Annabelle, you are working my last nerve!
It was the middle of October, and my ten-month-old kitten was impossible. I loved her enormously and I was grateful for her company, but I was accomplishing nothing. I had a deadline to write two orchestrations for my London friend Martin, and each time I sat down to write, Annabelle climbed onto my worktable, where she played with paper clips and pencils before lying down on the score paper to gaze into my eyes, roll about, and then settle again.
What are you doing, Daddy?
I’m orchestrating a number for Martin, I replied.
Why did you erase those dots?
I just painted myself into a corner. I can’t concentrate.
I did not add, you’ve asked me these same questions every day this week, Missy.
Paint? You’re writing.
It’s just an expression of speech.
Ah, she said. I understand.
I knew she didn’t, but she’s a cat. She bit on a paper clip she had managed to pick up with her claws, let it fall, and rolled over again. Then she attempted to pick up the edge of my desk calendar with her claws. I stroked her back, then scratched it.
Aaaaah, she cooed. Can you get under my ear?
Can we do this later? I asked. I’ve got to write twenty measures this morning.
She rose and walked very deliberately over the score, calculator, and pencil sharpener to climb inside the bookcase of scores facing me. She lay on top of the Bernstein scores and gazed soulfully at me.
I love you, Daddy.
I love you, too, Annabelle. You’re my little girl.
She sighed, then inspected the interior of the shelf.
You don’t seem happy today, I said to her.
I’m bored. I want to play fishie on a pole.
Her favorite toy is a pink fish on a pole. We have fierce games in which she chases that fishie with athletic jumps and leaps across the floor and into my bed, across the floor, and up into the cat tree, a wonderful structure of levels topped by a circular crow’s nest where she spends much of her day napping and watching the birds on the fire escape.
I can’t now, Missy. I’ve got a deadline, you know. I’m sorry. Can you wait till tonight?
I guess.
She sighed, climbed off the West Side Story score, left the bookcase, walked across the worktable, and climbed onto the windowsill. There she sat, wistfully looking out the window at the traffic on West 82nd Street.
And I had a thought.
Annabelle, how would you like a little brother?
She gave me a puzzled look.
A little brother? Maybe? How little?
I don’t know . . . I’d have to look around. How little would you like?
I don’t want a little baby. I want one old enough to play with. And have adventures!
So, your answer is yes?
Do you promise?
I do.
And my search began. Each day I worked on my orchestrations, and on break I’d look at kittens for adoption online.
About a week earlier, I’d gone to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Since I’d made this trip nightly for nearly forty years, I turned on no lights. On my way back to bed, since I couldn’t see a gray cat in the dark, I stepped on Annabelle, who had followed me. She was not amused, and I was really apologetic.
The next cat, I decided, will not be gray or black; I want one I can see in the dark. It will be a white kitten or a creamsicle, an orange and white kitten. Every day I checked the shelters and various animal rescue groups on Facebook. Annabelle and I fell I love with Archie, an adorable orange and white kitten.
Dammit! I loudly responded to an email.
What? Annabelle asked me. She jumped onto the computer table.
I got turned down to adopt Archie, I told her.
Oh, no! I liked him.
Me, too, I said.
The agency rejected me because of my age. The email was kind, but emphatic:
I just had a chance to see your app. You seem like a stable and responsible person however at 71 I am apprehensive about you taking a kitten. Cats seem to be living to 15-20 years regularly now once fixed and eating a healthy diet. I get requests all the time about rehoming cats when the owner becomes elderly and has to move or is physically unable. If the rescue group you adopted from has an agreement where you have it in your will to get them the cat back if something happens to you, I suggest adopting a cat from them, so they can get both cats back safely.
I found another agency with a beautiful, bright-eyed kitten, and I applied for adoption. The emails were friendly, we seemed on track, I was positive I would pass, since they called me with several questions that seemed hopeful, but . . .
I’m too neurotic.
I had a panic attack. What if they do not get along? What if she hates him? What if he hates her? What if I’m too old? What if? What if?
I canceled the adoption and regretted it an hour later. I was too embarrassed to call them back and beg for another chance.
You promised me a brother, Annabelle sadly told me.
Well, you know what they say about Rome, I said.
No, I don’t. But . . . you promised.
Yes. I have not forgotten.
We went through several unsuccessful adoption moments: Adam was already adopted, Tom was on a waiting list, and my choreographer friend Mike, who rescues feral cats, was on vacation. By then it was the last week of October.
Annabelle! There’s a cat adoption this Saturday at 2:00 at Petco, right up the street!
She looked up from her Backstage casting notices
Are you going? She asked me.
What do you think?
Bring me back a little brother!
The following Saturday, I arrived on time and watched the adoption agency set up. The volunteers and foster parents arriving with carriers of cats ands kittens were friendly, and the cats, most of them gray or brown tabbies, were beautiful. I walked to the front of the store where they were setting up more cages, and there he was.
His name was Thatch, he was three months old, and he was absolutely adorable: orange and white with two bright gold – or were they green? – button eyes. I was smitten. No arrow ever pierced a heart with more punch or alacrity. I ran for an application and filled it out.
You know, I should warn you, Carol, the nice lady who ran the agency, said. He’s a rescue from a Bronx garage roof. He’s semi-feral and still needs more socializing.
I think that should be fine.
His foster parents say he’s coming along nicely. He and his sister are playing well with the other cats they’re fostering.
Five days later I traveled to the home of Thatch’s foster parents in upper Manhattan to meet them and Carol and pick up Thatch. I gave her a check, filled out various forms, and brought him home. Annabelle was delighted when Val, our building’s wonderful super, brought his carrier up for me. She danced around with excitement.
Missy, I said to her, this is your new brother Thatch.
Thatch! she cried. Then she climbed all over the carrier to get to him.
His response was not a good one. Her aggression scared the hell out of him. As soon as the carrier was opened, he ran for shelter under the cat tree, and as soon as Annabelle ran up and licked his face, he screamed in terror and ran to hide. We didn’t see him for two days, although late at night I could hear him crying from under one of the bookcases near my worktable. I finally lured him out with food and put him and his carrier in the bathroom. Each encounter with him was bloody. He had sharp claws and each time I needed to pick him up I ended up with deep scratches. He was so afraid that each time I got him in my hands, he wet himself.
Then I had the idea of putting Annabelle in her carrier next to him in his so they could become used to each other’s scent. After several days he escaped and ran under another bookcase. As soon as I lured him out with food, he went back to the bathroom. There he stayed until I called Carol in frustration. I was afraid I was doing less to socialize and more to traumatize him. Carol said she had an idea.
One of her assistants brought over a large cage, thinking that it would keep him out in the living area with us and help him feel protected until he and Annabelle bonded. The cage was large enough to hold a small litter box, a blanket to sleep on, and two bowls. I made a bed for Annabelle from a small Amazon carton and placed it on top of the cage. Once or twice a day she climbed up there to watch him. Every night I played with Annabelle and her toys in front of the cage, and after a week I noticed that he was playing along with us inside the cage. This seemed positive, so I made the games more interactive to force Annabelle and Thatch to relate. Annabelle chased the pink fishie on the pole and caught it. Then the fishie dropped through the top of the cage so that Thatch could chase it and play with it. At times I dangled it just outside the cage where both he and Annabelle could try to grab it.
Several days later Thatch became sick. One of his eyes was sealed shut with an infection, and he needed a doctor. It might have been the cage, he might have brought it with him, but he and Annabelle both had eye infections. When Annabelle’s vet, Dr. Mohr, examined him, she discovered a heart murmur, which should have been caught by the adoption agency’s vet. Dr. Mohr also confirmed that the eye problem was conjunctivitis. I had to drag him, fighting me all the way, from the cage twice a day to put erythromycin in both of his eyes. He hated it, and I worried that I was doing nothing to breed any affection between us. Should I call it quits? Turn him back to the adoption agency? I didn’t want to. Annabelle’s adoption had been one of my best decisions. I did not want Thatch to be one of my worst.
Since his conjunctivitis was contagious, I had to treat Annabelle as well. It’s for your own good, Missy, I said as I held her down to dose both eyes.
Promises, promises! She yelled as she hid under the bed,
Annabelle’s infection must have been mild since she was fine in a week, but I felt the erythromycin was doing next to nothing for his eyes. Each morning one or both of them would be caked with gunk, and I had to take him into the bathroom to wash them out with cotton balls and warm water before I could administer the salve. One morning Annabelle insisted on playing nurse while this procedure occurred.
It will be good research, she insisted, for when I star in South Pacific.
I agreed, and she ran for her Red Cross nurse’s cap.
I’m going to be a real help, she told me. An hour later I fired her.
My Nellie Forbush was too busy playing with the clean cotton balls to assist me. After the last cotton ball I laid out ended up in the bathtub, I sacked her and banished her from the operating room; I mean the bathroom. She retreated to the cat tree and her Backstage casting newspaper. I hope the acting career works out because she’s failing at everything else. Like any good parent, I worry about her career options.
One day I noticed that Thatch followed Annabelle with his eyes. When she went to the front of his cage, he retreated. One morning, while the door was open as I cleaned his litter, she jumped into the cage and threw herself on him. She tried to carry him by the scruff of his neck while he fought and resisted. I dragged her out while he retreated hissing and shrieking to the back of the cage. I closed the door and carried her into the bathroom.
What are you doing? I demanded. I was not happy.
I wanted to take him out of the cage to play.
Well, I think you’re jumping the gun. He’s not ready yet.
Should I apologize?
I think you should give him some space for a bit.
How long? You promised me a little brother.
She retreated to her covered bed that Auntie Judy had given her the week she moved in. My neighbor Judy had pushed me for nearly thirty years to adopt a cat. She had three, and whenever she saw me in the building, she asked, Do you want a kitten? I had always wanted to say yes, but I spent so much time out of town for work that I felt it was unfair to a pet. Regional theatre and recording jobs could mean four to six weeks in San Diego, Connecticut, a month in London or Dublin, and other places. Now that work was slow, I had adopted Annabelle for company.
I finished my work for London, and several days passed. I took Thatch back to the doctor. Dr. Mohr was out, so we saw Dr. Romero. I complained about the erythromycin and she prescribed terramycin. The improvement was immediate, and within several days Thatch’s eyes stopped oozing and he looked so much better. The Erythromycin did little for him yet it cleared up Annabelle’s infection. Go figure.
One morning I passed the cage on my way to the kitchen, and Annabelle was back in the Amazon box, watching him play with a toy. When I wandered past later, she was still there.
I’ve seen you on top of that cage most of the day, Missy.
Oh, you have?
Don’t be coy. I know very well that you’re trying to make him like you.
I want to play with him. I don’t want him to be afraid of me.
Have you talked to him?
I asked him if he liked musicals.
Maybe he doesn’t know what a musical is, I suggested.
He’s shy, I think.
Can he talk? Do you know?
Yes. I heard him call you a bastard.
Well, I can’t blame him. I do nothing but torture him, I said. He won’t like me much until this infection is over.
Still, that hurt. This realization that he might never like me cut deep. Each time I terrorized him to dose him was a knife to my heart. Annabelle wanted a brother, I wanted a family, and we both wanted Thatch to be happy.
He just won’t talk to me, she said. I just want to play with him. There’s so much we can do together. I’ve made plans . . .
We have to wait and see what happens, I advised.
She burst into tears. I held her, scratched her ears and stroked her back until she relaxed and her crying stopped.
Well . . . I do know something you don’t, I whispered.
What? Tell me! Tell me!
You’ll learn soon enough, I said mysteriously.
What I had observed was that Thatch, like me, had fallen in love with the beautiful Annabelle. I saw the way he watched her, the way he stretched up on his back legs attempting to stick his front paws through the top of the cage and touch her, sleeping like Rapunzel in her Amazon perch above him. Occasionally, when he lay sleeping on his little quilt, she stretched a front paw into the cage in an attempt to touch him. There was a lot of yearning going on and that made me very hopeful.
It’s about time to take down the cage, I thought. But before I do, I’ll leave the door to the cage open for a couple of days. Thatch can come out if he wants to explore and still have a safe place to run back to.
Soon.
She returned to the top of the cage to gaze longingly at her little brother.
I really like that pink fishie game, she said to him. Do you?
He ignored her and played with his ball game. She watched him play for a while before she retreated to her Amazon box on top of the cage. After dinner, she stood at the door to the cage and watched him play with a catnip mouse.
She started to say something a couple of times before she moved away. Then she turned back and said, I can’t wait to watch the DVD of CATS with you.
He ignored her as he batted that little mouse around his cage. After watching him for several minutes of silence, she sighed, turned away, climbed to the top of the cat tree, curled up, and went to sleep. I wanted to hold her, tell her, don’t let your desperation show. That’s why I’m single. Instead, I bided my time.
Soon.
That night, as I was reading my current mystery, I pondered my current mystery: Will this ever work out?
The following morning, I opened the door of the cage. It was a fantastic idea.
Keeping the cage door within close proximity, the curious Thatch wandered out to explore, and each time he did, the parameters of his peregrinations broadened. If Annabelle or I approached, he ran for cover. One morning, she followed him into the cage, jumped on him, wrapped her mouth around the scruff of his neck and carried him out of the cage. It was horrible. He wasn’t happy, and the screaming and hissing lasted long enough force Annabelle to release him. Thatch ran back to the cage with her in hot pursuit. I pulled her from the cage as Thatch frantically tried to bury himself in his litter box.
Are you sure this is a friendly approach? I asked her.
I’m frustrated. It was an impulse.
She jumped onto the computer table and plopped down on my work.
That little baby must think he’s in a horror movie, I said to her.
What do I do?
Give him a couple of days to explore. He’s adjusting to us. He’ll come around.
Do you promise?
Well, you know what they say about Rome.
No, I don’t. She looked very unhappy.
And, she added, you are working my last nerve with this Rome nonsense.
She jumped off the table and ran to the window to complain about her frustrations with me and Thatch to the sympathetic pigeons I feed on the fire escape.
The day passed quietly. Annabelle made a show a strolling past the cage several times. Each time she approached, Thatch dropped whatever he had discovered in his explorations and ran back to the cage. At one point she stood in the door and watched his attempts to disappear into the farthest corner of the cage.
I’m going to be a Broadway star, she said. What do you want to be?
He remained silent. She strolled regally away, jumped onto my bed and nonchalantly groomed herself. When she finished, she returned to the cage. Thatch lay on the little quilt that had come with Annabelle’s carrier.
Daddy promised me a little brother, she said. Is that you? I hope so.
Eyes big as saucers, he stared at her as she turned away to the cat tree to find solace in her latest Backstage.
How’s it going? I asked when I gave her dinner.
I’m losing it, she said.
It’s going to be fine.
Promises, promises, that’s all you give me.
She turned and charged into the cage. Thatch had just finished his dinner and she caught him completely by surprise. Before I could get to them, Annabelle had grabbed him again by the scruff of his neck, picked him up, and carried him out of the cage. He didn’t resist, made no sound, but as soon as he was free, he hightailed it back to the safety of his cage.
Well, that seemed positive, I said to her. He didn’t scream, hiss, or fight. You should be happy about that. Are you?
I thought I might mother him a bit. He still won’t talk to me.
I turned to the computer. She jumped onto the computer table and lay down next to my keyboard. I could see Thatch watching us from the front of the cage.
Give him time, I said.
Yes, she sighed. How long will this go on?
It’s only been a month.
It seems like a lifetime.
I know something you don’t. Be patient. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Aha! she said. Now I know what they say about Rome!
The things you learn, Missy!
We laughed together. From the corner of my eye, I thought Thatch might be laughing, too. Was he?
What do you know? she asked me. Will you tell me?
I’m not telling. It’s just a suspicion. You’ll learn soon enough.
The next morning I had to go out for errands. My first stop was City Center to see my friend Josh, who was helping me send the orchestra scores to London as PDF files. He’s a genius. Then I had to stop at the market for a few things. When I opened the apartment door, I nearly dropped my bag of groceries. On the floor, next to the cat tree, Annabelle and Thatch were sleeping together in the covered bed that Auntie Judy had given her.
What’s this? I asked. I was completely dumbfounded.
Shh, Annabelle whispered. Thatch is napping. Don’t wake him, Daddy.
Thatch yawned and stretched. I’m awake, he said.
Thatch! I said in surprise. I kneeled down to pet him and he turned away to avoid me.
I don’t think I like you. You’re mean.
Daddy loves you, Thatch, Annabelle told him.
Well, I don’t love him, he said, huddling closer to Annabelle.
Thatch, I never meant to hurt you, I said.
You do every day.
You’re sick and I’m trying to make you well.
He did the same to me, Annabelle told him. I hated it, too.
This is your home, Thatch. I will always love you, I said.
Really, he asked?
I promise.
Does he mean it? he asked Annabelle.
Yep. And now that he’s home, we can all listen to CATS!
I put the groceries away and gave each of them a little deli turkey. Thatch liked the treat, and Annabelle, humming “Memory,” danced her little polka step all over the apartment. I turned on the CD player. While the first CD of CATS played, I made myself a turkey and Swiss sandwich and watched Annabelle bond with Thatch. By the end of the day, they had listened to the CD, visited with the pigeons on the fire escape, and played several rounds of tag. Thatch avoided me, but he happily trotted after a blissful Annabelle, his tail waving in the air like a triumphant pennant.
Later that night, when things quieted down after a rousing game of fishie on a pole, we went to bed. Annabelle and Thatch chose the covered bed and snuggled in together. I watched her groom him and made a note to myself to ask Val to help me dismantle the cage. It’s going to work out, I thought, and went back to my mystery. After a few minutes of trying to focus on the story, I set it aside to ponder the situation.
If Thatch never likes me, can I live with that? Yes, I decided. I adopted him for Annabelle. I can’t force him to love me, but God knows I care so much for him. We’ll have to wait and see how it progresses.
After all, you know what they say about Rome.
©2018, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 