My father hated cats!ÂHe was a kind man, but he hated cats.
In the 70s, I moved into an apartment in Montclair, NJ, where no pets were allowed. Through begging IÂ got permission to get a cat.ÂI returned from the shelter with Betsy, a tiny tabby, Vanessa, a medium calico, and Charlotte, a great big and timid black cat.ÂWe lived in a 3 story six-unit tenement, second floor.ÂEvery morning, I let them all out to enjoy, and every night, I stood on the back porch, called them, and they ran up the stairs to eat, sleep, and cuddle.
My parents sold their business in San Diego and bought an RV to take a very long vacation, the first they had since they bought their first newspaper in 1948. They were excited, and I was worried knowing they would be visiting me and my three cats a lot.
When in my neighborhood, they squeezed the RV into the alley between my building and the next, spent their days in my place, and slept in the RV.ÂAnd Dad hated cats.
Luckily, his championship of the underdog, or undercat, was more important than his hatred of cats. When Dad saw how Betsy and Vanessa bullied Charlotte at dinner time, not allowing her her share, he had to do something. He had a plan. He fed them in three bowls, insisting that Charlotte âstand her ground.â He taught her how to eat without fear. Slowly, she learned from him.
I watched the painstaking process.ÂâItâs a good thing you hate cats, or you might get a little carried away hereâ
After they left, Charlotteâs newfound courage remained for a few weeks, and then slowly, she and they returned to their old ways. The folks would return twice a year, and Dad would gently put her through the paces again.
This went on for a few years.ÂCharlotte stopped coming home.ÂOccasionally, she came up the back stairs, and we petted her, but it would be weeks in between.ÂBefore you think the worst of me, she was fat with a sleek coat and looked great.ÂWhile I missed her, she had clearly found another home, one without wicked stepsisters to harass her. However, her ears were attuned to the RV engine, which she had heard long before I did, and she would be sitting on the back porch by the time it parked in the alley.ÂThere would be a joyous reunion, which Dad pretended not to enjoy. The same lessons repeated.
When the people who bought the business failed, and my parents had to take it back, there would be no more trips. Eventually, Charlotte stopped coming at all.
Then, one Friday afternoon, the phone rang as I climbed the stairs. It was my mother with some very bad news. I got off work early on Fridays and really wanted to talk with someone, but everyone was at work. I went out to the porch and sat down. Not believing my eyes, I saw Charlotte moseying up the stairs. I hadnât seen her in two years.
She sat next to me on the stairs. Feeling very foolish I shrugged, what the heck she was all I had at the moment. âCharlotte, Grandpa has cancer,âÂI told her what Mom had told me.ÂHe had bladder cancer, and Kaiser Permanente had a unique treatment, injecting tuberculosis cancer directly into his bladder.ÂThe bladder is so self-contained that this deadly virus could be used to kill cancer but unable to leave; the bladder would starve there after the cancer was gone.ÂWith luck, the usual side effects, hair loss, and nausea wouldnât happen.
There would be 6 treatments.ÂEvery Friday Mom called with an update.
Here is where you may think I am crazy, lying, or both, but I am not any of those*. After the next call, still needing to talk, I went out to the porch, feeling very foolish. I mean, last week was a weird coincidence, right? Seriously, I knew that. But I went out, sat down, and here came Charlotte. Each week, I would get the call with the update and go out to the porch, where Charlotte soon joined me and shared the news.
At about halfway his symptoms had gone away, and there were no side effects. ÂSpoiler alert: Dad lived another 25 years, where he died peacefully in his sleep in his bed in my house.
The day I got the last call was bittersweet.ÂCharlotte was waiting for me and I told her the great news.ÂHis bladder was clean. Now, Dad would have to be tested once a year for 5 years and then every 5 years for the rest of his life.ÂShe listened to all I had to say.
As I watched her waddle down the stairs I knew two things for certain.
First, I knew Dad would be OK and would have many good and productive years.
Second, I knew I would never see Charlotte again.
- I told the story at an Open Mike in Raliegh. The MC asked if that really happened. I said my truth, which was “yes”; however, I do not know for sure whether it happened, but this is how I truly remember it.
WHAM BANG. I felt the pain in my shoulder, the boy on the end, and I had crashed hard.