine the outside cover. She could only presume it had been placed there for grooming purposes. Cleo discovered cats don’t need toothbrushes when they can run their teeth along the cardboard edge of a paperback cover.

She waited on Rob’s window ledge with more than a hint of accusation in her eye whenever we went out. Was time going to limp by while we were away? As if. The moment she’d seen the back of the last raincoat disappear up the zigzag she’d get up to secret cat’s business. A potted plant would tumble mysteriously on its side. Telltale paw prints appeared on the kitchen bench. Half-eaten blowflies sprinkled themselves over the carpet. The joint certainly jumped while we were out. When we arrived home Cleo would be waiting in the window again. She seemed to have an inbuilt radar that told her exactly when we’d be back. She would dance down the hall to greet us, her tail raised in an elegant curve of greeting. Anyone who picked her up in their arms would be rewarded with a kiss from her damp, licorice nose.

If dogs could talk, Rata would have been a reliable informant. Gazing mournfully at a tangle of pulled threads on the sofa she’d sigh as if to say, “What can you expect from a cat?” But when Cleo snuggled into the dog’s belly to be slobbered with giant retriever kisses, all was forgiven. For all her uppity, occasionally murderous, habits, we adored her.

The more we let ourselves love our young cat, the more readily we seemed able to open our hearts and forgive the unfamiliar people we’d become since the loss of Sam. As we turned towards each other and started to rebuild a sense of family, a hopeful warmth resurfaced in our marriage. Steve dismantled the barricade of his newspaper one night, looked me straight in the eye and said: “You look so terribly sad and beautiful.” His words stretched across the icy distance and enveloped us.

I’d forgotten how amusing his quirky sense of humor could be. That’s what had drawn us together in the first place. Both outsiders, we’d been hopelessly uncoordinated at school sports and shared a talent for feeling awkward in groups. Together we’d created a separate universe and tried to persuade ourselves that life as a pair of misfits on the edge of the mainstream was a comfortable place to be.

Vulnerable as a pair of oysters without their shells, we put on our winter coats and went on our first movie “date” since our lives had changed so drastically. A divinely youthful and sexy Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman diverted my attention long enough for me to feel surprised, then guilty, I’d gone for a few minutes not thinking about Sam. When the credits rolled, the lights went up and Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes launched into the theme song, “Up Where We Belong,” reality crashed in again.