Stray Thoughts

The black cat had been soundly sleeping in the basket on the dining room table when she suddenly woke and with a growl leaped to the floor and raced out of the room. My daddy, half asleep himself in his recliner, opened his eyes briefly and then closed them again after rearranging his newspaper. Just another stray thought, he told me with a slight grin, Happens all the time.

He had, so he claimed, no use at all for the cat, but would often fall asleep with her in his lap, one hand resting on her back, the other stroking under her chin. She nuzzled and purred and he refused to disturb her, all the while telling her in a soft voice that she was of no value, that she was foolish, that he preferred dogs, that she was lazy and good for nothing. She would stretch and roll over on her back and he would cradle her, scratch her belly and stroke her ears until she was asleep, then nod off himself. The old orange tomcat would sit silently watching on the arm of the recliner, and when he judged both occupants to be asleep, would ease himself into the space between my daddy's hip and the chair and begin to purr loudly. Eyes still closed, my daddy would free one hand to rub the old tomcat's battered ears and shift his weight to make room for him. And so would pass another warm Sunday afternoon.

My grandmother watched all this with disapproving eyes but said nothing, focusing on her knitting while the television droned on and my mother began putting together the makings of an early potluck supper. Nana didn't favor animals all that much, especially cats which she deemed arrogant, troublesome and far too independently-minded and she considered our tolerance of them a foolish indulgence. When the old orange tom expressed an interest in her knitting basket, she shooed him with a sharp Scat! but his interest in the bright balls of yarn was piqued and he slyly snagged one with his paw and batted it across the room. This immediately caught the attention of the black cat and in a matter of seconds the game was on - both cats racing madly after the loose ball of yarn while my grandmother held desperately to her knitting needles, trying to salvage her afghan and her dignity at the same time. My daddy roused from his nap, took in the scene and began laughing while my mother stood in the kitchen doorway in stunned helplessness, a jar of yellow mustard in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. Nana looked from the cats to each of my parents in disgust, cursed with a most definitely un-grandmotherly word, and hurled her knitting to the floor. Take it then, you devils spawn! she snapped, causing my daddy to double over and laugh even harder until his eyes filled with tears. Nana stood, hands on her hips, too angry to spit as my Uncle Eddie used to say, but not able to maintain it and she finally stalked out of the room to the deck where she crossed her arms and stood stoically staring out toward the water until my daddy composed himself enough to rescue the yarn, set both cats out the back door, and cautiously approach her with an apology. It took several minutes and all the self control he possessed to coax her back inside while staying serious and the cats were exiled to the deck for the remainder of her visit. They sat on the other side of the sliding doors and yowled pitifully but Nana held her ground, barely looking their way and then only to glare.

After supper, she gathered her things to leave, all but her knitting which she pointedly left behind. When my mother tried to hand it to her, she shook her head. The cats seem to like it, she said, and I can always make another afghan. And you should let them in, it's chilly. And head held high, she walked briskly to her car without a backward glance.