Kitty and Grandmother’s Pearls

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My grandmother hated cats. She felt they had no business inside the house and seemed spooked because felines have a propensity for curiosity.

We had a black cat named Kitty who sensed grandmother’s dislike. In short order, Kitty decided it would be great fun to toy with grandma. The cat set out to sabotage grandma’s sitting arrangements.

Each time grandma went to sit down, she would–out of the corner of her eye and at the very last possible moment–see Kitty curled in whatever chair grandma had decided to sit in. Kitty had acute psychic ability and could winkle out, ahead of time, just where grandma intended to sit.

Grandma would go into wild contortions and nearly put her back out, trying to avoid squashing the cat. Kitty would flick her a look of disdain and leap down from the chair, pretending to be affronted at this great intrusion to her nap time. I wasn’t fooled, however. I saw Kitty’s satisfied “cat-that-got-the-cream” expression.

When Kitty wasn’t curled in spots grandma wanted to sit in, she would lurk under the chair next to the front room doorway. This was a strategic location because Kitty would then wait, hidden away from view, and  snake out a claw as grandma walked by into the kitchen. Grandmother, after repeated assaults on her ankles, became convinced that Kitty was indeed possessed.

“They used to burn black cats, you know,” grandma would tell us at every opportunity. “Look at that cat . . . those haunting green eyes . . . inhuman, I tell you. The creature should be put outside, where it belongs.” (I always thought that grandma secretly thought the cat should be “put out of its misery.”)

One Sunday, grandma decided to go to church–but, her departure was delayed. Her pearl necklace was missing. She searched and searched. “I know I put my pearls on my dresser,” she told us. “Now, where on earth could they be?”

Finally, she abandoned the idea of making it to services. The bell that had been gaily ringing, calling the faithful, ceased its summons. Grandma decided on some tea and sat down defeated. “Well, at least that damn cat wasn’t  stretched out in my chair,” she said. She leaned back and sighed, closing her eyes, still discouraged by the loss of her pearls.

“Grandma . . . tea’s ready,” I told her, carrying the tray into the living room. I found her, sitting there, looking stupefied. Something had given her a start. She seemed unaware of my presence and I followed the direction of her gaze.

Kitty sat in the bay window, sunning herself, silhouetted in a bright square of light. She licked a paw, paused in her ministrations, and raised her head, looking innocently over at us.

I couldn’t help thinking what a contrast grandmother’s pearls made: a cream-colored strand . . . draped delicately around Kitty’s sleek neck, nestled against a backdrop of rich, black fur.

Further Reading

A Grandmother and a Guinea Pig–while Kitty tormented grandma, another critter bumped up her stress levels . . .