Shame Us

We were alike in so many ways it was difficult not to love him as I loved myself. He was a hugger, above all. He would climb into my lap and place his little paws on either side of my neck before resting his chin on my collar bone. Sometimes, if I'd just eaten, he would keep his face level with mine, savoring the scent of my breath. As I inhaled his breath, I couldn't help smiling at the closeness of our inter-species relationship. His tan fur was a shade no different than my own tawny hair. Our green eyes were practically the same hue. If my husband found these similarities unnerving he never mentioned it. He seemed pleased I had someone to keep me company, because he knew I wasn't about to form a relationship with any of the neighbors.

The cat's name was Mike—never Michael. People often raised an eyebrow when I revealed my feline had a human name, but I had dubbed him such for a my own reasons. What I couldn't describe was the reason it had to be Mike and never Michael. I supposed it was like those people who hated receiving nicknames. “Hi, my name is William.” “It's good to meet you, Bill.” “It's William,” William might correct. It was like that.

Mike had come from a farm. I had chased him down one late-December afternoon for the benefit of my high school aged children. Christmas was upon us and I planned to surprise them good. There had been a litter of six kittens and as soon as the barn doors opened, they scattered. Mike proved to be relatively easy to catch, but he was difficult the whole drive home, clawing and crying and outright refusing to be transported into the city. As soon as I got him inside the house, he calmed. I hid him in our master bathroom for two nights. My husband tried feeding him the fancy wet stuff, but we soon discovered Mike would only eat dry food from my hand.

On Christmas morning, the children—it seemed silly to call them that, they were already so adult—came down the stairs bleary-eyed and angsty as ever, despite it being the day. They breezed past the presents under the tree and stumbled into the kitchen. I recall my daughter pouring a cup of coffee and mumbling about a strange smell.

“You didn't get us a gerbil, did you?” she asked, nose wrinkled with disdain.

My son muttered disapprovingly and hung his head until it reached the granite counter top. Concerned he'd fall asleep and stay in that position, I shook him by the shoulder and invited him into the living room. He was my favorite; he would open the box that held the newest member of the family. To my great dismay, my son shared my daughter's enthusiasm for the kitten: none. He put on a fake smile and thanked us before asking who would take care of the litter box. My husband squeezed my hand and I pasted on a matching fake smile as I handed my son a new Wii game he'd requested.

It turned out Mike was remarkably intelligent. He used a litter box that first winter, but as soon as the weather improved, we worked together and he was soon trained to wait at the door when he needed to go out. I awarded him with the occasional catnip mouse or jingle ball. It wasn't long before I'd formed a relationship with the cat every bit as strong as the relationship I was slowly losing with the kids. In a couple years my daughter moved out, and my son was gone so often it felt like it was just me, my husband, and Mike.

As the family shrunk, my husband made the executive decision that we would downsize our home, too. I argued that the kids would soon have kids of their own and they'd want to visit. My husband said we could consider that when the time came, but in the meantime he didn't want to pay taxes and utilities on empty space. I hugged Mike to my chest and conceded to relocate. We moved to the suburbs, a development with smaller, cookie-cutter houses geared towards retirees. The only benefit of the new location was that Mike could spend more time outside, since the traffic was low. I would sit in the bay window and watch him track squirrels while I read or did Sudoku puzzles and waited endlessly for my kids to call.

My issues with the outside world were present, though minimal, before the relocation. It wasn't until we met the McAllisters and neighbors like them that I really began my journey towards a hermit's life. They were loud, inconsiderate people. The parties on their back patio lasted until the early morning hours. They drove their Lexus Coupe so fast down the street my breath sometimes caught as I realized Mike was out there somewhere. I had visions of him being squashed by their carelessness. In addition to the behavior of the McAllister humans, they had a loud, inconsiderate cat they called Shamus. It irritated me to no end that they chose a Scottish name, but did not remain true to the Scottish spelling. While this wasn't cause to hate him, per se, he was a fat behemoth with black and white spots that made him look more like a small cow than a feline. Worst of all, Shamus was a bully, and when he looked at precious little Mike he saw a plaything. I couldn't count the times Mike came in in the evening with new wounds, scratches on his face, even a bite in his ear. My husband wouldn't say it out loud, but I was sure he found it ridiculous when I tended the sores with tears in my eyes. I would wrap Mike in my shaking arms and retreat to the small bedroom that I had dedicated to the cat.

“What if the kids come to visit?” my husband had asked, the roles reversed in that moment. “We have a queen size bed being occupied by a nine pound cat.”

I tilted my nose toward the ceiling. “I can change the sheets if the kids decide to stay the night.”

After those attacks, I would curl up behind Mike and sleep with him tight in my arms. He didn't like to be stroked for long periods of time, but if I was snuggling him close he would be content for hours. Best of all, if anyone else paid him such attention, he would acquiesce. He wasn't one of those hoity-toity cats with preference and prejudice. I loved him all the more for that.

The stronger my relationship with Mike grew, the more I detested Shamus and the McAllisters. They lived two houses away and sometimes at night, as I sat in the bay window, their motion sensor light would flick on. That light illuminated everything, including their nasty cat standing sentinel in my driveway, watching and waiting for Mike to emerge. Refusing to set foot outside I could do no more than smack the window and hope it would startle the vile cat away. I wanted to protect Mike, but my hands were tied by my reluctance to deal with anything outside my front door.

Months passed slowly at the new house. I watched my husband go in and out in the mornings, kissing him goodbye fleetingly, my hands resting firmly around Mike's body curled in my lap. I never knew whose breathing to focus on. I sensed my husband was beginning to grow weary of my relationship with the cat. Maybe he knew that our time together would come to an end before I was ready. Maybe he saw something in Mike that I was just too close to see. I tried not to analyze it. I tried to enjoy the cat as much as ever. I would hoist him to my chest and savor the hugs he offered me. I would slowly feed him pieces of dry cat food. I would tease him with a ribbon when he seemed restless and it was too cold to go outside.

There came a time when I sensed a shift in Mike's behavior. He began to revel in his time outside. I would open the door and timidly cry out his name, but he would only come half the time, then a quarter of the time. I began to worry he had found someone else, someone who enjoyed spending time outside with him; someone who had better cat food. I grew despondent.

One night when Mike was outside playing, I was stirring pasta sauce in the kitchen. My husband arrived from work with a uniquely pleasant air about him. He cast his eyes around the kitchen, and seeing no sign of Mike, wrapped his arms firmly around my waist and kissed the crook of my neck. My skin tingled in a way it hadn't for what felt like years. “What's gotten into you?” I asked with a smile.

He shrugged those broad shoulders. “I am just happy to see you.” He paused, thoughtful. “Or maybe I should say I am happy to see just you.” He sat at the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and spread out the mail. After flipping lamely through Clipper Magazine, he unfolded a bright orange flier and passed it across the Formica to me. “Check this out.”

I set the sauce spoon carefully beside the stove and turned down the heat. I crossed the small kitchen and looked at the page. There was a photo of the monster, Shamus, perched on an expensive chair looking as mean and deplorable as ever. Above his snapshot were the words LOST CAT. Below was the promise of a REWARD and a number where the McAllisters could be reached with information. I feigned concern, but I knew immediately the cat's disappearance was the cause of Mike's new freedom outdoors. I muttered about it being a shame, but my husband knew I was thrilled.

“Have you seen him?” he asked conversationally.

I shrugged, striving to hide the smile that I could feel shining behind my eyes. “Not in a few weeks, actually. What about you?”

“Not since I chased him away for tearing up my begonias. That had to be months ago.” He paused and watched as I returned to the stove. “Hope he turns up, for the McAllister's sake.”

He didn't see my lips silently shape the words, Not me.

I became even more concerned with how little time Mike was spending inside. I needed him, and I missed the days when I felt like he needed me. One morning, after staying awake all night waiting to hear his scratching at the back door, I decided to bite the bullet and go out to find him. It took me at least an hour to locate a pair of shoes I could wear outside. I hadn't noticed my own reticence to leave the house until it was there in front of me: my trainers tucked away in the back of an upstairs linen closet. Who had noticed my tendency to stay in to such an extent that they removed my shoes from the entryway? I had sat there on the floor outside the closet, holding the shoes to my chest as I would Mike, hardly noticing the tears that rolled down my aging cheeks.

Once I'd regained my composure, I tied the strange shoes over my high arches and wrapped one of my husband's sweaters around my slender shoulders. The empty sleeves hung like broken wings as I stepped off the back porch and into the yard. The autumnal air stung my lungs, the freshness of it surprising me and frightening me as much as it delighted me. It took me another moment to find my bearings in this world that had become so strange, but was at once so painfully familiar. I traipsed carefully around the outside of our house, marveling at the late-season flowers that were still in bloom in my husband's carefully tended gardens. I whispered Mike's name, and when nothing bad happened as a result, I cried it a little louder.

Before too long, I heard a rustle in the bushes and Mike appeared. His tail was flicking behind him, his whiskers long and proud. I scooped him up in my arms and pulled him into my chest. For a while I let him nuzzle against me with his head. He placed his paws on either side of my neck and rested his chin on my shoulder. He mewed quietly into my ear, “I want to show you something.”

Following Mike's directions, or perhaps my own intuition, I walked slowly around the far side of the house. I found a wood pile my husband must have created. Nearby there was a rake and a shovel and a push broom, all resting against the siding of the house. My eyes fell on something through the spokes of the rake. It looked like a matted, moldy blanket with a cow pattern. I racked my memory for that blanket, if it had ever belonged to one of the children. As I stepped closer, however, a strange sensation spread within my chest. I squeezed Mike a little tighter and he meowed again, this time more insistently. He was frightened.

I reached out one arm and moved the rake aside. There, in a heap of fur and long-dried blood, was Shamus the cat. He was lifeless and hollow, his eyes long gone, leaving empty pinkish-black sockets. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn't help noticing the larvae and flies that had made a buffet of his dog-like face. I stepped back in surprise as all the pieces fell together: Mike's new freedom to explore the outdoors, the McAllister's frantic fliers, my husband's attitude towards everything. I did not want to know who was responsible for the demise of the cat. I would not ask any questions. After placing Mike carefully in his bedroom and closing the door, I returned to where Shamus lay. I used the shovel to scoop up the carcass, which proved to be much lighter than I had anticipated. It had been a dry few weeks. I hoped this would make it easier to pull off my hasty plan. I carried the shovel in through the back door and dropped its contents in the fireplace. I practically ran the shovel back to its original spot, grabbed an armful of the prepared logs, and returned to the hearth. I held my breath as I created an expert fire around the decaying cat. I closed the doors, certain breathing the burning flesh would bring me more harm than Shamus had ever brought Mike. I sat back on the floor and watched the flames engulf the fur, lighting it like kindling and making it black. I watched the funeral pyre with the same confused set of emotions I had felt on discovering the animal. I then decided if I couldn't pin-point my attitude, perhaps Mike could help.

I walked slowly down the short hall and opened his door. Mike jumped primly from the bed and sauntered out of the room. He stalked with purpose to the fireplace and when he arrived at the tile in front of it, he curled up and enjoyed the ambient heat produced by his burning enemy. I watched him intently, hoping he would give me a clue, an indication of how I should think or feel or proceed with the whole situation. He looked at me then, returning the intensity of my gaze. He mewed once and proceeded to give himself a bath.

When my husband arrived home a couple hours later, I was still wearing his sweater and the trainers. Mike was curled in my lap. My eyes were dry. My husband took this in slowly, processing what he was seeing. He took note of the shoes, the sweater, the smoldering logs in the fireplace.

“You went outside,” he observed quietly.

I nodded.

Without a word, my husband moved to the adjacent kitchen and pulled out a drawer beneath the microwave. He shuffled through a small stack of papers before producing a neon orange sheet of paper, folded in thirds. He walked to where I sat, pulled open the door to the fireplace, and placed the paper gently on the depleted logs. There were one or two flames still fighting for survival and they thrived as they swallowed the paper. I watched it shrivel, just as Shamus had. I looked up at my husband with bewilderment in my eyes.

My husband closed the door, dusted his hands, and sat on the floor beside me. He gathered Mike into his lap and I watched adoringly as our cat reached up and placed his paws on either side of my husband's collared shirt. He rested his little chin on my husband's shoulder, his emerald eyes locked on me, a small smile playing on his kitty lips. I smiled and tickled the top of his little head before leaning over and resting my own head beside his on my husband's strong shoulder.