It’s been a year since Ginger, my dear feline friend, died at the ripe age of nineteen. I wrote about how she became part of our family several years ago. I thought it would be a fitting tribute to share her story now—as she would have turned twenty-years-old this summer.Ginger didn’t start out to be my cat, but when the kids grew up and left home—she stayed behind and kept me company. With the house too quiet and empty—we needed each other. I still miss her clinging precariously to my lap as I clack away on my computer…
(Bear with me, this is longer than my other posts. :-)
“Dad…. Dad?”
“What?” He lowered his newspaper. Three little girls in stair step sizes stood facing his recliner. The tallest one, Lila (now Sydnee), prodded the smallest one forward.
“Daddy, I want a kitty,” three and a half year old Leneah spoke. Red cool-aid stained her upper lip and her short crooked bangs betrayed her recent hair cutting effort.
“We want a kitty too,” chimed in her sisters. Evidence of red cool-aid marked their lips as well. I could see what they were up to. It was Leneah who really wanted a kitty. No doubt Lila, my little-mother-hen, figured she needed a little help getting one.
“You’re wearing me out!” he said with exasperation. “I’ve already said no several times. What is it about no that you don’t understand?!”
My husband wasn’t a “cat man.” And since he has no problem expressing his opinion, it was well known among family and friends that he hated cats. “They have fleas. They get hair on everything. And above all, they have attitude,” he’d say.
If anyone has attitude, it’s him. I smiled. That’s why he doesn’t want a cat. He says he doesn’t want to share a house with a cat that has fleas and fur, but it’s really the attitude.
“Come on, honey. What will it hurt to get a cat?” my heart went out to Leneah. “You know how much she likes animals … or critters of any kind for that matter. Now that the weather is warming up, she plays outside all the time. I didn’t think of that the other day, and I made the mistake of not checking her pockets before washing play clothes. We had a few really clean bugs and worms in the washer.”
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth for a second, but he shook it off, determined to end the discussion. “You know how I feel about cats,” he said stubbornly. “Let her have all the bugs she wants! Or better yet, get her a gold fish or a turtle.”
“Leneah can’t pet a fish, Dad,” nine year old Lila said, rolling her eyes. “And besides, my friend Robby has a turtle and some kind of fungus started growing on it. It’s gross.”
“Yuk!” said six year old Layla with a disgusted look. “I’d rather have a kitty.” Unlike Leneah, she was scared of bugs, and would rather play dress-up indoors. I suddenly pictured an unhappy cat in doll clothes.
Leneah just stood there looking hopefully between us. I wonder what’s going on in her little mind. Fungus probably sounds like another interesting pet to her.
“That’s it. End of discussion.” I could tell he felt ganged-up on and wasn’t backing down. “If you don’t like my idea, then forget about getting a pet.” He picked his newspaper up and acted like he was reading.
“Come on girls. Let’s not bother your Dad right now. He’s tired after working hard all day, and besides, it’s time to get ready for bed.” I said as I herded the disappointed little group to their room.
“Mind your mother,” my husband said from behind his paper, clearly relieved to be off the hot-seat.
After the nightly ritual of baths and story time, I tucked each one in and had them say their prayers.
“Dear Jesus,” Leneah prayed, “I want a kitty, but Daddy doesn’t like ‘em. Could you help me get me one? Maybe you could help Daddy like ‘em. Then maybe we could get one, Amen.”
If her Daddy won’t get her a kitty, she’ll just go over his head. If he only knew… What was that? I thought I heard a noise, a pause and then my husband's footsteps. I smiled in the dark....
Summer came and faded. Leneah turned four. Thanksgiving came and went and still, her prayers for a kitty persisted. Then one day, my husband asked if the girls were still praying for a cat.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, if we ever do get a cat, I will be the one to find it!”
“So what changed your mind?” I asked.
That’s when he told me about an ad he'd seen in the newspaper about adopting rescued cats. But the surprise was, he had already called the number! He said a friendly semi-retired veterinarian answered the phone.
“I often come across unwanted or injured cats,” she had said. “After nursing them back to health, giving them shots and neutering them, I put them up for adoption. Come and take a look. I have a few in my garage right now.”
“What is your fee?” He asked, thinking if it was too high, it might get him off the hook.
"Oh, don’t worry about that. I only ask for a donation. Whatever you can afford is fine.”
Tears stung my eyes. I was witnessing the answer to my daughter’s prayers.
He looked at me and cleared his throat. “Gather the girls for me. I want to talk to them.”
“Come in the living room, girls. Your Dad has something to tell you.” They looked at me curiously. I couldn’t hide my excitement.
“What is it, Mom? Why do you look so happy?” Lila asked.
“Hurry up, and you’ll see.”
“Okay, everyone, listen up,” my husband announced. “I may have found us a cat, but don’t get your hopes up,” he cautioned. “We’re going to go see a lady about it tonight. If she has the right cat, we’ll bring it home. If not, we’ll have to wait until the right one comes along.” Then he looked at our youngest daughter sternly, “And since it was your idea, you have to promise to help feed it and clean the cat box.”
She nodded her head seriously.
Later that evening, the first snow began to fall. A special feeling was in the air. We bundled up and piled into the station wagon. The girls were excited. They chattered in anticipation about what kind of cat we might find. Would it be big or small, striped or plain, fluffy or smooth? Even my husband got caught up in it.
“I think a short haired cat would be best,” he said. “Long haired cats are too messy.”
When we arrived, the friendly older woman led us out to her garage. It was clean and tidy with newspaper spread on the floor. Several cats curiously looked at us. One fluffy gray cat rubbed against our legs and meowed sweetly as if to say, “Pick me! Pick me!” One black and white one looked bored and began to groom. Then a small orange tabby shyly peeked out at us.
“What about that one?” my husband asked.
“Oh, that’s Ginger. She’s shy, but otherwise a nice healthy young cat,” she paused thoughtfully. “She’s probably shy because people weren’t too nice to her to begin with. She was dumped on the side of the road, young and pregnant. Someone brought her to me. Now she just needs a friend.”
“That’ll be the one then,” my husband said. I was surprised at his quick decision, and I wasn’t sure she was friendly enough for our daughter. I looked at him doubtfully. He looked back. “This is the one,” he said with an end of discussion tone in his voice.
We took her home. Once in the house, she ran straight under the nearest bed and didn’t come out for two days—except when no one was looking, as evidenced by the used box use and missing kibble. I didn’t want to insult my husband’s decision and cause him change his mind about having a cat, but I felt bad for Leneah.
“I think we may have picked the wrong cat,” I said finally. “Leneah has only had a glimpse of Ginger since she’s been here. She needs a friendlier cat, like the fluffy gray one, one that she can actually pet.”
“Yeah, Dad, let’s take her back and get the gray one,” the girls chimed in.
“I don’t want a long haired cat.” He looked irritated. “Give Ginger a chance. She’ll come out sooner or later.” But that evening, I heard him on the phone asking if he could trade cats. The next day he put Ginger in the car and took her back, alone. As they drove away, I felt strangely sad him and for Ginger.
Later that night, we had a tiger in the house. The friendly gray kitty that meowed sweetly, “Pick me, pick me,” when we first met her, now howled, “Feed me! Pet me! How dare you go to bed and ignore me!” I was up half the night trying to keep her quiet so my husband could sleep.
“I knew that cat was a tiger,” my husband said the next morning with a glint in his eye.
“Did you bring that cat home just to teach me a lesson?” I should have known he could recognize an attitude a mile away.
He smiled, “I already told the lady I’d probably be back.”
That evening, the girls and I ran to the entry way when we heard the sound of our car in the driveway. My heart was thumping. Lila gave me a knowing look. Would he be empty handed? We both looked at Leneah’s anxious little face.
The door opened. We stepped back. An orange head peeked out from inside his coat! We held our breath. He put Ginger on the floor and went and sat in his recliner a few feet away. She hesitated, first looking at us and then towards the guest bedroom.
What happened next surprised us...
She made a beeline for my husband’s lap, where she proceeded to stretch out confidently, as if it were the most natural thing to do. I couldn’t help noticing the satisfied look on my husbands face.
As it turned out, her behavior towards him paid off because this time she stayed for good. At first, she preferred his lap above ours, but once she was secure with him, she made friends with the rest of us. And it wasn’t long before I caught her sleeping with Leneah.
People ask what changed my husband’s mind about cats, and I say, “The persistent prayers of a little girl—and a cat with the right attitude!”
“I often come across unwanted or injured cats,” she had said. “After nursing them back to health, giving them shots and neutering them, I put them up for adoption. Come and take a look. I have a few in my garage right now.”
“What is your fee?” He asked, thinking if it was too high, it might get him off the hook.
"Oh, don’t worry about that. I only ask for a donation. Whatever you can afford is fine.”
Tears stung my eyes. I was witnessing the answer to my daughter’s prayers.
He looked at me and cleared his throat. “Gather the girls for me. I want to talk to them.”
“Come in the living room, girls. Your Dad has something to tell you.” They looked at me curiously. I couldn’t hide my excitement.
“What is it, Mom? Why do you look so happy?” Lila asked.
“Hurry up, and you’ll see.”
“Okay, everyone, listen up,” my husband announced. “I may have found us a cat, but don’t get your hopes up,” he cautioned. “We’re going to go see a lady about it tonight. If she has the right cat, we’ll bring it home. If not, we’ll have to wait until the right one comes along.” Then he looked at our youngest daughter sternly, “And since it was your idea, you have to promise to help feed it and clean the cat box.”
She nodded her head seriously.
Later that evening, the first snow began to fall. A special feeling was in the air. We bundled up and piled into the station wagon. The girls were excited. They chattered in anticipation about what kind of cat we might find. Would it be big or small, striped or plain, fluffy or smooth? Even my husband got caught up in it.
“I think a short haired cat would be best,” he said. “Long haired cats are too messy.”
When we arrived, the friendly older woman led us out to her garage. It was clean and tidy with newspaper spread on the floor. Several cats curiously looked at us. One fluffy gray cat rubbed against our legs and meowed sweetly as if to say, “Pick me! Pick me!” One black and white one looked bored and began to groom. Then a small orange tabby shyly peeked out at us.
“What about that one?” my husband asked.
“Oh, that’s Ginger. She’s shy, but otherwise a nice healthy young cat,” she paused thoughtfully. “She’s probably shy because people weren’t too nice to her to begin with. She was dumped on the side of the road, young and pregnant. Someone brought her to me. Now she just needs a friend.”
“That’ll be the one then,” my husband said. I was surprised at his quick decision, and I wasn’t sure she was friendly enough for our daughter. I looked at him doubtfully. He looked back. “This is the one,” he said with an end of discussion tone in his voice.
We took her home. Once in the house, she ran straight under the nearest bed and didn’t come out for two days—except when no one was looking, as evidenced by the used box use and missing kibble. I didn’t want to insult my husband’s decision and cause him change his mind about having a cat, but I felt bad for Leneah.
“I think we may have picked the wrong cat,” I said finally. “Leneah has only had a glimpse of Ginger since she’s been here. She needs a friendlier cat, like the fluffy gray one, one that she can actually pet.”
“Yeah, Dad, let’s take her back and get the gray one,” the girls chimed in.
“I don’t want a long haired cat.” He looked irritated. “Give Ginger a chance. She’ll come out sooner or later.” But that evening, I heard him on the phone asking if he could trade cats. The next day he put Ginger in the car and took her back, alone. As they drove away, I felt strangely sad him and for Ginger.
Later that night, we had a tiger in the house. The friendly gray kitty that meowed sweetly, “Pick me, pick me,” when we first met her, now howled, “Feed me! Pet me! How dare you go to bed and ignore me!” I was up half the night trying to keep her quiet so my husband could sleep.
“I knew that cat was a tiger,” my husband said the next morning with a glint in his eye.
“Did you bring that cat home just to teach me a lesson?” I should have known he could recognize an attitude a mile away.
He smiled, “I already told the lady I’d probably be back.”
That evening, the girls and I ran to the entry way when we heard the sound of our car in the driveway. My heart was thumping. Lila gave me a knowing look. Would he be empty handed? We both looked at Leneah’s anxious little face.
The door opened. We stepped back. An orange head peeked out from inside his coat! We held our breath. He put Ginger on the floor and went and sat in his recliner a few feet away. She hesitated, first looking at us and then towards the guest bedroom.
What happened next surprised us...
She made a beeline for my husband’s lap, where she proceeded to stretch out confidently, as if it were the most natural thing to do. I couldn’t help noticing the satisfied look on my husbands face.
As it turned out, her behavior towards him paid off because this time she stayed for good. At first, she preferred his lap above ours, but once she was secure with him, she made friends with the rest of us. And it wasn’t long before I caught her sleeping with Leneah.
People ask what changed my husband’s mind about cats, and I say, “The persistent prayers of a little girl—and a cat with the right attitude!”
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