Midnight's Cat Musings, --- from author and cat lover Antoinette Beard...

Cat's Corner · July 22 at 3:09 AM >>>

· I was twelve when I carried my dead grandmother's cat across town, hoping that somewhere she would be loved more than life had ever loved me. The box grew heavier with every step. Not because Minka was big. She wasn't. She was old and thin, with white fur that had already turned yellowish on her paws and ears. Hardly a sound came from the box. Just the occasional soft meow, as if she were asking something I had no answer for. I kept saying, "It's okay, girl. We'll be there soon." That was a lie. I didn't even know myself if anything would ever be okay again. My grandmother had died on a Tuesday morning while I was at school. By Friday, I was already back in foster care on the other side of town. My things were in two garbage bags. And her cat was lying on my lap, as if she already understood that everything was broken. The foster family wasn't angry. They only had rules. No animals. Enough problems already. Too much hair, too much smell, too expensive, too much work, too risky. I heard that on the very first evening. And I also heard an adult say, "The cat's already old anyway." Already old. As if that would make it easier to get rid of her. Minka had belonged to my grandmother for twelve years. Grandma always called her "my grumpy little roommate." Every night, Minka slept at the foot of her bed. Every morning, Grandma kept her hands warm on her coffee cup and talked to this cat as if she were a person. When Grandma was no longer there, Minka waited first by the bedroom door. Then by the window. Then on Grandma's old cardigan, the brown one that still smelled faintly of powder and peppermint. I knew what that kind of waiting felt like. So I started secretly feeding her. First, I took my pocket money. Three crumpled euros and a few coins from the bottom of my backpack. At the kiosk, I bought the cheapest cat food I could find. When that was gone, I started saving some of the leftovers from dinner. A bit of chicken. Half a sandwich. A few pieces of tuna, if there was any. Some nights I went to bed hungry because Minka had eaten first. I never felt sorry for myself. I just thought of Grandma's hands, crooked from arthritis, scratching Minka behind the ears and saying, "Promise me no one will put her out on the street." I had promised. And then life took a turn, and I couldn't keep that promise the way I wanted to. So I tried to keep it in the only way I could. I found the animal shelter's address on a poster at the bus stop. I didn't have any money for the bus. And I didn't want to tell anyone where I was going. If they had known, they might have stopped me. Or worse: they might have simply taken Minka themselves and dropped her off as if she were nothing. So, early Saturday morning, I got up, put Minka in an old cardboard box with air holes in the sides, laid Grandma's cardigan next to her, and started walking. It was more than five kilometers. My arms were already aching before I even reached the second corner. Cars drove by. Dogs barked from behind fences. At one point, I had to stop and put the box on the curb because my hands were shaking so badly I thought I was going to drop it. When I lifted the lid a little, Minka blinked at me with her dull old eyes and pressed her face into the cardigan. "I know," I whispered. "Me too." When I finally arrived at the animal shelter, the T-shirt was sticking to my back, and my legs felt soft. I almost turned around when I saw the front door. I almost wanted to take Minka back with me and just keep hiding her for as long as possible. But hiding isn't the same as rescuing. A woman at reception looked up when I came in. She was maybe in her early sixties, with tired eyes and a kind face that made me want to burst into tears. "Well, hello there," she said softly. "Who have you got with you?" I put the box down on the floor because I couldn't carry it for another second. "My cat," I said. She crouched down and lifted the lid just enough to see Minka, curled up in her cardigan. "Oh," she said. "She's so beautiful." I was on the verge of completely breaking down. I pulled the folded note out of my jacket pocket and gave it to her before I lost my nerve. It said: Her name is Minka. She's old, but very sweet. She likes soft blankets and tuna. She likes to nap by the window in the afternoon. She belonged to my grandmother, and my grandmother has passed away. Please don't let Minka think that everyone always leaves. The woman read the note once. Then again, more slowly. When she looked at me again,She had tears in her eyes. "Did you walk all the way here by yourself?" she asked. I nodded. "How far?" "A little over five kilometers." She pressed her lips together, as if she had to restrain herself. Then she said, "Bringing her here was brave." I shook my head. "It doesn't feel brave." No, I didn't stay long. I stroked Minka one last time. She pressed herself into my hand, and for a terrible moment, I just wanted to grab the box again and run away with her. Instead, I simply said, "Be good, girl." Then I turned and left before she could see me leaving her. That evening, I automatically wrapped a piece of bread in a napkin while eating, before it occurred to me that there was no cat waiting for me there anymore. That night I cried into my pillow so no one would hear. Three days later, the woman from the animal shelter found me. Her name was Mrs. Schneider. Somehow, she had tracked me down through the flyer, the poster, and a great deal of kindness. She said that a picture of Minka and my letter had been circulated all over town. People had cried. They had called. They had asked about her. An elderly couple had taken Minka in. A quiet apartment. A large, sunny window. Soft blankets everywhere. Then Mrs. Schneider smiled a little and said, "There's something else." A family had also seen the post. Not a rich family. Not a fairytale. Just good people, she said. They wanted to meet the young man who loved an old cat so much that he would rather go hungry himself and walk five kilometers to keep her safe. A week later, Mrs. Schneider took me with her so I could visit Minka in her new home. She was lying on the back of the sofa, in a patch of sunshine. Grandma's cardigan was neatly folded beside her. When she heard my voice, she lifted her head. For a moment, I was afraid. Then she made that same soft little meow and slowly came over to me. I immediately dropped to my knees, and she pressed herself against my chest as if she had remembered everything. At the time, I thought that with Minka, I was losing the last thing I had left of my grandma. In the end, it was the first step toward us both finally finding a home.