His time at my husband’s cousin’s house was coming to an end (July 1st), and neither my husband nor I were employed (I’ve since found a job, but I do not start until July 12th). Our savings is completely gone. No apartment (that allows cats) is in sight.

The Sam was going to be homeless.  

Then, about a week ago, my FIL suggested that we keep him in the garage (which is detached from the building and has no windows)... no light, no fresh air... in JULY! I was horrified... but I understand, my FIL isn’t a “pet person”, and housecats freak him out. He thought that the garage was a valid option. He could be evicted if we were caught sneaking The Sam into the apartment, so that was out of the question.

I crawled into bed and sobbed some more. About half an hour later, I heard the front door open and close. I thought my two guys left, but they were returning (I just hadn’t heard them leave... I sob LOUDLY) from a kennel. My FIL offered to pay for The Sam to be put in the kennel for one month (I’d have to pay for any additional time). I wasn’t sure how I felt about it; I wanted to check the place out for myself.

Ken and I visited the kennel the next day (It had been closed when he and his dad had gone there, so all that we really knew was that it wasn’t too expensive). I was really impressed. First of all, it’s about a five-minute drive away (much closer than Ken’s cousin’s house). It’s family-owned, and the family lives on the premises. The place is fairly large and surrounded by woods. It is beautiful!

We stepped inside and met one of the owners, a pretty blonde lady named Gina. She took us on a tour. The first thing I noticed was that it smelled nice in there – NOT what I expected at all! The whole place is spotless. The Sam would have his own “condo”... and because he is a large kitty, and he’d be there for an extended stay, he’d get a “doublewide” for the same price. The cost of food (they serve Iams) is included, as is litter (they clean the litter boxes every day) and really nice bedding (they have a large washer and dryer there, and the bedding is changed out every week). AND... The Sam would have a beautiful view of the woods (all of the kitty condos are by windows). We can visit any time we want during their business hours.

We made the reservation.

Thursday, July 1st, we brought The Sam to his new temporary digs. I was almost in tears the whole drive over; The Sam has been through a lot this past year. I was afraid of how he would react to a new place. Better than homeless or in the garage, I kept reminding myself.

We checked him in (had to show proof of vaccination), and then Gina led us to the kitty condo room. After she closed the doors (we didn’t want him wandering off to the dog condos), we set his carrier down and opened it.

I knelt down, arms outstretched, expecting some emotional... something... from this cat who has been through so much in the last six months. I’m his Mommy; when he is upset, he comes to me.

The Sam left his carrier, walked past me, and climbed up into Gina’s arms.

The woman melted as he started giving her lovey-dovey head-butts.

Ken laughed a little. I was too jealous to do anything but stare with my mouth open.

“Ohhh,” Gina cooed, “You’re just a big sweetie, aren’t you?”

The Sam answered with a mixed purr-meow... the sound normally reserved for me.

Gina put The Sam down – reluctantly, I could tell – to let him explore his new lodgings. As he did that, she and I talked. Or, rather, she talked and I nodded:

“He’s so gentle! Whatta cutie-pie! I’ll be able to let him out in the afternoons while I’m cleaning in here. Don’t worry; I always close the doors first, so he won’t be able to get out or anything... but we can play, so he’ll get plenty of exercise and... Ohhh... look at him! He’s so cute!”

The Sam came over, sat at her toes and lifted his front paws to her (kind of like a dog begging). Gina re-melted. She patted his head and the cooing continued: “You’re so haaaaaaaandsommmme!”

I rolled my eyes. Unbelievable.

Before Ken and I left, we locked him into his kitty-condo-with-a-view, along with his favourite towel (The Sam has always had a thing for towels), and a couple of his favourite toys. After Ken said his good-byes, The Sam gave me a kiss through the little gate.

“I love you,” I said. “Be a good boy.” I always say that to him, whenever I leave to go anywhere (work, to pick up Ken, shopping, etc.). Usually he just yawns, as if to say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mommy... gonna get some sleep...” But this time?

The little shit winked at me. (I don’t believe in reincarnation, but if I did, I’d swear my cat is Cousin Steve!)

On Friday, July 2nd, Ken and I went up to visit The Sam. Two ladies who work there, Kim and Katie, met us.

“Hi,” I said. “We’re just here to visit our cat...”

“Which cat is yours?” Kim asked.

“The Sam,” I said.

You would have thought I said, “Johnny Depp is here.”

Through much squealing and giggling, they said (I couldn’t tell you which girl said what):

“Ohhh! He’s the cute, chubby one! He’s such a sweetheart! I could just cuddle with him all day! He’s such a good kitty! He’s so gentle! You’re so lucky!”

Oh, my. Mommy-pride made me feel like I was floating to the kitty condo room.

After a brief cuddle with Ken and me, The Sam climbed up onto Kim’s lap.

“Hiya, handsome,” she purred as he head-butted her chin.

“That’s what I always say to him,” I said. I smiled, hoping I didn’t sound like a jealous girlfriend.

We stayed an hour, grooming, playing, and cuddling. The Sam didn’t put up a fuss when it was time to go back into his condo. He said good-bye to Ken and then bonked his forehead against mine. He gave me the purr-meow that I love so much.

I kissed his forehead. “I love you,” I said. “Be a good boy.”

He winked at me.

I rolled my eyes and then kissed him again. “I don’t know what I was worried about,” I whispered into the gray fur of his forehead. The Sam moved to his window; Katie was outside, hanging bird feeders on the trees. She waved to him and blew him a kiss.

Unbelievable.

The 4th of July is The Sam’s birthday. He is ten years old today... and today is twelve years that Ken and I have lived together. This is the first time that the three of us will not be together to celebrate.

It’s weird... but I’m sleeping a bit better, knowing that The Sam is safe, happy... and well cared for by pretty ladies who know how special he is.

The little shit.

“Go outside and play,” my father would tell us, or, “Go to your room and play,” if the weather was uncooperative.

My older brothers had no problem with going out or into one of their rooms to hang out while my mother wrote.

Sometimes, I’d go off with my younger brother and play. Other times, I’d promise to be quiet, and I would sit on the sofa, behind her.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

My mother was completely immersed in whatever world she was writing about.

My imagination went to work: She’s writing about cowboys and Indians. Or a detective who finds the big diamond someone stole from the snooty lady. A mummy from Egypt that puts a curse on somebody. A dog that can talk. A little girl who beats up the bully.

We were never allowed to see what my mother wrote, so I’d never know... But it was fun, imagining.

It was quiet... except for the tapping and the occasional swear word muttered under her breath. Sometimes, I’d doze off. I’d dream of Egypt or the Old West or I’d dream of being on The Orient Express, or maybe on a street in Sherlock Holmes’s London... quick dreams. Usually, I’d only be asleep for a few minutes.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap... Sometimes, my mother’s fingers would fly over the keys for a small eternity. I’d study her back, what I could see of her around her little chair. Her posture was perfect, but some slight movement of her head would be enough to send my imagination reeling again: She’s writing about a mad scientist... or wolves in a snowstorm... a king at war... a magical mirror...

Many times, I curled up on the couch with my little red journal. I didn’t write much in it, though. I watched her. I wanted to go wherever my mother was.

She’s here, but she’s there, too.

When she was done typing for the day, my mother looked happy. Even her eyes smiled. All of her pages were placed neatly into her folder, and the folder was placed in the desk drawer that locked. The cover was snapped back onto the Smith-Corona (my mom loved Smith-Corona typewriters), and my mother was back in our world... but happier than she’d been before she left.

“How come you use that to write?” I asked one day, holding my little red journal in one hand and pointing to the typewriter with the other.

“It’s neater... and faster,” she replied.

“Oh.” Faster?

She took the hard plastic shell off of the Smith-Corona again. “Wanna try it?”

I smiled. “Really? Can I?”

My mother nodded.

I bit at my bottom lip. I was clumsy. I always broke things. I didn’t want to break my mother’s typewriter. “I don’t know how, though,” I said.

She patted the seat of her chair. “It’s easy! I can show you, if you really want to learn...”

Mom showed me how to use the typewriter. After a lot of practicing, I could write almost as fast as I thought. I used up a lot of ribbon, but I never broke it.

I understood how my mother could dive into that mysterious other world... and come out smiling. She could write as fast as she thought. She wasn’t “losing” bits of things, like I was when I wrote longhand. It looked neater, too... more like a storybook.

That Christmas, I got a Smith-Corona typewriter of my own. It was my “big” present, the one my parents kept hidden until all of my other gifts were opened. I immediately set it up on the coffee table in the living room, directly behind my mother’s desk. When she typed, I typed.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap...

I felt like, now I’m a real writer.  I felt something more: We had separate imaginations, but my mother and I were together in that mysterious other world.

Thank you, Mom. From the bottom of my heart: Thank you.

The tree is said to be the sole survivor of the Great Swamp Fire that took place during the Pequot Wars in the 1600s. It is also said to be the only tree left standing after the British landed on my grandmother’s beach during the Revolutionary War; the Redcoats burned Fairfield to the ground.

The oak looks… well, like it has survived two major fires and a few hundred years of animals and kids climbing all over it. Its limbs are gnarled and stretched out in such a way as to look like arms warning visitors away.

When Cousin Steve suggested we go out and draw it, I hesitated. When I told him how my three older brothers said that an angry Pequot Indian spirit that ate curious little girls for snacks inhabited the tree, he laughed and shook his head.

“That’s imaginative,” he said, “but not true.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He handed me the smaller of the two folded easels and said, “I am sure, Sweetheart. It’s just an old tree.”

I put the easel beneath my arm, copying him. He carried the picnic basket in his free hand; my grandmother handed me a thermos of iced coffee to take along.

As we walked out the front door, Steve asked, “Where are your shoes?”

I gave a little shrug. “I hate shoes.”

“Tch, don’t say, ‘hate,’ Sweetheart. That’s a low, ugly word.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I dislike shoes.”

“That’s better,” he said. “You’re better than low and ugly.”

He winked. “You sure you don’t want to go in and get them? I don’t want you to hurt your feet.”

I shrugged again. “I’ll be okay.”

“All right,” he said, taking a step forward. “Be careful.”

I adjusted the easel under my arm. “I will.”

Just as we crossed the road, Mr. G called to us. He and his wife lived in the house across the road (right next to where we entered the woods) since the house was built in the 1950s (their son and his family live there now). Mrs. G was a favourite of mine – she made candy! – And Mr. G was a friendly old man who often helped my grandmother: he mowed the lawn for her, picked things up at the grocery store for her, and when it snowed, he sent his son over to shovel her driveway and sidewalk. They loved Cousin Steve (Mr. G had taken up painting birds when he retired and he liked Steve to look at his work); whenever he was in town, they would call him over.

We walked over to say hi. I put my easel and the thermos down on the driveway and played with their dog, Mutt, while Mr. G and Steve talked about cardinals. When they were done talking, we cut through their freshly mowed yard to enter the woods.

When we got to the ancient giant oak tree, Cousin Steve opened the basket and laid out our blanket. He kneeled upon it and began pulling our supplies out of the basket  (there were always more art supplies than food in our picnic baskets). Suddenly he began to laugh.

I put the thermos down on the blanket. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

He pointed at my feet.

I looked down at them and began laughing, too.

My feet were bright green: grass green. The toes were the darkest part; the colour faded as it reached the tops of my feet.

“I have Kermit the Frog feet!” I exclaimed.

I picked up a nearby stick and used it as a microphone: “Kermit theeee Frog, here… your frog in the street!”

When Steve pulled his handkerchief out, I thought he was going to use it on my feet. Instead he dabbed at his eyes. I was surprised; he didn’t laugh that hard very often.

“You’re entertaining, you know that?”

I smiled big, pleased with myself.

We set up our easels a few yards from one another. He began sketching immediately. I could not.

I stared at the big sheet of paper for a minute, and then stared at the tree for a little while. Drawing never came easily to me (it still doesn’t); I never knew where to start. My thoughts began to drift away from the tree and the Pequot Spirit (I was not completely convinced that the spirit did not exist). They gravitated toward what I had been reading.

Steve tapped me on the shoulder. “Are you trying to catch flies?” he asked. He always asked that when I stared out into space with my mouth hung open.

I closed my mouth and grinned up at him.

He pointed at the blank sheet of paper. “That doesn’t look anything like a tree, Sweetheart,” he teased. “What’s wrong?”

“I keep thinking about Hamlet.”

“Hamlet?” he asked. “The Danish Prince, Hamlet? That Hamlet?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Have you read it?”

“Yes,” he said. He moved behind me and lifted my hand up, guiding my pencil.

“I don’t really understand it,” I said.

He chuckled. “Well, you’re… aren’t you a little young to be reading Shakespeare?”

I giggled, watching my hand moving the pencil on the paper, magically creating a tree. “{The Wolfman} is going to be in the play at his school.”

“Ah,” he said, moving my hand all over the place, drawing bark. “Are you helping him learn his lines, then?”

“No,” I said, “Mom’s doing that. I just sort of started reading it. Last year, it was Romeo and Juliet.”

“Did you like that one?”

“No,” I said. “That was stupid.”

He gasped. “Stupid? That’s a low word. Didn’t we already talk about that?”

I bowed my head a little. “I’m sorry… but that was stu- … I didn’t like that one.”

He laughed quietly and sneaked a kiss on my cheek. “No romance stuff for you, huh?”

“Yuck.”

I looked up at my still-moving hand and saw the ancient giant oak on paper. I giggled.

“It’s cheating when you do that, you know,” I informed him.

“Who says?” He kissed the top of my head and let my hand go.

“{The Professor} said so, last time.”

“Well, I don’t think it is cheating anyone out of anything, Sweetheart.”

“No?” I turned and looked up at him.

He was frowning. “No. I was just helping.”

I smiled. “Do you like Hamlet?”

“No,” he answered.

“Do you like Romeo and Juliet?” I asked.

He shook his head and smiled. “I don’t like Shakespeare too much,” he said.

“Really?” Everyone in my family seemed so enamored by The Bard. Cousin Steve’s “no” surprised me.

“I’m more of a Moliere man, I guess,” he said.

“Mole-ee-yay?” I asked.

He chuckled. “I will send you a book of his someday. I think you will like him.”

“Is he like Shakespeare?”

“No,” he chuckled. “He’s funnier.”

“Oh.” I liked the idea of a funny play. “You’ll send me one of his plays?”

“Sure,” Steve said. “Maybe for your birthday.”

I smiled big again. “That would be really nice. Thank you.”

He poured iced coffee into a paper cup and handed it to me. I sipped some and asked, “Can I see your drawing?”

He winked. “Not till I’m done, Sweetheart.” 

He finished his coffee and returned to his easel. I went back to mine, and put up a new sheet of paper. I drew the tree on my own this time. It was not as good as the one he’d helped me to draw, but I wasn’t completely disgusted by it. I added a squirrel with an enormous head.

I looked over and saw Steve painting (we had brought watercolors that day). I did not feel like painting. Instead, I sat on the blanket and stared out at the reeds beyond the tree.

“Shall we eat?” he asked, walking toward me.

“Okay,” I said.

While we lunched on sandwiches, chips and more iced coffee, he told me about a couple of Moliere’s plays. I did not quite understand, but they sounded like fun to me. I again expressed interest in reading them.

When the basket was emptied a little while later, he asked, “Would you like to see my painting now?”

I smiled and nodded. I hopped up and followed him to his work.

When I saw what he had painted, I doubled over laughing.

It was a little girl with big green frog feet.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” I said, still laughing. “You’re very entertaining, you know that?”