45 Days
Ralphangel went back home yesterday. He had been here, living with me, for nine days. That’s like 45 days in the life of a cat. Long enough for him to get attached to me and his new surroundings. Long enough for him to become part of my life. Long enough for him to forget his permanent home, maybe?
I don’t know what breed of cat Ralphangel is. My ex wife, Carlstene, got him from a rescue shelter several months ago. He is black and white and has longish hair that does not shed much. That’s a good thing. We’ve encountered each other before but it didn’t show when he was brought to me to watch while Carlstene went on a trip to New Mexico. He didn’t come out of hiding for the first 24 hours or so.
Nine days isn’t really that long, I don’t think. Not nearly long enough to become disconnected from my life before Ralphangel’s appearance. So I thought.
My feelings were mixed as the end of Ralphie’s stay drew near. Carlstene and I had settled on her coming to get him this evening. I knew I’d miss him, sort of. While keeping him had not been a chore by any stretch, there were some minor inconveniences: maintaining his litter box — and tamping down the smell — in the close quarters of my one-bedroom apartment that meant having to dispose of his business often; his repeated chewing on one of my plants, and the expectation that he would eventually knock it over (which he finally did!); hoping he wouldn’t get the notion to use my leather, dual-seat power recliner as a luxury scratch post; and the chance of him yarking on the carpet, brought on by chewing on my plant.
So, in some ways, I felt good about things returning to normal once Ralphie was gone. Let me amend that. I tried to feel good about it, fake myself out. Rationalize it. But deep down, I didn’t want the cat to go. He had become a part of my life, had insinuated himself into my affection to a degree unanticipated. The way he would schmooze me into feeding him the good stuff — you know, the juicy meat dishes. The idle chatter I directed his way as if he were human and gave a flip about my monologues. My feigned chastisements when he ‘mildly’ misbehaved. His racing ahead of me and staking out a place on my bed in the very place I wanted to sit. I really didn’t mind any of these things. Typical cat antics. And I like cats. I’ve pretty much had one — off and on — most of my adult life. Up until separating from Carlstene ten years ago.
When our wires got crossed and Carlstene showed up unexpectedly yesterday— waking me from an after-work nap — to get Ralphangel, I was a little taken aback. I wasn’t prepared to part with the cat just yet. I still had one more day! As she and I talked about her trip, I busied myself gathering Ralphie’s belongings in an attempt to mask my encroaching sadness. In the meantime, Ralphie was being his usual self, unaware of his imminent departure.
Finally, everything was bagged up for the cat to go. Carlstene, who had been loving up on Ralphangel the whole time, maneuvered her way towards putting the cat in his transport container. Ralphie fought a losing battle against his imprisonment and off to the car we went. I felt the tug of sadness even more acutely as he was put in the car. Carlstene and I exchanged good byes and off they went.
Since Ralphie’s departure, when I come home from work — either for lunch or at the end of the day — my first inclination is to call out to him. It’s a reflex. I still feel the urge to conduct our one-sided conversations every now and then. I catch myself expecting him to rush past me as I walk towards the bedroom or the kitchen. I miss him schmoozing for the really good stuff. I miss him jumping on the bed in the middle of the night and sniffing around my face for a few seconds before curling up beside me. He never stayed long. He’s the antsy type.
Ralphangel was here for only nine days. That’s 45 days in the life of a cat. I miss him like it was 45 days for me, too.
