Actually, I should start with the evening before. We were having dinner at XYZ in the W Hotel (where the service and food matched the minimalist decor). I griped, as I frequently did in those days, about living my life in six-minute increments and the meaningless tasks I performed as a lawyer working at a large firm. The high salary did little to make me feel good about myself or what I was doing with my life. My husband listened patiently, as he had for three years.
Perhaps he sensed my growing desperation, or perhaps he felt that it was time we opened ourselves to something more. At any rate, out of the blue, he said,
“We should adopt a little Meeaow-Meeaow.”
“What?” I asked, a bit turned around.
“Let’s get a cat. It’d do us good, taking care of something together; having something we both care about, other than our work.”
“Really?” I asked, “But who would take care of it, with the kind of hours we work?”
“Cats are very independent. Ours would take care of itself just fine,” he paused, watching me put a big piece of steak into my mouth, then continued, “and it would take care of us, help you with your stress.” He slipped this last bit in gently.
My husband is the kind of person who cats warm up to. We were in a hat shop once. While I was trying on hats for the spring, he watched me quietly, leaning against the counter. A tabby came out from hiding, jumped lightly on the counter and nudged its head against my husband’s hand. He gazed down calmly at the tabby, which stretched out its entire body against my husband’s arm. By the time I decided to go with a beige newsboy cap, the tabby was luxuriating in a full body massage from my husband, its head thrown back, neck and belly exposed. The shopkeeper gave me a discount on my purchase, saying that anyone his cat felt this happy with could only be a good person.
PREVIOUS PAGE
