Heartstrings Tugged

Destiny Fullfilled

Chapter 1

Getting Used To My New Pussy

I think he showed up in April. Or maybe May. Honestly, time blurs when you spend your evenings running a feline soup kitchen.

I am no stranger to stray cats and this all began with the first visit from a very light gray tabby, thin, frail and no larger than a four-month-old kitten. As a matter of fact, I thought she was a “teenager” until she introduced me to her family.

Mama Cat had been making regular appearances around my garage for over two years. Nothing less than skin and bones the first time I saw her, she was, and still is the smallest adult cat I have ever seen, just a wisp of a creature with tired eyes. I didn’t know she had kittens until I brought out a can of food. As soon as the bowl hit the ground, one tiny head popped out from under my Mustang like a jack-in-the-box, followed by three more in quick succession. It was like watching a clown car, only packed with Garfield, Heathcliff, Felix and one more I did not have a cute name for, all furrier and hungrier than any clown cavalcade.

I can’t watch a mama struggle to feed her babies without intervening. So, every night I set out two cans, one bowl for Mama and a large Tupperware container that served as a communal trough for the kids. Four tiny heads squeezed together like furry commuters on a subway, all slurping dinner in harmony. I already had a cat of my own back then, Patch, who, years before, chose to bond with my partner. Fate would rob me of Andy unexpectedly, and it would take Patch and I two years to form our lasting bond. So naturally my pantry was fully stocked for unexpected dinner guests.

A couple of months into the feedings, one kitten went missing. My mind immediately leapt to the neighborhood hawk that circled like a nosy HOA president. I told myself a kind neighbor had adopted the little one, but deep down, I knew nature isn’t always kind. Week by week, the family dwindled, and then Mama Cat disappeared too. I figured she’d moved on to greener pastures, or maybe a better restaurant.

The next summer, the ritual started again. But something was different this time: Mama Cat let me touch her. Just a gentle stroke down her back, but it felt like a small miracle. “Well, aren’t you brave,” I whispered, feeling a ridiculous swell of pride for earning the trust of a five-pound feral stray. And then, like a summer fling, she and her babies vanished again.

This year, Mama returned with only three kittens, gray tabbies like herself, two dark and one much lighter in color, looking like it was wearing a suit adorned with fancy pinstripes. I moved their feeding station to the front porch; she was friendlier now, practically demanding table service. My doorbell camera often caught the whole family eating together like regulars at a diner.

Then one steamy June evening, Mama arrived solo for dinner. A few minutes later, a larger gray tabby showed up, it didn’t appear to be a full-grown adult, but older than her current brood. He swaggered in like he owned the place and promptly shoved Mama aside to eat. Rude, I thought, but wasn’t about to break up a feline family squabble, so I let them sort it out. The newcomer vanished afterward, only to reappear two weeks later. When he attempted his hostile food take over, this time I was prepared., Quickly standing up I move toward the bowl, stating in my firmest fatherly voice, “No.” He reacted instantly bolting like I’d unleashed the vacuum cleaner.

Before he disappeared, I noticed something, a dark patch on his backside. Looked like a boy. Maybe Mama’s son from last year? She didn’t seem to mind sharing her food, so I assumed there was some feline family hierarchy at play. (My dad and I had recently watched the live-action Lion King, so naturally I now have become an expert on cat sociology.)

Mama Cat disappeared again, as she always does once she has completed her obligation to her latest litter. However, this mystery boy started showing up like clockwork, always alone between 5 and 9 p.m. I gave him the moniker Juno because the first time I saw him was in the month of June, and the first word I said to him was “No.” I think Shakespeare would be proud.

Juno warmed up to me fast, a lot quicker than Mama Cat had. Head pats became the norm, followed by affectionate rubs on patio furniture, railings, and eventually, me. He leaned into every touch like he’d been waiting for this his whole little stray life.

Then Mama Cat reappeared, her belly extended. Not “I’ve been eating well,” swollen, but bulging as if she were pregnant again. And of course, the timing could not have been worse, I was leaving to house-sit for my cousin. My dad and David agreed to feed the cats while I was gone. Unlike me, my parents couldn’t tell Juno and Mama Cat apart as she’s tiny, like a perpetual teenager, while Juno is average sized with dark forehead stripes. During my absence, he stayed elusive with them, but Mama? She started mewing at my dad like they were old pals.

I never wanted the responsibility of looking after the neighborhood cat colony. But I couldn’t let them starve. And for a brief, chaotic moment, it felt like I was part of a little family.

Until that night.

Juno and Mama Cat showed up for dinner together. Mama Cat was not in a sharing mood. I began to hear growls, low and threatening. I tried diplomacy, placing two bowls at opposite ends of the porch. Peace talks failed. She lunged across the porch like a furry missile and pounced on Juno, biting his neck. He screamed and escaped into the shadows. My baby boy was attacked by his own mama. I was furious at her. Mama Cat has always been the queen, but this night she became the villain.

Juno disappeared for over a month. I was heartsick and did not want to admit how attached I allowed myself to become to him. The admission was difficult, but I missed him terribly. He wasn’t supposed to be the one. I’d planned to choose a kitten from the SPCA in November after my next house-sitting stint was over. But Juno had other ideas. And now Mama Cat has run him off and ruined everything.

Weeks later, my neighbor mentioned that a lady down the street said she saw a badly wounded cat. My stomach dropped. I pictured my sweet little boy hurt and alone. Each evening, I looked out, searching and hoping he’d come home, but he did not.

Then, on September 13, while dragging out the mower, I saw it, a cat with a forehead sporting dark stripes beneath one of the rockers. I couldn’t believe my eyes, it was Juno, unscathed, meowing and most wonderful of all, alive. Heart racing and relieved, I dropped everything and sprinted indoors to fix him a bowl of his favorite canned food, salmon. He hastily ate every morsel in a matter of minutes. He left, not allowing me to be near him. He refused to be petted or loved. I felt my joy deflate like a punctured balloon.

Does he feel betrayed because I failed to protect him from Mama Cat? Do cats even hold grudges like that? (I suspect yes.)

Weeks passed with no sight of the cat I allowed to steal my heart. Then, one sleepless night around 3 a.m., my relentless leg cramps sent me downstairs. Cigarette in hand, I exit my home, stepping into pure serenity. The stars shined brightly, casting a peaceful and quiet, almost heavenly glow onto the porch. My concentration is broken when from the shadows, a sweet and soft mew broke the silence. It was a polite soft cry, as if the cat did not wish to break the peaceful moment I was experiencing. When I looked over, I realized it was coming from a stray gray tabby, and not just any stray, my stray! My heart practically leapt from my chest. It was Juno. With the silence now broken, he immediately and loudly demanded petting before even asking for dinner. He ate, then came back to me, pressing against my legs as if to say, You’re still my human.

And just like that, my heart stitched itself back together.

For the first time in ages, I slept through the rest of the night and into mid-morning.