Silence has become the standard by which I judge all things. People who talk too much or too loudly, chew food in a way that amplifies the crunch, have loud ringers on their phones, or wear hard soled shoes that clomp across the floor…well, let’s just say I don’t let them into my inner circle. So, when a mewling kitten showed up in the drainage ditch near my house, I was reluctant to take it in. The incessant screeching forced me to rescue it, if for no other reason than to try to stop the sound.
She needed to be bottle fed, not an easy feat for a person with no sense of time. I am a book scout and read all day for a living. I will sometimes read for six or seven hours straight if I’ve got enough material, only taking quick restroom breaks and snacking while I read. I set alarms for my alarms because I also sometimes fall asleep while I read, my brain giving out without notice. And they aren’t supposed to be held like human babies. They have to be on their bellies and knead something like they would on their mother’s teat. I look all of this up so I would do it right, including stimulating her anus with a wet cotton swab to imitate the attentions her mother would naturally provide.
Phoebe is an ugly kitten. Her face is squished, not in a cute way; what little hair she has is a non-descript greyish-brown. Her mother probably abandoned her because her front paws have something wrong with them. The four fingers and one thumb on each seem to be fused together and the paws twist inward slightly. Even worse, she’s loud. Her back paws seem fine.
My small rental is situated on a cul-de-sac near an elementary school. The plan is to advertise as close to the school as I can once Phoebe is old enough to wean. Children are suckers and their parents are even worse. A disabled kitty will have a home in no time. I just have to make it another month.
We’ve settled into a routine, Phoebe and I. She cries, I respond to stop the horrific noise with whatever I think she needs most right then, she falls asleep, and I get some work done. The longest stretch of silence we have achieved is 2 hours. In all honesty, it might have gone longer, but I got worried and jiggled her to make sure she was alive. She awoke with a vengeance and ate until her belly nearly burst.
It’s a ridiculously silly comparison, I know, but this experience has made me appreciate my mother more. When I was born, she had no one to help her and worked long hours to provide for us. My stepdad came into the picture when I was nine, but for years it was just us. All on her own, she kept me alive – the nighttime feedings and diaper changes, the cooking and cleaning. The woman deserves an award. I can’t wait until this kitten can eat solid food and I can find her a home. I’m worn out.
She likes to sleep in the hood of my hoodie and makes a great neck warmer. It gets chilly in the alcove where I like to work, looking out at a pecan tree growing in the neighbor’s yard. The branches hang down over the privacy fence that connects our back yards and pecans spill onto my property. I don’t mind at all because I take them all every year and make pecan pies for the holidays. This year I’m planning to make praline. Last year some of the pies went to waste because I have no one to share them with other than my parents.
I decide to take a walk to the mailbox at the end of my street with Phoebe curled up in my hood. Movement doesn’t seem to wake her, only hunger, but it is about time for a feeding and she has begun to wiggle and squeak. On the way back home, she begins climbing the cloth of her makeshift bed with her tiny claws and I fear she might fall out of my hood. In my haste to grab her I drop my mail rather dramatically. A man raking leaves in his yard stops mid-rake and waves; I pretend not to notice, busy with my mail. He doesn’t take the hint and assumes my lack of eye-contact requires a verbal interaction.
“Hey!” he says, tilting the rake he is holding away from himself and adjusting his baseball cap with his free hand. He could be on the cover of a men’s health or fitness magazine. His every movement draws my eyes, the unabashed grin demanding my attention. I stop, say hello, and even force a smile. He seems genuine in his attempt to be friendly, but as he starts to walk toward me a compulsion to bolt wells up. I squelch it because he is really cute.
“Can I see?” His hazel eyes light up and the corners crinkle the way I find sexy in men of that age. I am confused for a second, but then realize he is talking about Phoebe. He gathers all of my mail for me. I find gentlemanly manners quite sexy, as well.
“My turn,” he says, and offers a trade, the mail for the kitten. A wave of overprotective fear grips me. No one else can hold my baby kitten. He might not do it right. What if he drops her? I push back the irrational panic and gently place Phoebe in his big hand. She looks so vulnerable it makes me want to cry.
We chat amiably about kittens and how much work they are. He tells me he is new to the area, having moved here to be closer to his 11-year-old daughter and in a home where he can have her over every other weekend. I can see I may have found a home for Phoebe already.
I warm up a little and decide to offer some neighborly advice. “If you’ve never eaten at the Thai restaurant on Main, you have to check it out. Their lunch specials are really cheap and the food is authentic.”
“I love Thai,” he says. “How about tomorrow at noon?”
I smile and nod, then realize he is asking me to join him and I freeze. I guess I started it. I might have even sounded like I was angling for a date. “I wasn’t trying to ask you out,” I fumble. “I was just trying to tell you about some good places around here.”
“I know,” he says, the twinkle in his eye giving away amusement at my back peddling.
I decide to be brave. It’s just lunch.
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Styling my shoulder-length thick brown hair into some semblance of order proves impossible. A messy bun with a few loose curls hanging here and there will have to do. Phoebe is wiggling around in the bathroom sink where she was curled up in a hand towel sleeping only a moment ago. I imagine she can sense my excitement and is nervous about being left home alone. I begin to worry that this was a bad idea. What if she cries so hard that she stops breathing and dies? What if, in her panic, she escapes her box and gets trapped inside the couch and can’t be rescued? I almost cancel my lunch date, then scoop Phoebe into a snuggle, willing myself some of her spunky courage. She is my little good luck charm. She begins to scream because she’s learned that is what gets her a bottle. I sigh and roll my eyes, knowing her pathetic cries are fake.
“Little drama queen, I already fed you,” I tease before putting her into the box on the bathroom floor. I check my mascara in the mirror, take a deep breath, and head out. When I am almost to the front door, her cries intensify and I run back to the bathroom. I decide to set the box in the bathtub as an added safety measure.
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Phoebe stretches out between us, one paw across Mitchell’s forehead. Her intermittent purring blends with Mitchell’s rhythmic soft snore, but all I hear is silence. My sweet lover bought me custom molded shooting earplugs that hunters use to block out the loud sounds of weapons blasting next to ears.
I moved into his place because it made sense, but we brought most of my furniture because his consisted of bean bags and futons. His back yard has a wide oak that shades the patio and there is a pecan tree in the front. He loves to work outside and keeps the lawn pristine. I hate the sound of the lawn mower revving up, knowing I’ll have to put in my earplugs to get any of my own work done. I do occasionally miss the silence of my manless sanctuary, but then I take in the stunning view – not of the trees, of him muscling things into place along the fence or digging a hole for who-knows-what-reason men dig holes. And for the adorable way he clangs and bangs and slams tools around outside, then slips off his boots at the door and wears socks in the house so I don’t hear footfalls.
Things are a little more raucous when Mitchell’s daughter comes over for a weekend, but I’ve found I can tolerate joyful exuberance more than I realized. And it is worth it to see how happy it makes Mitchell when she’s sprawled on our couch watching movies with us while scrolling through her phone. They make fun of me by doing fake sign language and whispering dramatically when I’m in the room. When they are at work and school and I have the house to myself, I revel in the quiet – absolute peace for me to dig into my books.
I obviously never tried to find Phoebe another home. After a few months of never leaving my side, I couldn’t bear to part with her. She nestled her way right into my heart. And the only time she puts up a fuss is when I am taking too long to feed her and she thinks I deserve a scolding. She walks just fine, though her paws curve in, so she looks a little like she’s walking on the wrists of her front legs. She doesn’t climb well, but can jump really high because her back legs are quite powerful. She rarely needs help doing anything. She likes to curl up on my lap, and every once in a while, when I’ve had my fill of silence, I’ll take out my ear plugs and listen to her purr while I read.
rebekahjmarshall 