Mandy Newham-Cobb illustration
Kitty talk
In 1970 I was given a seal point Siamese cat. I named him Beau Garçon, and I did not expect to like him. I had seen Lady and the Tramp, and the Siamese cats in that movie were evil.
Beau, however, turned out to be my dream cat. He followed me from room to room, and whenever I sat down, he jumped onto my lap immediately and stared up at me with his sky blue eyes. He loved to have his ears scratched, and his purr was a lullaby. Beau was also vocal. His meows and his “whyyyys” filled our little house, especially when he was annoyed or excited.
After Beau passed on, I had three other Siamese cats, and they all possessed that same sweet temperament, that same degree of affection, and that same vocal hardiness. It was impossible for me to not love them.
When my daughter was born, however, my cats had to play second fiddle. I could hardly believe that this delightful little red-headed infant who never stopped smiling was my child. I was so fascinated with her that nothing else seemed to matter.
Years later, though, my daughter went to bed one evening a normal kid and woke up the next morning a teenager. Being seen in the presence of her parents was a rare form of torture to her. Trying too hard to win back her affection just made things worse.
Instead of mourning the time I had once spent with my daughter, I adopted a petite seal point Siamese cat that I named Marisa. She was the runt of her litter and had been neglected by her mother. She needed me, and I needed to be needed.
In 1988, my father died, and my mother came to live with me. Mama did not like cats. As we left her Virginia mountain home and began the ten-hour drive to my home, she asked, “Do you still have that cat?”
“Yes, Mama,” I told her.
A few hours down the road, Mama said, “You know I don’t like cats. They can take your breath away and smother you in your sleep.”
“Mama, that’s an old mountain superstition,” I insisted. “Marisa sleeps with me every night and hasn’t smothered me yet.”
A few more hours down the road, Mama warned me, “Cats will tear your furniture up with their sharp claws.”
“Marisa has been with me for years and has never clawed any of my furniture,” I assured her.
When we finally arrived at my house, I helped my mother to the kitchen door. Marisa was waiting for us. She and Mama glared at one another before Marisa retreated to the far side of the room.
The next day, while I was making dinner, Marisa rubbed her lean body against my leg. Mama watched us with extreme distaste. “I don’t see how you can stand a cat in the kitchen!” she snapped.
“Mama,” I said sweetly, “you just don’t understand that Marisa is special.”
“What’s so special about her?” she retorted.
“Marisa can talk,” I informed her.
“Huh!” she barked in disbelief. “Cats can’t talk!”
As if on cue, Marisa walked slowly and elegantly to the kitchen door and cried, “Meooow!”
“See,” I told Mama, “she said, ‘me out.’”
Mama, her face as pale as a ghost, gasped. “Why, it did sound as if she said, “me out!’”
I looked at Marisa and said, “No, Marisa, you can’t go out.”
“Whyyyy?” she responded.
I looked at Mama and said, “See, she wants to know why.”
“Why....it did sound as if she asked you, ‘why?’” Mama was beside herself. “What else can she say?”
“Marisa is a cat of few words, Mama,” I said. “She mostly likes to listen. And she is real good at keeping secrets.”
After I finished the dishes that evening, I went downstairs to the family room. As I approached the doorway, I could see Mama sitting on the sofa with Marisa curled up beside her. Marisa’s sky blue eyes stared up into Mama’s as she gently rubbed the top of Marisa’s head. Mama was whispering to the cat, telling her about my father and how hard it had been to lose him.
They did not know that I was listening, and I did not want to interrupt this special moment. I walked back upstairs, knowing that I would have to get used to sharing Marisa’s affection while Mama was with us. I hoped that would be a long, long time.