Nonfiction by Clint Martin
Kerri called. Said she found a kitty. Curled up all cup-sized. Asleep in a flowerpot of all places. No other kitties were around. No mama cat either.
Kerri scooped up the white and ginger calico kitty. She carried her into the nail salon. No one inside knew who the kitty was. No one knew where the kitty came from.
Kerri carried the kitty home. Kerri began making calls and sending texts. She called her sister, my wife. Kerri asked if we were interested in giving the kitty a home. No, my wife replied. But…
Kerry brought the kitty to my wife. My wife took it to her mom, Sheila. Sheila is in her seventies and lives all alone. She has a bad hip and forgets a lot. Maybe a kitty will help, hoped my wife.
Sheila loved the kitty. Named her Gigi. Sheila watched Gigi explore her little apartment. Watched her investigate the bedroom…the kitchen…the living room. Watched her interrogate loose white papers and brown paper bags.
But soon the kitty became a bit too much for Sheila to handle. The litterbox was too low. The food bag too heavy. But most of all the kitten was too energetic. Gigi wanted to play when Sheila tried to nap. Gigi needed food and wanted attention while Sheila was trying to remember.
Two weeks later, my wife carried the kitty out of Sheila’s apartment. My wife brought Gigi to our house. Gigi was going to be our son’s cat. Jack said he would be responsible for the kitty. Said he’d clean out Gigi’s litter box and pick up her toys. Said he’d give her food and water and lots of love. Said the kitty’s name was no longer Gigi. Gigi’s name was Jules.
Jules spent her first two days in Jack’s room. She ate on his floor. She slept in his bed. The first time I met her she was propped between his two pillows. She was sitting up straight and tilted toward the big pillow on her left. She looked like a shy toddler leaning into a parent’s leg. She saw me stand at the doorway. She watched me wave. She noticed when I entered the room. Then she stopped looking at me. Then she stared at the yellow dog by my side. Jules stared hard at Maggie. Stared and stared and arched her fuzzy back. When Maggie’s muzzle got too close, Jules spit a little kitty hiss.
Two days later, Jules was no longer afraid. And no longer spending her days in Jack’s room. Now she was in the living room. And the hallway. And the dining room. And on the stairs. Like furry lightning, she sprinted into Jack’s brother’s room. Then our room. Then the basement, the bathroom, the garage. She explored the underside of all the house’s beds and any closet not completely closed. Little kitty scurried beneath the couch, the dresser, the table. She strutted on top of the desk, the plant stand, the chair. When she did get tired, Jules slept behind my head while I wrote on the couch. Or she stretched beside my wife as she read in the recliner. Back awake, the kitty pawed plants, papers, and pens. She batted the blind’s cords, the shoe’s strings, and the rug’s tassels. Jack’s tiny cat sprang from doorways, dove under laundry, pounced from behind curtains. She rubbed against the legs that walked into the kitchen and sang hungry songs in little mighty mews. And every so often, content kitty counted time in repeated rhythmic purrs.
After a few more days, Jules no longer spent her nights in Jack’s room either. Last night, she fell asleep between my right shoulder and my wife’s bent back. At some point, she moved to snooze atop my wife’s involuntarily shared pillow. Unfortunately though, Dara woke up with a closed throat and puffy eyes. Dara started her day with a stuffed-up nose and itchy skin. Symptoms that have been happening more and more all week.
My wife loves cats. Really loves the kitty. My wife does not love her allergies. She’s been getting allergy shots for years. The shots help with the grass and the dog. But they do not help with cats, she explains. Loud enough for Jules to hear. My wife won’t say it, so I say it for her. Dara deserves to breathe easily in her home. Dara doesn’t deserve to live with a stuffed-up nose. Or watery eyes. Or scratchy skin. The kitty doesn’t know what any of this means.
Kerri called. Her husband’s cousin is on his way over. Tommy doesn’t have allergies. Tommy is taking the kitty. Now our house will be back to normal. Back to a quiet summer of an old dog and two teenagers who stopped sprinting down the hallway and hiding under the bed a long time ago. Now the house will be quiet again. And in that quiet, for a while at least, there will be a great big kitty-sized hole.
Clint Martin lives occasionally in Iowa but mostly in Kentucky. When not writing or teaching, Clint enjoys meditating, identifying the birds in the backyard, and learning about cool things like plants and space. His work has appeared in places like Kenyon Review, Sagebrush Review, The Write Launch, and Motherwell Magazine.
