There’s never an easy time
to lose a pet, only a necessary one. This month it became clear that our seventeen-year-old feline family member had grown ill beyond
treatment.
RIP Keiko Cat, 20062023.
You were a loyal and noble companion who made our lives sweeter and better—and now yours will be again, across the Rainbow Bridge.
The story below, first published in 2007 as “The Whereabouts of Waldo, or, Keiko the Christmas Cat,” is based on the truthful tale of a newcomer’s arrival one fateful holiday.
Turn the calendar back with me, if you will, to a mild December afternoon not so long ago in a Southern town. Wherever you are at this moment, whether sipping your spiced cider by the fire, or strolling back from the mailbox with a handful of red envelopes, or sifting through the sale circulars; whether watching a cardinal flit to an icy branch or riding the train home or soaking in the last rays of a balmy sunset at the beach—travel backward with me in time.
Three sisters — GRITS (Girls Raised In The South, that is)— grown now, with families of their own, prepare for the coming holiday.Let’s start with the middle one,Sarah, who is helping her husband Walter attach white icicle lights along the eaves of their new place out in the country, while the dogs try to run off with the end of the string. They will host our Christmas eve dinner this year, their first time, and they want everything to be just right.
Then there is Jo, whose teenage boys are helping her shovel another ten inches of snow from their driveway in Canada, where they have lived for only three short months. They’ll fly home during the busiest travel week of the year to rejoin us for a few days.
And then me, Annie, older than the others by some years, with a daughter and son away at college and, at the moment, a Christmas quandary. Poring over the list of gift ideas, penciling in and checking off, racking my brain, at one name I come up
empty each time.
What would Dad like?
What to give a man in his seventy-fifth year of life, whose youngest daughter and grandsons and their big friendly dog and hardy black cat have moved a thousand miles away, and with them the mess and activity and noise that had formerly livened his dreary hours? What to do for a widower who had lost most of his eyesight and hearing, who shuffled about the halls of a strange apartment in slippers and napped long hours and seldom ventured out of doors, a once-robust man whose physical capacities could no longer keep up with his interests and intellect?
A phone conversation arose between sisters. I’ve been thinking, said Sarah. Dad needs companionship. It’s got to be lonely, even with his neighbors in the complex.
Those widow women in his building don’t seem to mind, joked Jo.They called him the rooster in the hen house!
What did you have in mind? I asked. I think, she answered, he should have a cat. Okay with us as long as you do the choosing, agreed Jo and I. You’re the animal expert.
And so it was decided, with little fanfare. Sarah would search for a suitable bachelor cat with an easygoing manner, an older fellow who wouldn’t mind passing his days indoors, wouldn’t be inclined to dash around or demand to be entertained, wouldn’t be a bother to look after. And when she found the right cat, she would bring him to stay with Chris and me until the holiday get-together, safely away from the rowdy dogs.
The cat arrived the afternoon before the party. Sarah brought him in his new travel carrier. She opened the wire door, lifted him out, and set him in the armchair, where he stayed without protest. He was coal-black, his long coat full and shiny, draping sleekly over his solid back and haunches and blending into a curving train of a tail. His ears stood erect; while the right one made a perfect triangle, the left was somewhat blunted, missing the tip and a bit of a side, as though someone had taken a fork to a wedge of pie. But most striking were his eyes, large and startled, his pupils dark like eclipsed suns surrounded by thin coronas of gold-green. He looked at us with them quizzically, as if wondering how he had so suddenly been transported to this alien world.
I said softly. I reached out my hand toward him. He did not blink or move or make any sound. Are you ready for your new home tomorrow?
He was a rescue cat. That is to say, he had been found scavenging among the bins of the county dump. He was quite obviously not from one of the abandoned litters rescuers usually discovered there, nor was he like the feral regulars that crept over the fence each night to scrounge a meal before returning to their woods and fields. No, he was among the newly homeless, a perfectly respectable pet finding himself unexpectedly, at midlife, in reduced circumstances. Had his owners moved away without notice? Had he been kidnapped, only to be dropped off unceremoniously when no ransom was forthcoming? Had he somehow just taken the wrong path in life? We would never know.
Collarless and cold, he had been dispatched to the vet for a checkup and, upon determination that his health was sound, transferred to a foster home. The good folks at C.A.T.—the Cat Adoption Team—had brought him each week to the pet superstore, where they hoped to match him up with a new owner.
But there, among the bright-eyed, cavorting little kittens, he seldom drew much attention. Having learned to be content and unquestioning in uncertain surroundings, he simply retired to a warm corner and watched, sighing, while parents chose other pets for their children and eagerly signed adoption papers. After many such weeks he was in danger of becoming a permanent fixture at the pet store. Or worse.
And that is where sister Sarah stepped in. An animal lover with a soft spot for tough cases, she quickly recognized his potential. His plight struck a chord. Would they not have a lot in common, this thoughtful-looking feline fellow and our lonesome dad?
/
We left Mister Cat to find his own place and comfort level, which he promptly did underneath the shelter of the sofa. Sarah went home to finish party preparations, leaving us with directions for his care and instructions to put him back in the travel carrier and bring him to the festivities the following afternoon. Not a murmur or a meow was heard from the cat when he ventured out to the water or the food or the box. He submitted patiently to the attentions of Liz and Will, who arrived that afternoon with their overflowing dorm-room laundry baskets and tried to help put him at ease, but at every opportunity he returned to his hiding place to sleep. We decided to let him have his space./ The big party day began before dawn in a fluster of cooking and shopping and wrapping and packing. There was a lot to do, as Chris and I would be leaving the next morning for a week-long visit out west. Sunshine and good cheer and music—and a great deal of activity— filled every room. The oven was kept occupied with an assembly line of cakes and casseroles. Shower and washer and sink remained in constant use. Will was dispatched to the airport to fetch Jo and the boys ahead to Sarah’s house. Doors were opened and closed as continually as in a stage farce. The cat seemed to take no notice.
By three in the afternoon, with the gaudy packages and fragrant dishes all stowed in the car and everyone dressed and ready to go, it was time to gather up the last gift. I brought the travel carrier over and lifted the skirt of the sofa. Mister Cat was not there.
Where else could he have hidden? In a rambling old house there were plenty of possibilities. Liz and Chris and I fanned out to look in the logical places, at first with amused expectancy: under beds, on top of dining chairs, behind chests—and then with increasing anxiety, opening kitchen cabinets and closets, searching higher shelves and deeper recesses. He had to be somewhere.
We rattled the cat food container. Liz brought out a slice of chicken. We called out
Here, cat,
as sweetly and persuasively as we could.The more puzzled we became, the more imaginative we grew: was it possible for a cat to hide in a chimney? Could cats get into the heating ducts or find a way underneath the house?
A worrisome thought then crossed our minds. A sudden fear. Had there been moments when the front door was unguarded, left open as items were being taken to the car?
With a heavy certainty, we knew that was it. Yes. We’d been careless.The cat had bolted from a strange place. Like animals in the movies, he had determined to return to his long-lost home. Or simply made a break for freedom.
We frantically searched outside, but there was no sign of him in our yard, among the shrubs, or down the road. Catching sight of a black shadow turning a fence corner, we pursued it—only to find the neighbors letting their own cat indoors.
We were sick at the thought of what might happen to a newcomer cat on our busy highway. Sick to think what my sister the animal rescuer would say. Sick to think that we had ruined Christmas by losing—
losing! — the most important present.
/
A radical idea occurred, as radical notions sometimes do in desperate circumstances.
Call up the pet store, Chris said to me. Oh, that’s an awful thought, I replied. You don’t really mean to suggest—
/
Half an hour before the store was to close for the holiday, we stood among shoppers purchasing fancy collars and pet beds and doggie treats. But our attention was fixed on the large cage where the cats slept and played. The volunteer from the Cat Adoption Team was packing up her folders and briefcase.
Could we buy a ca— I mean, Do you still have cats for Christmas?
I felt as foolishly red-handed as if I’d been caught returning to the scene of a crime. Perhaps there was some waiting period, or some qualification to determine suitability for pet parenthood. There were advisories out about people like me, people bent on giving an animal as an ill-considered last-minute present. They would quiz me, and they would find out: I had already lost one cat. They would not let me have another.
Sure, the woman said. Are you looking for a kitten?
Luck was holding out so far. No, we really had in mind an older cat. Well, let’s see. We have these two eight-year-old tabbies in here, litter mates. They belonged to a woman who had to go into a nursing home and couldn’t care for them any longer.
Um, we’re looking for a cat that’s more, ah, solitary, and—black, maybe longhaired . . .
Hey, over here, Chris said. This one is just like— I shot Chris a look. We had to tread carefully here.
The C.A.T. woman walked over to the cage where Chris stood. There were four—count them,
four—
long-haired black cats. Oh, these guys, she said. They just came in this morning. We haven’t really even gotten to know them, so I can’t tell you much. They must be litter mates, maybe a year old . . . we think someone dumped them.
She let us reach in the cage. Two of the cats were skittish, retreating to the far corner and showing no sign of welcome. Another slept. That’s the only male in the bunch, the woman said, glancing at his temporary collar.
Wow, that’s great, Annie! A black long-haired male! They’ll never— I shot Chris the look again. Did she want to get me disqualified, just when things were going so well?
The fourth cat sauntered up and rubbed her whiskers against my hand. She was lean and lithe, with a regal coat, a perfectly shaped head, and dainty paws. On her sable ruff grew a tiny patch of white. Her demeanor was curious and alert. The choice was made in that very minute, when she chose us.
/
As guilty as if we’d gotten away with a bank heist, we sped off up the highway to Sarah’s. You can
not
tell her, I said to Chris. Not a word. I’ll handle it— but not until after Christmas. I’ll think of a way to break it to her. For now, you are sworn to secrecy.
The understudy purred softly in the travel carrier.
The party was as jolly as anyone could wish; the food was delicious from the first bite of cheese roll to the last morsel of pie. Dad was in excellent spirits. There were games and home movies and songs. Gifts were exchanged and merrily exclaimed upon, until a pile of discarded paper and ribbons was all that was left underneath the tree.
Well, that was nice, said Dad. You all did good.
There’s one more present, Sarah said dramatically. She nodded, the signal for me to bring the crate. I slid it from behind a chair and began unlatching the wire door. Dad, she said, we all decided there was something you needed in your life. We know you miss Jo and the boys, and even the animals—so we’ve brought you a new roommate. She took the cat from my arms, and with the slightest hint of a raised eyebrow, passed the pet over to its new owner.
Oh, said Dad matter-of-factly, as his hands revealed to him what he was holding. He peered down through his Coke-bottle lenses to distinguish shape and color. You’ve gotten me a cat just like Midnight!
Yes, but this one’s a little boy cat, she said. He’s older, and very gentle.
The cat raised up and meowed. I am in sooo deep, I thought.
Well, I’ll be, said Dad. I think I’ll call him Waldo.
Where’s Waldo? Dad was sly that way.Did he know more than we thought he did?
You remember Waldo, don’t you? continued Dad, looking up at us with those thick glasses. You know, the character in the Mister Magoo cartoon?
The joke was on himself—Magoo, the nearly-blind, crotchety old man, always calling out irritably for the nephew he couldn’t see. Sharp as ever, our dad was.
We hoped that Dad and his new sidekick would get on famously.
/
There remained the hope, even after Chris and I returned home at nearly midnight, that the original cat would return. We put out a bowl of food on the front porch. But no, we did not see him. We asked Liz to quietly check in from time to time after we were gone, just in case. We slept that Christmas Eve only in fitful stretches, the gladness of the season dulled with the knowledge that somewhere in the cold and dark a lost cat wandered in search of nourishment and shelter, disappointed once again by the humans in whom he had put his trust.
/
Airports can be dispiriting places on Christmas Day. Travelers find little joy in sterile corridors and deserted gates. They have scant and desultory company on their journey and few choices for meals. Most merchants, having made their money for the season, remain closed so their own employees can enjoy a day off. Folks with tight schedules, like us, make the best of it and hope they’ll reach their destinations in time for turkey and dressing with their families.
It was in such a climate at Terminal B of the Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport that morning, during the layover for the westbound connection, that I received a call on my cell phone. The voice on the other end was Liz’s.
Mom, I just have two things to tell you, she said drily. First, I found the cat. He was sleeping under the sofa.
Suddenly all was well again. The furry little creature was safe after all! How we had managed to miss him, we couldn’t imagine. Whatever the case, the thorny issue of how to explain two cats could wait. We were jubilant. We’d figure out something.
And the other thing, Liz said after I had a minute to digest the news. Um, I turned off the oven you left on.
/
By the time we returned home, Liz had invented the cover for the extra cat that mysteriously arrived in Dad’s household. Oh, I just told everyone that I couldn’t resist adopting a pet myself, she said.
The female cat’s affectionate, outgoing personality was apparent to anyone who visited. While Waldo played hermit underneath beds—even clawing himself a hole in the box springs and hiding inside— she pranced and purred and made friends with everyone. She was a natural charmer. It was Liz’s idea to call her Yokeiko, after the character in a play she once saw who couldn’t get enough of people’s company. Waldo remained content to watch the world outside the patio door, while Keiko took to hunting and tree-climbing. Keiko fancied meat with her meals, while Waldo would eat nothing but dry kibble. She loved to be picked up and carried and would jump into any available lap or bed; he kept to himself and always slept underneath rather than on top of the furniture. She picked fights when he was minding his own business. She raced and chased when the mood struck her; he ambled, never in a hurry. She was fastidious in her grooming and careful in her daily habits; he shed more freely and tended to have disgusting episodes with hairballs. They were a complementary pair and often at odds.
/
It seemed, as the new year unfolded, a time of continuing crises, close calls, near misses. Just like that oven that might’ve caused a fire. Or the chilly morning when Dad had another bad spell of bleeding and required risky surgery. Flip the calendar forward again, past spring and on to the close of summer. On that cusp of seasons in the Southland when there is a whiff of fall to come, when school takes in again and the beach shops close up and late tomatoes ripen to full red, there came a day when the crisis was more than a near miss. The coughing and bleeding returned, and Dad was taken to the hospital. Waldo fended for himself for a stretch of days while matters were in limbo, confused at the upset to his routine and wondering where his companion Magoo had gone.
/
Eleven days into September Dad died. When the end came, it was too quick, before any of us but Sarah could be with him. Family came from faraway places to mourn. Jo and the boys returned. Sad as we all were, we consoled ourselves with the richness and recent blessings of his life and the merciful swiftness of its end.
Waldo was good company for Dad, said Sarah as we sorted through our father’s belongings and prepared to close up his apartment. Even if he wasn’t as sociable as he might’ve wished.
Midnight’s a hard act to follow, said Jo. Hey, Waldo got him lots of sympathy with the widows,I reminded them.Dad said he liked the sound of women’s voices best.
As if in accord, Waldo came over to rub against my legs.
What are we going to do with you, buddy? I said to the cat. You want to come home with us?
He squeaked once, his usual vocalization.
I take that as a yes. Sarah and Jo and I finished washing and drying the dishes to pack them away. In the kitchen, quiet for the moment, I took the opportunity to confess to them the truth about the duplicate Christmas cats.
So we can thank the real Waldo for saving our house, I said as I concluded the story, hoping to put a good face on things.
Did you honestly think you had fooled me? Sarah said. All the pets I’ve nursed over the years, and you didn’t think I could tell? And what were you going to say when we took the cat to the vet, anyway?
God, you’ve let me carry this around with me all these months?
I thought you should suffer a bit. She smiled.
Do you think Dad knew? I asked. Waldo chose that instant to cough alarmingly and bring up a hairball. I bent down and cleaned the spot on the floor I had just mopped that morning. Relieved of his momentary distress,Waldo shuffled off down the hallway toward the bedroom, the soft pads of his paws making a muffled sound on the carpet. We heard the tinkle of his collar bell as he leapt upon the bed to nap.
I never told, Sarah said. Jo raised her palms as if to say, Don’t look at me.
I glanced down the hallway in the direction the cat had disappeared. Sarah and Jo nodded. It was time to say good-bye.
///
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