Muse: A Cats Story

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When he grew ill, my parents took him to a veterinarian who tried valiantly to save him, but we lost him a few days after the new year. But I was by no means ready to give up on the presence of an animal in my life. I had been horribly hurt, one of those childhood hurts that remains and with time turns into a lesson.

Still, the memory of the pain was not as strong as the memory of Rusty and Tiger sleeping in my lap, their fur against my hands, the dream come true of their purr in my ear at night, watching them play for hours filled with unbelieving joy that they were in my life, they were mine , even for the brief time they had shared it. I longed for it again. It would take much more than two losses to overshadow the joy.

Two months later, after I had repeatedly asked when we were going to get the other kitten, my parents decided to give it another try.

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They took me to the shelter this time, the Western Pennsylvania Humane Society as it was in , and it was my first experience with the pressing overabundance of animals, dogs barking, cats yowling, the smell of urine and the sight of concrete and cages that had been hosed down. I crept past them all, really fearful at the strangeness of it all but keeping my eyes locked on the cat cages knowing one of those kittens or cats would go home with me.

I came back to a cage at my eye level that held three kittens, two solid gray bundles who wrestled endlessly and occasionally leaped on a third who was cowering in the back of the cage, and who cringed when they came for her. She was gray with white paws and bib and a white blaze on her face, and when they took her out of the cage and let me hold her, she buried her face in my chest and trembled. Perhaps I felt a kinship with her timid nature, her need for quiet and comfort. Bootsie rode home in my coat, me in the back seat looking down at her and telling her not to worry, feeling her warmth against me, her fur under my hand, her cold nose against my finger.

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Because it was winter she was indoors with me until spring came and she was a little bigger, but she went into heat in May when she was only five months old. Two months later she looked at me confused when her water broke on the windowsill and she tried to give birth on the couch, but my mother put her in a box on the floor with a blanket.

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My brother and I watched her give birth to seven kittens, she losing energy and interest after number 5 but managing to eventually clean and nurse them all. Six weeks, the magical time for kittens to be taken from their mother and adopted, was over before we knew it, and my parents found homes for a few of the kittens, kept one and took the rest to the shelter as everyone did then. My mother had thought Pieface was a girl, but the veterinarian called to ask if we wanted to neuter our boy, which we did.

When he was about three, however, my mother determined that Pieface had to go, though he was cuddly and purring and friendly to everyone. I remember remarks about hunting and the mess he made and fleas. I did not go, and it apparently took two tries to leave him there.

But a few weeks later they went again and surrendered him, though I truly never understood what the problem was. It seems like more pain than joy in the retelling, and with all the losses, the messes, the unwanted kittens, anyone might think that animals were just a trouble to live with, and if it was just about cleaning up after them then, indeed, why would anyone bother? But I wanted that bond with an animal before I had even adopted one.

It was as real as the bond with a human and felt much safer, and somehow I knew that relationship went way beyond being a caretaker to being a friend. Bootsie was never playful beyond kittenhood and as an adult preferred not to be touched, but would curl up on my lap or beside me on a chair and always slept with me, and filled a supervisory role while I worked on some art or craft project. And that was all I had ever wanted from the beginning, a quiet, gentle presence to curl up with. If she had been boisterous and playful I would have been just as devoted to her.

It was not because of what she did, it was because she and I had bonded that first night while she was still in the cage in the shelter, and we would accept each other unconditionally. And so it has been with each of the cats who has come to spend some part of my life, days, months, years, decades, and by extension other animals, wild and domestic, that we at least have an understanding if not a deep and compassionate bond.

I can not imagine my life not shared with at least one cat who is my companion, my inspiration and my muse. I think I knew I was a cat person as soon as the first kitten entered my life, and Bootsie reinforced that as my devotion grew. When Bootsie joined me at college in my junior year, I had already adopted a cat from a farmer I had met because I just loved cats and needed a cat in my life. Roommates had cats and even before I graduated there began the eventual parade of castaways, rescues, expectant mothers, orphaned kittens, a never-ending supply of unwanted cats brought to my notice by my deep relationship with that first cat.

From those rough beginnings and witnessing with later rescues injuries, illnesses and abuse, I also learned that keeping them inside, spaying and neutering at the appropriate time and providing an adequate diet and health care helps alleviate much of the messes, kittens and losses and leaves much more room for joy and love. Caring for companion animals has changed dramatically over the past decades, shelter adoptions are very different, and I am grateful that there are simply fewer cats who need homes than there were when I was a child, though there are still far too many, and too many who are neglected, abused and homeless.

Shelve any stray books, adjust the tables, turn off the music. Then, after closing out the registers, Gustafson descends one last time to the store's lower level, the part of the bookstore stuffed with volumes on cooking and gardening, travel and history. And he sits down at an old typewriter to read the notes the day's customers have left behind.

I can't throw away any of these notes. I've got a filing cabinet of just thousands of pages.

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When we were younger, we would color our skies purple Our trees blue, and it always looked perfect to us. Two days sober Thrilled about the first Terrified of the second Do not have enough money to buy a book Today But I am comfortable here Thank you. With every day School draws nearer. I don't know whether to be excited Or nervous Or totally freaking out Or sort of okay Or kinda paranoid. I guess middle school will be okay, sort of. Dear Max, You were a good old cat.

I'm sorry I pushed you off the couch sometimes when you wanted to sit on my lap and I was touched out from the babies and my eyes were itching. I'm sorry for the time I cut your skin by accident trying to cut out the mats and didn't realize how bad it was at first. I'm sorry I sometimes let your nails get too long or ran out of wet food and that I let you go an extra day without your sub-Q fluids at the end. There were a lot of opportunities to not take perfect care of you as I had intended, but I hope you felt that those were the rare exception in the six years you were with us.

I had a great day with you yesterday and hope you enjoyed some of your favorite things on your last day. It will always be a special memory for me. That was one of the first few notes that we got that struck a chord in me that there was something happening here. The story of the Literati typewriter begins with a s Smith-Corona that Michael inherited from his grandfather.

For several years, it resided resided in his Brooklyn apartment — in fact, Hilary remembers the typewriter being there when she first met Michael, and then when they moved in together. And, on a whim, Michael decided to set one up downstairs — not the precious original, just a regular old typewriter.

He envisioned customers stringing out one long story, maybe over decades, with each typist picking up the thread where the last person left off.

But instead, something magical — and totally surprising — happened. Love letters, poems, quotes, sprawling meditations on life. Notes written over the top of others, single words, perfectly spaced paragraphs.

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When it's commencement time at the University of Michigan, advice for new graduates fill the pages. When the holiday season approaches, typists leave notes about the family members they wish were still alive to celebrate with. And of course, the occasional fart joke bumps up against a deeply personal confession.

Five years ago, a husband and wife opened a bookstore in Ann Arbor, Mich. Michael and Hilary Gustafson called it Literati. And, almost on a whim, they did something that would make them famous in the town. We based our logo on my grandfather's Smith Corona. And we thought, well, wouldn't it be fun to put out a typewriter that anybody could use. They would type confessions and jokes and even marriage proposals on this typewriter. And over the years, thousands of people have typed these notes.

And it's just been a wonderful sort of diary of a town happening in a bookstore.

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Each night, after he locks up the doors, closes out the cash registers and re-shelves stray books, Michael Gustafson stops by the typewriter one last time. He pulls out the page, reads the messages left behind and files them away before he heads out. Reading When we were younger, we would color our skies purple, our trees blue. And it always looked perfect to us. Reading Two days sober - thrilled about the first, terrified of the second.

Do not have enough money to buy a book today, but I am comfortable here. Reading If I had to write a five-paragraph essay on this thing, I would withdraw from middle school. Reading Dear Max, you are a good old cat. I'm sorry I pushed you off the couch sometimes when you wanted to sit in my lap, and I was touched out from the babies, and my eyes were itching.

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