Bill White

Stanley the Cat

Bill White

Honorable Mention, 2019 Short Story Contest

I sat in my dark living room, listening to the winter wind and staring at what was left of my fire.

My husband, Stan, had died a month before. We had been watching “Jeopardy,” yelling out answers as usual, when he was stricken. I punched 9-1-1 through frantic tears, but by the time the ambulance arrived, he was too far gone, although I didn’t get the news officially until we were at the hospital.

Heart attack. Left main coronary artery, suddenly closed. They call it the widow maker. We had no children, and my only living sibling, a sister, lived on the wrong coast. Most of our friends were dead or moved to Florida, and the ones who remained had their own problems, although I got a few days of their attention before and after the funeral. Now, not so much. My freezer was stuffed with their casseroles.

The hardest part was the quiet. I hadn’t been alone since … ever, actually. Family, college roommates, Stan. There always was someone.

Now there wasn’t.

So I was sitting in the dark, waiting for my husband to throw another log on the dying fire, which never would happen again.

Time for bed. I pushed myself up from his La-Z-Boy, where I had taken to sitting since his last Jeopardy game. It still smelled like his Classic Old Spice.

On the way upstairs, I unlocked the front door to make my nightly check for packages. As I pulled it open, bracing myself for a blast of cold air, something darted past me.

“Hey!” I yelled, stupidly. Where had it gone?

I hoped it was a cat and not something less domestic, but it had been moving so quickly, I couldn’t be sure. I grabbed my tennis racket from the garage and started turning lights back on as I peered nervously into the kitchen, then in the living room, half-expecting something to jump out at me.

I got down on my knees, cautiously peeking under the chair, then the couch. Still nothing. I finally found it behind the couch. It was an orange cat, and it looked terrified and half-frozen.

We never had pets. No way I was reaching back there for him and get myself bitten or clawed.

So now what?

I watched him awhile, and it became pretty clear he wasn’t going anywhere voluntarily. I filled a bowl with water, set it down by the fireplace, and went up to bed. I made sure my door was closed.

I slept poorly, and when I visited the bathroom around 3 a.m., I saw it had begun to snow, heavily. This might complicate the eviction I was planning.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I gave up on sleep and went back downstairs a couple of hours later. I began turning lights on.

And found the cat, curled up on Stan’s chair.

He eyed me warily as I avoided any sudden moves that might send him back behind the couch. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said.

He looked surprisingly well groomed for a long-haired cat living outside. There was no sign of a collar.

His eyes followed me like the painting in a haunted house. I decided to give him his space. I went back into the kitchen and tried to figure out what to feed him. Even if I had a way to move him, I didn’t see throwing him outside in a snowstorm as much of an option. Better to start calling shelters to see if someone was looking for him, but no one would be answering at this hour.

So I opened the refrigerator and considered. Milk? That’s a cat thing, I thought. I filled a bowl and set it next to the water.

If he was hungry, he gave no indication of it. He stayed rooted in Stan’s chair, haunted house eyes following me as I reached for the remote, flipped the TV on and took my former seat on the couch.

We watched CNN for an hour before I went upstairs to shower and dress. When I came back down, the snow was a couple of inches deeper, the milk bowl was empty and the cat was back in the La-Z-Boy. At least he wouldn’t starve.

At 10, I started calling shelters, leaving my contact information and a description of a long-haired orange cat of indeterminate age.

A lady at the SPCA suggested I go on Facebook, where several pet-finding groups posted photos of missing animals. I found nothing about him, so I shot a photo of him with my phone and posted it with my contact information. By lunchtime, it had been shared several times.

I refilled his milk bowl and began looking for something else to feed him. I’d been subsisting from weeks on canned tomato soup, probably not a cat favorite.

Then I had a brainstorm.

The casseroles.

I pulled the top one out of the freezer, examined the cooking instructions and popped it into the oven. I wasn’t sure what exactly was in it, but there was chicken involved. Cats had to like chicken.

He did. I cut it into little pieces and set it next to him on the chair. He continued staring at me until I sat back down on the couch. Then he risked a preliminary lick and decided he liked it.

The plate was clean in five minutes.

While I was returning the dish to the sink, he jumped down and drank some water.

“Feeling braver, are you?” I asked.

He walked over to the front door and looked back at me. He wanted to go out in this snow? I thought cats were smart.

When I opened the door, he headed gingerly into a corner of our garden that was partly protected by our porch overhang, scratched enough snow away to reach dirt, and went to the bathroom while I watched, fascinated by his fastidiousness. He did his best to cover the spot and scampered back inside.

If he stayed, I would need a litterbox.

I decided to build a fire, and by the time I was done, he had walked over and settled close by, liking the warmth. I reclaimed Stan’s chair, striking a blow for homeowner’s rights, and after replenishing the fire a couple of times, I fell asleep.

The fire was almost out when I woke up. Maybe it was my imagination, but the cat looked displeased. “Sorry,” I said, poking the embers and tossing a couple of fresh logs in.

The snow stopped by dinnertime. I decided to try some of the casserole myself while I resumed my perusal of Facebook. By the time I returned to the living room with dinner for the cat, he was back on Stan’s chair. I fed him there again.

“Any TV preferences?” I asked. He ignored me, so I found a basketball game and opened the novel I was reading. The cat stayed in his chair, and I finally went to bed, much less anxious than the night before.

The next morning, I found there had been no useful response to my lost cat posts on Facebook, and none of the rescue groups had called. So I warmed up more casserole, fed him and considered my options.

We had several inches of snow down, and I had never run the snowblower. I decided just to stay in for another day.

I gave the cat another bathroom break outside, and when I returned to Stan’s chair to drink my coffee, he surprised me by jumping up there with me, perching on the arm. I gave him a cautious pat, which he seemed to like, so I began stroking his head and down his back. He began purring.

“You are not going to turn me into a cat person,” I warned him.

By the next day, he was following me around the house like a dog. I got the snowblower going and made it to PetSmart, where I bought a litter box, litter and an assortment of dry and wet food.

I prepared a dish for him and set it on the floor. He sniffed and looked up at me, insulted.

“What, cat food isn’t good enough for you?” I asked. He stood, unblinking, waiting for me to break out the casserole, but I thought this would set a bad precedent. “Only for treats,” I told him, and retreated to the living room.

I broke down around 9 p.m., serving him the last of that first casserole. He wolfed it down.

“I’m not thawing another one,” I warned him.

He followed me up to bed anyway, settling at my feet.

It seemed I had a cat.

If you’ve been struck by the timing of his arrival, you aren’t alone. How could a well-groomed male cat arrive from nowhere, just when I was at my lowest ebb after losing my husband?

And love my husband’s chair? And people food?

And me?

It probably was just a coincidence. I certainly would never mention reincarnation to my friends, who would conclude I had lost my marbles. But it felt good to imagine that my husband had returned to me, in furry form.

So the cat became … Stanley.

Not Stan. That felt too weird, even under these circumstances. But close enough.

I began conversing more regularly with the cat, talking about people we both knew, my plans for the day and other mundane matters. It felt good to have someone to talk to, even if the conversation was one-sided.

It felt even better to have a companion who appeared to relish my company. Stanley crawled up on my lap one night while I was watching TV and purred as I scratched his ears. This became part of our routine.

By now I had no desire to see this cat claimed by some previous owner, so I stopped checking on Facebook. Instead, I purchased a cat carrier and made an appointment for him at the vet.

They had me fill a form out when we arrived, although I didn’t know much beyond his sex and name. We were ushered into an examination room. I set the carrier on the examination table.

The doctor walked in a moment later. “I’m Walt,” he said, holding his hand out.

“Melanie,” I said, shaking his hand.

“And this must be Stanley,” he said. “Could you lift him out of the carrier?”

I opened it, and he strolled out of there on his own and sat on the table.

“You’re going to be easy,” the doctor said, and began his examination, scratching Stanley’s ears as he looked him over.

“Well,” he said when he was finished, “you seem to have a very friendly, healthy young cat here.”

“You can tell his age?”

“Not precisely, but I’d say no older than 3 or 4. And certainly not feral, based on the behavior and fact that she has been spayed.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “But no one has come forward to … She?

“Yes,” he said, chuckling. “Stanley is a young lady. Didn’t you check?”

“I’m not exactly a cat person,” I said. “I didn’t try turning her over.”

“Understandable,” he said. “And with all this fur, it wouldn’t have been readily apparent.”

He gave her some vaccinations and gave me some instructions, but I was in a daze.

I waited until I got home to lose it. I plopped onto his chair and began sobbing. It felt like I had lost my husband all over again.

Stanley jumped onto my lap and looked up at me. I stroked her back. And felt myself calming.

What an idiot I had been. But reincarnation aside, who’s to say a higher power hadn’t taken a hand in giving me just what I needed, just when I needed it?

We’ve been together for a year now. She eats cat food these days, although I spoil her occasionally from the table.

Oh, and she’s not Stanley any more.

She’s Angel.