FAMILY

By Kathleen Crowley

Rosie, our beloved 12-year-old cat, was gone. She had been missing for weeks, and it was certain that she was gone for good. Her unexpected escape outdoors was the final straw for 10-year-old Jake, my youngest son. Through his sobs it became clear that his grief was a result of more than just the disappearance of a dear pet. “Daddy is gone now that you are divorced. My brother Sam has gone to college. We don’t have a family anymore.” His sense of loss and sorrow were almost more than I could bear.

“It’s going to be ok, Jake,” I promised gamely. “You and I will create a new family. Let’s get some kittens!” He brightened but then bit his lower lip. “What about Truman?”

Truman was another beloved cat—likely Rosie’s brother, but he lacked Rosie’s calm demeanor and sweetness. He was a tough guy—a good mouser and inveterate hunter of the small, furry creatures that populated our large backyard. Truman also could be a cuddler, but Jake was, frankly, right to worry about bringing little kittens into the hunter’s domain.

“We will figure it out,” I promised, sounding a lot more confident than I was. “Let’s go to the pet store! I saw a bunch of kittens there earlier today.”

In the strip mall pet store, we soon found ourselves in a room filled with young kittens, just old enough to be separated from their mothers, with a few older ones mixed in. I immediately saw a shy male black cat—one of the older ones—that I thought would be perfect. But Jake was already holding a tiny, buff-colored, big-eyed ball of fur—fur that would most assuredly show up on all the black clothing I routinely wore to work. “But Jake, look at this nice black kitten here” I implored—but, no sale. He was in love with the little buff girl in his arms; AND he insisted we needed to also take home her sister, a gray-striped tabby.

We proceeded cautiously when we got “the girls” home. I closed the door to the family room as we unboxed the kittens and introduced them to their new world. I was fearful Truman might come in and attack them. Meanwhile, Jake was thrilled and already feeding, petting, and coo-ing to his new babies. After much discussion, we finally chose their names: the buff one became Dora, and the tabby was called Delilah.

Eventually, Truman came into the room—and after initially being terrified of the tiny new, mewing family members, he gently sniffed and licked each one. The girls immediately fell in love with the old guy and within two weeks I would often find the three of them in a giant fur pile. The girls loved Truman’s thick yellow mane and burrowed into its lush warmth whenever they could. And Truman beamed like the proud grandpa he had just become. They were all family now.

On that first night, I made a solemn deal with tiny Dora: “Ok, little one,” I whispered. “You can put your fur all over me, but you MUST make Jake happy and make him feel loved.” And somehow, I knew she knew what her life’s mission was to be, and in that moment, she took it on whole-heartedly.

After 16 years, Dora died peacefully in her sleep, knowing she had fully accomplished her mission. Her boy was grown—and now happily married with two children of his own. He had, for the second time, created a new family for himself, albeit in a far-off place. That sweet kitty was, in retrospect, one of the most important family members we ever had.

These days, 18-year-old Delilah and I cuddle alone on our couch and remember Dora, Truman, and the good old days when my sons filled the house with laughter, video game parties, friends, and lots of pets for the kitties. Delilah is now arthritic and slow and has only me for company save for occasional visits and FaceTime calls. But she too knows she has fulfilled her mission to be a part of Jake’s family, and for that I am forever grateful.

Sometimes, the best family members are those you choose because you need what they have to offer.