Is it an old wives’ tale (I belong to that category now) that felines have nine lives?

“How many?” I ask aloud, shaking my head as I fill the damn cat’s water dish.

“How many what?” My mom’s weak voice sounds through the nursery monitor. It saves me from running back and forth from the kitchen to her bedroom every time she sees a cute animal on TV. Instead of saying “lives,” which was the real answer, I said, “Scoops—how many scoops of food does the squatter girl get?”

“Fancy gets one scoop. And she’s a boy.” I hear the dings of Family Feud in the background.

A boy. The feline in the fancy pants is a boy? I take the dishes to the porch. My footsteps bring Fancy the Drag Cat to squish his nose into the glass on the screen door, watching my approach.

Bowls placed, door clicked closed, I am untouched by the cat as I head back to talk to Mom.

“Did you feed him?” Like her frame, her voice is thin now. The hospice nurses come more often, and we hired someone to spend the night with her.

“I don’t understand why you started feeding that cat—if he has a name, he has a family somewhere.”

“Oh, yes.” Mom points her crooked finger out the window as coughs interrupt her speech. I think she’s pointing to the window. I’m never sure whether to look at her knobby knuckle or the end of her still manicured nail. I choose the general direction of the whole finger. The cough is curtailed, and Mom continues, “He’s Clint’s, across the street.”

“Then why doesn’t Clint take custody of the interloper? Fancy isn’t in foster care at the Miller home. Just stop feeding him—that’ll be the catalyst he needs to return to his own home!”

“Now, now… Fancy kept me company when I could go out and sit on the porch. I figure I owe him the favor.” Unfortunately, my mother’s hearing is much better than mine. She tsk tsks at my “Well, I don’t,”  that I thought I’d tucked under my breath.

I begin the dinner interrogation that’s become a burden of its own: what sounds good to you, what kind of soup? Grilled cheese?  Of course on multi-grain bread.

My mother has been critical for as long as I remember. Not long ago, she wouldn’t eat my cooking because “it wasn’t prepared properly.” Now she’s not hungry. Ever. I’ll sit with her and watch TV as she pushes food around on her plate. I wait for her “I can’t eat another bite,” which comes sooner every day, and then I take her plate back to the kitchen. I sit with her while we wait for the night watchman to arrive. She provides a catechism on feline ownership, referring to a pet she’d had during the Depression. That cat had run away, likely in search of a wealthy family with more milk and meat in the larder.

Mom stops her monologue to ask, “Aren’t you tired of taking care of me?”

“Oh, Mother, stop that crap. I love you and I’m happy to help you.” I kiss her goodbye as the steps creaks on the porch. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If I’m still asleep, remember to feed Fancy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” My back is turned as I leave, but I wave my hand in surrender. I sneak out the door, settle in the quiet of my car, and sigh. This is my life…caring for my dear mother who’s ready to leave this world. And a cat I’d like to take out of it.

Every day, Fancy the Drag Cat waits at the street end of the driveway, posing by the streetlamp, soliciting for food and attention when he sees my car coming. I inch up the driveway—the damn cat isn’t smart enough to move out of the way. I put the bowls on the porch with a “here you go, dumb cat,” and check on my mom and the night shift reports. Family calls to check on Mom, and sometimes they check on me, too. They worry about me—it’s got to be hard, they say. I always say I’m fine.

And now it’s a fall day worthy of photos—a kaleidoscope of colors on the trees, with a few splashes on the driveway. Fancy greets me and the ritual continues. Until I feel a speed bump—on the driveway? I get out of the car and see that damn cat dart into the bushes. “Whew, he’s okay.”

I talk to him as I walk to the door. “I’ll be right out with your food, Fancy.” But when I return with the dishes, there’s no pink nose pushing against the glass of the storm door. I leave the dishes anyway. I look in the shrubs against the house. I ask the neighbors if they’ve seen the damn cat. I leave bowls of food for a week. And then I give up.

“I didn’t hear you feeding Fancy.” Those damn good ears of hers. I start to replay the night of the incident, but caterwaul instead, “I killed Fancy! I ran over him and snubbed out his little drag cat life!” I can’t stop crying. My mom pats my hand with spindly fingers. “It will be OK,” she chants. I stop crying, wipe the water and snot from my face.

“I’m so sorry, Mom.”

She smiles with watery eyes, head settled into her pillow. “It’s not a catastrophe,” she soothes. “Everything dies… .”
 

Eggphrasis

A new collection of poems by Ronnie Hess. Artwork by Mary Sprague.

“Ronnie Hess’s Eggphrasis is a mix of astute and sympathetic observations about her backyard chickens and encounters with wild species, interwoven with her perspectives on life. Her poetry is by turns amusing and poignant, while providing insight into the birds she writes about.” — Anna Pidgeon, Beers-Bascom Professor of Conservation, Department of Forest and Wildlife Ecology, University of Wisconsin-Madison “Throughout this collection, birds are a delight, a cause for concern, a flock, unique individuals, worthy of attention in and of themselves and for what they sometimes suggest about us humans. These insightful poems present for our regard the narrow and the wide earth and all who find a place here to fly, to walk, to write, and to practice their art.” — Margaret Rozga, author of Holding My Selves Together: New & Selected Poems, and 2019-2020 Wisconsin Poet Laureate Available from https://ronniehess.com/poetry/eggphrasis

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