The concept of “my cat”

My phone began to silently ring in the middle of an important meeting at a prestigious new venue in San Francisco, where my arts nonprofit was discussing holding an event. Glancing into my purse, I could see that it was the veterinary office where I’d dropped off Charlie Brown about an hour before to be examined. His appetite had dropped precipitously, and his mouth seemed misshapen to me. I expected he would have a tooth infection, meaning I would have to consider expensive dental work on the sweet stray who had been living on my patio for six years.

I did not expect a call, just a report when I picked him up. And as much as I was loathe to seem unprofessional, something told me this was urgent, so I quietly tiptoed out of the meeting to answer. The next few minutes were a blur. Advanced mouth and jaw cancer, Dr. Lawson was saying. Likely suffering greatly. Euthanasia recommended. Should do it immediately, before he awakens from his examination sleep.

I did the only thing a loving cat guardian would do when suffering is revealed. I gave the go-ahead, tearfully asking if the staff would please hold him close and give him a kiss for me – the kiss I was never able to give him. Then I cried, and by the time I collected myself to return to the meeting it was breaking up. The all-female staff of the venue very kindly asked what had happened. I stammered a response – something about how I’d had to consent to the putting-down of Charlie Brown. “I can’t say he was MY cat,” I said, dabbing my eyes. “He was a feral who set up housekeeping on my patio and wouldn’t leave.”

That was six years ago, when the minor miracle of Charlie Brown came to pass. He was a parking lot cat I trapped, took straight to be neutered, and then rehabbed in a dog crate in my garage for a couple of days before returning him to the ravine.

Charlie Brown in my garage, 2012

He disappeared and then, a week later, I came home to find him sunning himself casually on my front patio – a spot he had never visited at all, having come and gone through my garage. How on earth did he find me? Amused, I reached out to touch him, but he hissed defiantly, so I respectfully agreed to keep my distance, but help him manage the difficult outdoor-only life. Then I brought him some food, and that cemented the deal.

For the next six years he became the class clown cat of my condo complex, refusing to budge from the sidewalk when people would walk by, passing out comically in the flower beds. Not everyone was amused. I received a couple different letters from the homeowners board telling me I was in violation of codes prohibiting the feeding of one’s pets outside. I quickly replied that he was NOT my cat – and would likely be moving along soon.

But of course he didn’t. So I set up a shelter for him and gave him a name: Charlie Brown, because he made me think of the Christmas tree the cartoon character adopted. This was NOT a pretty cat: a fat barrel body sat on short and spindly legs, and his ears were tattered by too many fights before he decided the semi-domestic life was the ticket. But not unlike Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, with a little love and appreciation, I expected he would blossom.

And so he did, though it took some time. Within a couple of years, Charlie was allowing pets to the head, and within another couple, strokes to his protruding sides and even pats to his ample backside. Still, I could not pick him up or kiss him, and feared what might happen if he did indeed need vet care someday.

I looked forward to seeing his funny face morning and evening when I took out his food, sat with him sometimes while he rubbed against my legs. I loved him in that unrequited way that one loves a cat beyond reach. And when he died, it made me re-evaluate my idea of which cats are mine and which are not. Most of the cats I feed on my morning rounds are touchable now, but even those who still shrink away from me have my devotion, my affection. Does a lack of lap time make them any less a part of me?

I went to pick up Charlie’s ashes last week, and a new counter gal brought me the little cedar box with his name on it. She flashed a look of shared grief. “Awwww, was he your cat?” she asked sweetly. I smiled.

“Yes, he was,” I replied. “Charlie was my cat.”