The Cat’s Meow

“You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It’s his 95^th birthday, and he’s just finished getting dressed for our outing. Preparing for this (or any) outing takes my Uncle Donny much longer than when he was a younger man. My brother, sister-in-law, and I have all traveled here to celebrate his birthday. We sat at the kitchen table fifteen minutes earlier, visiting with him, Aunt Betty, and Cousin Russ, and we probably should have cut that part of the visit short a little earlier to give Uncle Donny plenty of time to get ready because now we are running behind and will likely be late for our lunch reservation. Uncle Donny is unaware we are running late, and as we all crowd the doorway, discussing who will drive and who will ride with whom, he approaches carrying a black and white cat. My uncle is dressed and ready but has an important introduction to make before we leave.

“This is Sam,” he says proudly, smiling. I ask if I can pet Sam, and he tells me I can. I ask if Sam is the cat (they have a few cats) with the neurological condition. “Yes,” Uncle Donny says. Then I take a picture because I love Uncle Donny and his relationship with Sam, the cat. I also love how the pair became such good friends because it tells you the kind of people my uncle and his family are. I think, “What a great story,” and I’m glad I took a photo because I’ve decided to write about it.

Several years ago, Aunt Betty found two feral kittens, Sam and his sister, Susie, under the shed in their back yard. She brought the kittens inside, quickly discovering that Sam was wobbly and unbalanced. He couldn’t walk or stand up, and when he attempted to do either, he fell over as if he’d had a bit too much tipple. The family took him to the vet for an assessment, and the vet referred them to an animal neurologist. The animal neurologist confirmed what the first vet suspected: Sam had a neurological disorder that would require constant care. If they were to keep the kitten, in addition to bottle feeding him, someone would have to hold him upright for litter box visits, and once weaned, the kitten would need someone to help him stay upright at the water and food dishes.

Having fallen in love with the tiny feline, they gratefully declined the vet’s offer to adopt Sam himself. They took the kitten home, where my uncle would faithfully carry him to where he needed to go and hold him steady while he ate, drank, and used the litter box. Sam, although still wobbly, is now self-sufficient in getting around. He, Susie, and their mom (all three fixed) live happy, content lives inside and out of harm’s way.

I could stop here and leave you with the heartwarming story of Sam, but I feel like in doing so, I’d only be providing a glimpse into what kind of people my uncle, aunt, and cousin are. You see, it doesn’t begin or end with Sam. I do not doubt that they have always been this way, but I can only start from my first memory when I was eleven.

My mom had passed away that June, and my uncle and aunt invited me to stay for part of the summer. Once there, I instantly felt like I was part of the family. I vividly recall meals with them because of how Uncle Donny interacted with Francis. Francis was Aunt Betty’s sister, and she had Down syndrome. My uncle would put his hand inside his shirt, mimic a heartbeat, and say, “Fran, you make my heart go pit-a-pat.” Fran’s response was always the same: a grin would spread across her face, and then she’d coyly wave him off with an “Oh, you!” I also remember visiting Aunt Betty’s sister’s farm in West Virginia, which was a treat because I’d never been to a real farm before. Aunt Betty also enrolled me (along with Russ) in summer bible camp at their church.

I have many memories from that summer, but I am most grateful that they gave me what they intuitively knew I desperately needed during that time. No one else—not even my father, seemed to grasp the fact that even though I was young, I was deeply grieving and needed love, care, and nurturing. To this day, I still feel loved and cherished each time I walk through their door. And I’m not the only person they’ve made feel this way—the many others who have also become a part of their family would undoubtedly agree.

There, indeed, are angels on Earth:  They have gentle hearts and naturally gravitate toward broken souls who feel alone and lost, and to those souls, they offer kindness, love, and compassion. If you pay attention, you will recognize them, and today, as I sit here writing, I am filled with gratitude because I know of three, and I call them family.