“Tinkerbell”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Cats. In my childhood, they were everywhere.

I must confess to being a ‘dog’ person. But this inclination might seem somewhat incredible when viewed against my family backdrop of feline pets. This association with kitties began at an early age, as I witnessed my grandfather feeding barn strays at the family farm in Columbus, Ohio. He would toss slices of bologna onto the concrete porch. They seemed to be thrilled with each meat Frisbee gifted in that setting, receiving them with grateful yowls and loud purrs.

I learned to value life and to care for others through the discipline of having a cat. In Chandlersville, a rural community near Zanesville, we adopted an old momma kitty that mother called ‘Purr Mew.’ The life lessons gained were useful and enduring. But I also received painful knowledge of a darker sort.

The final touch of mortality.

Purr Mew disappeared in the summer of 1969, after we moved to Kentucky. She simply went away to finish her journey in peace. I scouted the neighborhood for weeks, not understanding this curious habit. Eventually, my heart surrendered. Yet the sadness never went away.

Later, other cats entered our household. Each revived my faith in having an animal companion. They were numerous and short-lived. The fateful temptation of city streets doomed them to a quick end under automobile tires. My heart broke each time.

A pair of black & white males, with the unlikely monikers of “Elvis’ and “Mewer’ managed to avoid the asphalt guillotine and lived long enough to be given to relatives who owned a farm near Gallipolis, as we were moving. Then, when we lived in Virginia, my sister found a Calico female ready to be adopted. She called the cat ‘Tinkerbell.’ We soon realized that this new pet was destined to be unlike any other we had known.

Miss T was fiercely independent. A characteristic that would later serve her well as a mom. He desire for affection yielded a bi-polar mood that was either ‘on’ or ‘off.’ One moment, she would be content with snuggling and being petted lovingly. Then, her switch would flip to the desire for solitude. Her claws dug flesh and she jumped for escape. We learned to be ready when this happened. Her awareness of surroundings proved to be invaluable. Though she liked to cross the street and play in other yards, no car could tempt her into recklessly coming too close. She pranced skillfully through shrubs and tall grass, darting over the tarmac only when there was an opening in traffic.

She quickly became like a sister. A literal member of our family. Perhaps this was due to her intelligence, the gift of caution and care. But each of us felt differently about her than we had any other pet. She shared everything, every childhood experience. I even remember her having a spoonful of birthday cake and ice cream during one household celebration.

Tinkerbell would live in four states. Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York and Ohio.

I studied through Cornell University in the late 70’s and early 80’s, lingering in the Empire State until personal ruin sent me once more back to my native Buckeye soil. Coming home meant a quick kiss for Mom, a handshake for Dad and then, I wondered about the cat. “Where’s the kitty?” Our Calico was in the basement. She burst into a chorus of loud meows and jumped on top of the washing machine to dance, as I came down the steps. I scratched her ears and hugged her like a lost friend, rediscovered through the mercy of fate.

There was little personal space in the house on Maple Avenue, in Chardon. So the living room couch became my bed. I put my Royal typewriter on the coffee table when working on writing projects. Tinkerbell liked to curl up, nearby. She would watch with silent curiosity as I typed away.

By the mid-80’s, she had reached the age of eleven years and more.

Having a pet of any kind stay so long in the household was something none of us could remember. So her place in the family continuum became certain. We revered her. And she displayed the same affection for us, with feline devotion. Her bond to Dad was particularly strong, to the point that she often placed herself between him and mother when they were speaking. Her body language rang out clearly. “He is mine!”

Tinkerbell developed cancer as a mature cat. I do not clearly recall how this was discovered. Perhaps from a routine checkup at the vet. After such a long journey together, letting her go felt impossibly difficult. We had come a long way together. Life had spun away from the ease of kinder days into a rush toward tomorrow. But we paused as a group, to mourn.

The grief came furious and raw, just as I felt losing my grandmother or favorite aunt.

Afterward, I saw my father cry, for the first time. A commercial for cat food ran on the television as we were about to have dinner one evening. He wiped a tear from his eye, blinking away more that were about to fall. I was stunned. He had always been a durable rock of a man. I could not imagine anything causing him to break. But the loss of our beloved pet touched his soul.

Today, my sister has a black & white kitty named Clara. Elegant as if she were wearing a black gown with white tights underneath. Her personality has the same loving, bi-polar vibe of our lost cat-sister. Sometimes I ponder the idea of reincarnation and muse that perhaps, Miss T has returned to us, in modern form.

We will never know the truth of such speculation. Yet our love for this incredible pet endures.

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