By Sarah T. Schwab
My mom owns about 134 cat knick knacks. This is just a rough estimate. It could be more.
I, on the other hand, own none. It’s not because I dislike cats. I love them. But after a childhood of dusting said knick knacks, I have become a minimalist; less is better, less is a lot less work.
My upcoming film projects were put on hold because of the Covid craziness, so I decided to adopt a cat.
My previous feline, Mooshu, passed away in August. He was 12. I got him in college after a friend found a litter of tuxedo kittens under his deck. My dad had died a month prior and I needed something to love.
When Mooshu passed, I was devastated. It was right before I was to direct a feature film, so I threw myself into work and gave myself time to heal.
I placed a post on a local community Facebook page in March, and was immediately pinged with a photo of Russian blue kittens. I was so smitten that I adopted two.
Sarah T. Schwab.
Naming cats is a big to-do for me. “Mooshu” was initially “Moo” because of his black and white coloring. But I didn’t think this was sophisticated enough so I added the -shu. He certainly grew into his name; all 15 pounds of him instilled images of a cow or pig.
For the gray kittens, I also chose names based on their coloring: “Rainy Day” (male) and “Ellie Font” (female). They are now 12 weeks old and climbing on top of everything: curtains, counters, bookshelves, desks.
They are energy incarnate; adventure is their plight. That’s why Rainy bolted out the front door two days ago. It was late afternoon and I’d been reading outside in the sun. When I went indoors for water, he tore loose. I chased him, but he was high on his newfound freedom and ran straight into the thousands of acres of state game land surrounding my house, disappearing immediately.
I walked through the woods (losing my flip-flops in the process) calling his name.
Nothing.
After an hour of searching barefoot, I went home to see if he’d come back. He hadn’t. Thunder rattled in the distance; a storm was brewing. I went out again, this time wearing “Wellies.”
The peepers started at dusk, muffling my cries. I went deeper, looking up trees, inside uprooted trunks, thinking I saw him out the corner of my eye just for it to be a squirrel.
The sky turned slate and a strong wind blew. A sprinkle of rain quickly turned into a downpour. Lightening ripped across the sky. All I could think about was how scared he must be.
I continued to search until dark.
Soaked through, scratched up, and still kitten-less, I sobbed like a child. The things in my head were horrific: nightmares filled with bears and mountain lions and fox.
I walked home, helpless. I sat on my porch, calling his name in vain.
“He’s gone,” I kept thinking. “I’ve lost him.”
An hour later, I saw a flashlight coming up the neighbor’s drive.
“I got something for you!” called Clark, the 70-something version of Daniel Boone.
Wrapped in his wife’s scarf was Rainy, wide-eyed and sopping wet. Apparently he’d climbed their back fence and meowed at the light inside their bedroom window. His wife, Jane, heard him and scooped him up.
Relief overwhelmed me. I couldn’t make out the words. I simply cried. I called my mom and told her what happened.
“It’s terrible to love something so much,” I said.
She agreed. “Imagine having kids,” she said. “You can’t imagine how much your life changes when it becomes all about protecting your child.”
I spent the night checking Rainy for injuries and ticks, while his sister licked him clean. Once the shock of the situation passed, all I could think was, “He earned his namesake.”
I absolutely acquired my mom’s obsession for cats. I’ve also inherited her ability to love deep. It can be a terrible thing. But it can also save you, even through the pain.
Sarah T. Schwab, who grew up in Eden, tends to her cats in the Pocono Mountains.
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