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Life With Webster
by Deborah Whelan Webster plays her music at full volume in the morning. I don’t care for it. I like to wake gently, stretch through my yoga routine, drink lots of water, and ease into my day. However, I try not to judge. My tastes are not hers and that’s the truth. However, other tenants complain; the walls in this apartment building are as thin as onionskin, and I can hear the griping and cusses just as loudly as I hear Webster’s Bee Gees. At least no one calls her ‘that damned crazy cat lady’ anymore. There’s a posted rule in this apartment building: ONLY ONE SMALL PET ALLOWED. Webster argued that the seven mewling cats that prowled and stretched and napped in her basement apartment windows weren’t technically hers – she collected them off the street, saving the poor wretches from death by starvation or Chinese food ingredient. She is kind, I’ll give her that. Mr. Freeman, the landlord, felt that way, too, I think, because he assured her that he had already found homes for some of them, and the others would be brought to the best animal shelter in the city. Mr. Freeman waited at the entrance to Webster’s apartment, his nostrils flaring at the rather pungent aroma, while Webster struggled to choose one puss. She patted and snuggled and kissed until he cleared his throat and jangled his keys for the millionth time. ‘I’ll keep her - this lovely tuxedo with the electric blue eyes,’ she finally told him. She certainly chose the prettiest of the litter of fleabags that infested her apartment. It was easy to see that this young feline was descended from better genes than the others. Besides ‘crazy cat lady’, I’ve heard people call her ‘spastic’, ‘odd’, and ‘just weird’. Wait a minute. That’s what I call her - but just in my head. You see, I’ve been a witness to Webster’s rescue tactics and those people don’t know the half of it. The first time I glimpsed Webster, I’d ventured out for my usual evening promenade around the neighborhood. Across the street, in thin moonlight that seeped through shredded clouds, a lumpy woman crouched near the last brownstone on Wyatt Boulevard. A beach towel imprinted with an orange palm tree on a lime-green background hung from the shoulders of her jean jacket. As a headband, she sported a black and white striped tie that dangled to her waist. ‘Here, puss-puss-puss,’ she whispered. She dipped her fingers into the Wal-Mart bag that hung from her belt, and knelt at the opening to the alley that ran down the side of Wyatt. From across the street, my keen nose detected the sharp edges of canned tuna. ‘It’s okay, puss. No one can hurt you now. I’m here to take you home.’ Her voice was as soft as pillows. ‘Don’t be scared. I am Webster the cat goddess.’ My nocturnal strolls were usually entertaining, but this was most certainly a first. I pressed my lips together to stifle the mirth that bubbled up in my throat. This odd person believed she was a superhero! Webster reached out and scritch-scratched the nape of the scrawny creature that slunk toward the proffered food. He was ugly, obviously homeless and hungry – he slobbered at the morsels dripping from her fingers. Within minutes, he was gently wrapped in the garish towel and whisked away. I was intrigued. Was she really rescuing street trash? Was she giving this pitiful tom a home or using him for some twisted need? I followed her. I know what you’re thinking: Why? Don’t you have a life? Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I am something of a princess if you want to know. But as the saying goes: Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought her back…. I trailed along at a safe distance although I’m sure she would not have noticed me: she crooned and hummed to that dirty waif as if he was her own child. She walked down Wyatt and turned down a short lane that ended at a cinderblock apartment building. She unlocked a red door at the bottom of a row of steps and went inside, still muttering, whether to herself or her new acquaintance, I had no idea. A moment later, the front window glowed through a haze of heavy lace curtains. I pressed my nose against a corner where the curtain had folded back to form a tiny peephole and peeked inside. On the commodious window ledge, a rather portly ginger cat stuck his rump in the air and stretched while two mottled grey tabbies slept through it all. Webster reached up and patted them both, then fluffed a pillow for her guest as she busied herself with six little bowls of Kibble. She had a family of six? A rush of jealousy flooded my chest, with pangs of loneliness just behind it. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why would such a beautiful, protected and cherished darling be envious or alone? You’re right, of course. I have everything I could possibly want. I even have a chauffeur who drives me to my weekly appointments at the spa to visit my masseuse, or to have my hair and nails done. In fact, I would imagine the hood ornament on my limo cost more than the apartment where Webster and her brood of orphans live. The naked truth is that I spend scads of time on my own. I have no siblings. Cuddles are rare. I feel rather invisible. Within minutes, I made up my mind. I backtracked to the mud puddle that I had earlier fastidiously avoided. I wriggled my neck through my royal blue velvet collar and discarded it, then jumped in the mire, cringing and holding my breath as I rolled in it, only retching once or twice. The muck caked my hair, matting it tightly to my very slim frame. I knew I looked wretched. I tried not to imagine what horrors might be clinging to my skin. I ran back to the red door. The night was suddenly icy and I felt I would die from exposure. My plaintive mewling and urgent scratching was hardly an act. The door opened just a splinter, and two suspicious beady eyes peeped out. ‘Who’s it? Who’s there?’ I meowed again, staring up at Webster with what I hoped was the beseeching eyes of the homeless and hungry. Two gentle hands reached out and scooped me from the cold and into a tiny warm space where a disarray of cupboards, appliances, a table and chairs coexisted with a small couch and huge pillows. I thought of the many rooms in my house, and the choice of windows that I could bask in to my heart’s desire. I’ve always had a touch of claustrophobia and now I felt my lungs constrict in the cramped space. I struggled to jump down from her arms and escape. There was time; the door was still slightly ajar. She held me firmly. ‘Aren’t you a skittish little thing!’ she murmured in my ear. She snuggled me to her chest and scratched me under my chin, in spite of my filthy state. Gradually, the walls stretched away from me. I cuddled into the crook of her arm. She bathed me in the kitchen sink while the other cats crowded around. Normally, I am a bit of a prude with this sort of intimacy but I sucked it up. If I wanted to stay here for a few days, I had to walk the walk. ‘No fleas that I can see,’ she announced as she combed through my hair and dried me with the green and orange towel. Just like that, I became a part of her family. It was like being at camp, or what I imagine camp to be - sleeping all together in the same room, sharing stories and playing games with my roomies. I’m quite a tale weaver but in this circumstance, I merely told them the truth and they accepted it as fantasy. Why would a beauty like me run away from a life of plenty and leisure to live on the streets, or with someone who obviously was kind but quite poor? After several days, though, the novelty wore off. Webster rarely let us out to stretch our legs, fearing that we would be lost to her. She always kept the curtains drawn so that no one could see her ménage. I missed drowsing in warm rays and to tell the truth, I needed alone time. I decided I would go back to my old home whenever I could get out. That way I could have the best of both worlds, to which I felt absolutely entitled. Plan A was very disappointing. Slinking back on the estate early one morning, I discovered that I had been replaced with a cocker spaniel, who was both unchained and unfriendly. He nipped the end of my tail as I ran for the gate, and sat growling with his paws against the iron railings. Thus I hatched Plan B. Every day, as soon as Webster went to work, I pried open the curtains so my roommates could be observed in all their lolling glory. Then I chased and nipped at them until the hissing and yowling were at a fever pitch. When I managed to go out, I would leave meaningful deposits on the front entrance of the apartment building. Meanwhile, I purred and licked and cuddled Webster at every possible opportunity. It worked, of course. Mr. Freeman had no choice but to acknowledge the complaints. There was some apprehension on my part, knowing that just maybe Webster would prefer one of the other cats to me, but the modicum of risk only made winning sweeter. So they’re gone, the other six pusses. Now it’s just Webster and me. Oreo’s my name. That was my name in my first life, and curiously, that’s what Webster named me. It may be because of my lovely black and white tuxedo coat. I prefer to think it’s because I’m one smart cookie. |
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