Lying Down, pt. 1

Last story first. It begins with a beloved cat with brand new, and reluctantly granted, outdoor privileges. Two weeks earlier, he'd had his shots. And, for the first time in his little life, it was Adam, and not I, who took him to the vet.

I'm a fan of vets, but am forever embarrassing myself in their offices. Whenever my cat is vaccinated or has blood drawn, I inevitably get weepy. I can't help it. I love G. like I love certain members of my family. I adore my husband's cats, too. But, with G., I'm the overprotective mother who can't bear to watch her child endure pain.

So I struggled to keep cool when G. returned home last Friday morning, his ruff damp with another animal's saliva. A moment earlier, Adam and I had both been startled from our desks by a yelp of hurt surprise. In my mind, the sound was an opera singer's note, flung into sky and marring sky with its tracings. The sound was frailty. It was disagreeable black satin. Then the sound dropped to earth and became the panicked shape of my G., scrambling toward us from the tree line.

I pored over G's grey fluff, but, apart from the saliva, could find no other marks. Since G. didn't offer any explanations, we decided he must have tangled with the neighbor's kitty — mouths clamped on necks in that disturbing cat way. G. didn't ask to go out again for the rest of the day. Instead, he burrowed himself deep in the back closet, beneath the swaddled slant of my grandmother's tabletop. I checked on him a few dozen times, and then left for campus.

By 6 p.m., G. was feverish and rag doll limp. I cursed myself for staying on campus so long. Adam was apologizing profusely for not having paid more attention.

"It's okay," I said, loading G. into his carrier. "It's going to be okay. I'm just so grateful he recently had all his shots."

Adam's face twitched.

"What?"

"His shots. I'm not sure..."

"WHAT?"

"I'm just not sure— I don't remember— I'm not sure I asked for ALL his shots."

One by one, each of our three cats had been allowed access to the outdoors this summer. More by accident than design, we had staggered their vet visits, but the bills were steep. It didn’t help that we hadn't received a paycheck since May. And by early August, when Adam had taken in G.…

“Tell me that he had his rabies shot.”

Adam looked stricken. “I’m just not —”

“Tell me he had the shot. I need you to tell me that right now. Tell me he had the shot, Adam.”

(Pause.) “I don’t want to say something that might not be true.”

I stared at him a moment and then darted upstairs to check the vet records.