The Cat Who Stayed

A human and a feline become unlikely friends

Despite my urging her away, the little feline hung around. When she sat expectantly on my front steps and led me up to the door, I relented. Even a person allergic to cats would take pity on this furry waif. I could see the outline of ribs through her grey stripes and said, “Haraam.” The Arabic word has two meanings: Forbidden, and What a pity. And with that, I named her and claimed her.


We had a conversation outside the front door. I laid out the rules: I would feed Haraam, but I’m allergic. She couldn’t come into the house. Haraam agreed, and I brought out a bowl of leftover chicken soup. She liked it.
My then-husband, Kim, was delighted. He, unlike me, is drawn to animals and children. I prefer to admire them from afar. Kim’s enthusiasm was a mixed blessing for Haraam. He took on the duty of transporting her to the vet for inoculations and sterilization.


I’m not sure why, but cats often approach me. I avoid eye contact, and generally ignore them. Nothing personal, I just want to skip a round of steroids or a session on a nebulizer.


Before long, I was devoted to Haraam. I shopped for cat food, which she liked, and a flea collar, which she detested. Kim built a house out of wood scraps and placed it on the back porch. Haraam didn’t hang around the house much, preferring the woods out back. When I wanted to see her, I stood outside and called her name. Haraam came running out of the trees every time.


The Connecticut woodlands behind our house were home to other animals besides our feline friend. One day I looked out the window to see a red fox walking back and forth with its eyes toward the house. When I pressed my face to the window, I noticed Haraam crouched below. I hurried to the porch door and urged her inside.


One evening, I heard a ruckus on the back porch. I turned on the light and saw a large raccoon lumbering around the floor, and Haraam up on the back of the porch loveseat. Her food dish was empty and water dish overturned. I grabbed a broom and strode out to the porch, ready for battle. The raccoon gave me an insolent look and wandered away.


As winter approached, Kim enclosed the porch. He had installed a cat door after the raccoon incident. Haraam slept on blankets in her wooden house, but we worried as temperatures fell. Kim’s sister, Meredith, gave us a heat lamp and Haraam loved it. We lit the lamp on cold nights, and Haraam lay under it like she was basking on the beach.


The cat came and went at will, and sometimes didn’t come running when I called. She was an avid huntress, and often returned with a piece of her kill. When she uttered a certain demanding Meow, I learned not to open the back door. At those times, Haraam would try to enter the house with her trophy. I also learned to look down at the door mat before stepping outside. I might find a wing, a tail or a kidney from her latest meal.


Late autumn in Connecticut is cold, and we worried when Haraam didn’t show up for a few days. Kim and I called her and looked around the property. Finally, we heard a distant meowing. We called and she responded. Where was the little voice coming from? Way up a tree that had no low branches to climb. Night was falling, and we slept fitfully, knowing our furry friend had gotten herself into a fix.


The next morning, I went to work and Kim stayed home, determined to rescue the cat. We didn’t have an extension ladder, so her rented one and hauled it into the woods with Ivars, our brother-in-law. They extended the ladder to its fullest length and Kim climbed to the top. It was a few feet short of the cat, who meowed pitifully. Kim descended the ladder so he and Ivars could plot strategy.


They decided Haraam must be hungry and would come down if she smelled food. Kim opened a can of tuna, and climbed back up, with Ivars shouting encouragement as he held the ladder. Haraam wouldn’t jump down, even for tuna. Kim returned to earth, tuna can in hand. Ivars came up with a brilliant idea: The Latvian Cat Retriever. He had noticed a peach basket on our back porch and suggested fastening it to a pole. He and Kim drilled a hole in the basket and stuck in a broom handle. They placed the tuna inside the basket. Kim climbed up for the third time, balancing the cat retrieval tool. It worked. Haraam jumped into the basket, nearly causing Kim to lose balance. Kim made his way one-handed down the ladder, balancing his wayward feline friend.


“She must have been excited to see you,” I said, hearing the story.
“Not really. As soon as we got to the ground, she finished the tuna and ran into the woods.”


Feelings of rejection aside, Kim and Ivars were rightly proud of their gallant rescue.


If Kim thought of Haraam his fur child, I considered her My Familiar. She came to me shortly after my mother’s passing, a tender time in my life. Kim admitted to believing Haraam was my mother returned to haunt him. I liked that idea, though I knew it was nonsense.


On sunny weekend afternoons, I often raked or weeded out back. Haraam would come running and we’d adjourn to the picnic table, she on top and I on the bench. Positioning myself upwind, I’d gently brush the cat from stem to stern.


Kim and I had a flower garden on the elevated deck, a favorite lounging spot. Haraam enjoyed the deck and especially liked the fact that it led to the upstairs bedroom. She stalked back and forth along the slider, seeing her reflection in the window one moment and our bedroom through the screen the next. I caught her one day opening the sliding screen door and sauntering into the carpeted room. Kim put a lock on the screen after that.


One morning, I visited a nearby herb farm and browsed through its gift shop. An item labeled “A Bouquet for Pussy” caught my attention. I’d never heard catnip described in such poetic terms, and made my purchase. Once home, I emptied the contents of the bag into a sock and tied it. Haraam was relaxing on the back porch and I tossed the sock her way. She glanced at the sock, took a polite sniff, and ignored it. I tossed the sock again, then again. Finally, she picked up the sock. She obligingly shook it and rolled on the floor with it. Satisfied, I left Haraam to her herbal treat.


Hours later, I looked out back. The tattered sock and a few grains of catnip lay on the floor. There was no sight of Haraam and no answer to my call. I walked upstairs to the bedroom, intent on folding laundry. Just outside on the deck was Haraam, and she wasn’t alone. Horrified, I looked away and dashed downstairs for Kim. Haraam had caught and killed a full-grown squirrel. She was disemboweling it on the deck, with no intention of letting go.

Kim grabbed a shovel from the basement and scooped the carcass for burial in the woods. Haraam was as angry as I’d ever seen her. She took off in a huff.

All too soon, I returned upstairs to see Haraam and her disinterred kill back on the deck. She was tossing it in the air, no mean feat for a six-and-a-half-pound cat. I was close to tears, closer to vomiting, and overwhelmed with guilt. I had given Haraam a drug on which she had overdosed. Would she ever return to normal?

Kim reburied the remains of the squirrel, covering its grave with a pile of rocks. Haraam stretched out for a nap on the deck. She was still there, in the same position, two hours later. I tried to wake her. She lay still. Oh no, I’ve caused her untimely death. First, I drugged her, then she ate a wild germ-infested animal, and now she’s dead. Or in a coma. After much shouting and prodding, Haraam opened her unfocused eyes. I spoke encouraging words. She slowly shook her head, tongue half protruding from her mouth. Of course, she’s thirsty! No stranger to weed induced cotton mouth, I fetched water and urged her to drink. Haraam’s accusing eyes made contact with mine and I looked away in shame. That was her only experience with mind altering drugs, at least under my watch.

I don’t recall the year Haraam joined us, but I remember when she left. It was a time of separations. My close cousin moved to Illinois, a good friend relocated to North Carolina, and Kim to an apartment. Haraam and I were on our own.

As winter closed in, Mike and her two dogs came to stay awhile. I loved Mike’s company, and we spent many evenings sipping wine by the warmth of the wood burning stove. Her dogs were large and noisy. Haraam had trouble accepting their presence in the house when hers was unwelcome. She darted into the kitchen when Mike opened the back door to walk Jake and Pepper. I explained again about my allergy, but Haraam wasn’t buying it.

When Mike and the canines moved out, the house was eerily still. Snow covered the ground. I lit Haraam’s heat lamp on the back porch. Haraam picked at her food and moped around. I was certain she was still steamed about the dogs, even after their departure.

One bright morning, I brought Haraam’s food out to the porch. I called her name. Paw prints led away from the house, but disappeared where snow had melted on the crushed rock path. Haraam didn’t answer.
I called her name every day and night. The food dish remained untouched. Haraam left just as she showed up, without warning. Now I was truly alone.

I busied myself with work and church and weed and alcohol. I blasted rock music and danced by myself. This could be a time of self-destruction or a time of growth. For a while, it was both.
Then I began to write.