The Gift of a Dream Unfulfilled

Growing up I always wanted a cat. My parents tried to appease me with dogs, but it just wasn’t the same. I had this vision of how my life would be if I only had a cat. There would be lazy, rainy Saturdays spent lounging, reading V.C. Andrews in a window seat with a cup of hot chocolate and a warm kitten purring on my lap. All I was missing was the kitten. (And the window seat, but details, details.)

My father also had a vision of how my life would be if there was a cat. Were he the type of man who was into putting bumper stickers on the back of his car, his would have read “The only good cat is a dead cat” and “Honk if you just ran over a cat.” My father thought that cats were dangerous killers that destroyed the lives of bunnies and birds, scratched, hissed, and worst of all, went to the bathroom in the house. They were not pets. They were the enemy.

So my father and I were at an impasse. We agreed to disagree. And what I mean by that is that I never got my kitten.

My junior year of college I secured myself a single dorm room and got the delicious idea that I could finally fulfill my dream of cat ownership. I could move my bed under the window, and I certainly had plenty of textbooks to read. All I needed was the kitten. I could almost smell the hot chocolate.

It wasn’t hard to sell Drew on my plan. He had been known to drag the occasional stray home to his parents’ house in his youth and so he agreed to be my accomplice.

So one Sunday morning in August of 1995, we dragged ourselves out of our beds before noon and drove to the grocery store to procure a Sunday paper. We spent the afternoon scanning the classifieds and making phone calls to those who advertised “free kittens.” We finally decided to drive out to a farm about 20 minutes from school to fulfill my dream.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a pure white mother cat and her 4 white kittens. I was unimpressed. White things are impractical because of course they get dirty so quickly. And then I saw her. This little grey and tan tabby under a bench. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled her out. She was small and timid, and she was mine. The farmer’s wife was happy to send us on our way knowing she was now down one kitten, and we headed back to campus.

I named her Figaro after the cat in Pinocchio. I introduced her to my suitemates, who welcomed her into their rooms and their hearts. Figaro was a delightful little kitten who slept on my head and dug through the garbage in search of play toys. Drew would treat her to the end of his frozen yogurt every day after lunch, which secured him her unending devotion.

The day came when I was going to be going home for break and Figaro was going to have to come with me. I was going to have to tell my father what I had done. I called to tell him there was something I needed to discuss and that it was serious and that Drew and I would be coming home to speak with him about it. I made sure that my parents thought something terrible had happened. Like an unplanned pregnancy. Or a tattoo.

When the three of us arrived, I showed my adorable bundle of fluff to my dad, with her mellow eyes and fluffy tail. She had his heart within the hour.

Figaro became the constant in my life. She was there through late nights of studying. And partying. She was there when Drew broke my heart. She was there when he mended it again. She moved back home with me after college, and then made the drive to North Carolina when we moved in with Drew. She kept me from being alone when Drew would go on deployments. Over the years she would move into nine different homes with us. Some small apartments, some spacious houses. She dealt with two new kittens that because a part of our family and quietly tolerated the human babies that joined us as well. She was this old soul that seemed to know when I needed her but also knew her place in our life.

I know there are people who see their pets as children. Figaro was never my child. She never needed me the way a child does. Instead, she was my friend. My equal. She was always independent, but without being snooty. She spent most of her time sleeping peacefully in a sunny window. She would show up to every meal, sit at the table in her chair, with her head on the table and silently pray that a morsel would be tossed her way. She came to sleep in our room every night, under the bed, in her own space. She was this constant, solid, tiny soul that graced my days.

About two months ago, Figaro’s health began to decline rapidly. She stopped coming to meals. Stopped climbing the stairs to come to bed. She lost weight quickly. In the final weeks she stopped eating. Then drinking. She chose a sunny spot under the family room window where she just laid quietly for days. Having just watched the process of death with Drew’s father, we instantly recognized the same signs in our cat. It was strangely comforting to know that God was taking her in the same way. Slowly and peacefully.

Figaro never fulfilled my cat dream. She was not a lap cat. I never got my window seat. And I’ve long since outgrown V.C. Andrews. But none of that mattered as I sat beside her while she struggled to take her last breaths. I pet her head and told her that she was the best cat a girl could ever ask for. And I meant it.

I don’t know what happens now that she’s no longer here with us. I don’t know how God feels about these animals that are such a wonderful part of our lives. I hope that maybe God will prepare a special place at His table for those little souls that have touched our human hearts so profoundly. I hope that Figaro is there now, in a sunny spot, having a meal of frozen yogurt and tuna fish.

PS – I know I said that I’m over VC Andrews, but if you get the chance, reread “My Sweet Audrina” as an adult… it will still make your spine tingle.