Although our family has enjoyed and sometimes been rescued by several good pets, most of us agree that our best cat is one who still lives with us after more than thirteen years. She’s so intelligent that our oldest daughter swears she’s a little human trapped in an animal’s body. We’re not sure how much English Journey understands, but she’s learned to communicate with us in remarkable ways, though not as amazing as the loyalty and love she’s displayed, even at the risk of her own life.
We first met Journey in 2013, while our family was rehearsing for a concert one summer evening. Our oldest daughter, Taylor, exclaimed, “We have to stop! I just saw the most beautiful cat outside!”
We all quit singing and looked. Sure enough, a black and white cat slinked through the grass at the far end of our yard closest to the road, its colors weaving in and out among the green.
The next night Jack and I went to a football game. The cat appeared again in our absence, hiding under our station wagon. Braving the mosquitoes and falling darkness, our middle daughter inched up to the cat, crawling on her belly over the cold driveway gravel and staying there much of the evening. “The cat has the softest fur!” Ari gushed when we returned home hours later and sent her her to bed, covered in mosquito bites.
The cat hung around all weekend. Our two oldest daughters put out food, which the cat ate, allowing them petting privileges in return. “It is the softest fur I’ve ever felt!” confirmed our more factual and normally less emotional Taylor.
On Sunday, Ari spotted the cat dangerously high in a tree, apparently stuck. Ari ran outside, Taylor trailing as I watched the drama unfold through a dining room window. Standing far below a willow by twenty feet or more, Ari held out her arms. “Jump!” she shrieked.
Taylor thought her sister had gone crazy, but the cat apparently understood and obeyed Ari, letting go of the tree and free falling. Ari caught the cat, or this story might have ended then. Tay named the cat “Journey,” after a dream she’d had, and we made an appointment with the vet that week, since it seemed Journey was now ours, or at least Ari’s.
The morning we were supposed to leave for the vet’s, the older girls put out a cat carrier with food. Once Journey came close enough, they pushed her in and latched the door. Journey ricocheted around the crate, desperately seeking an escape. Finding none, she flopped around like a fish out of water until finally backing into a corner, as small and pitiful as possible.
Journey stayed miserable all the way to the vet’s, where he pulled her out by the scruff of her neck to examine and treat her, then just as unceremoniously deposited her into a cage to await spaying. “What a pretty kitty!” one of the technicians exclaimed. Our last sight of Journey was her wedged into the farthest corner of a stainless steel enclosure, still miserable.
We felt so sorry for her but were required to leave her at the vet’s overnight. The next morning we rushed back. To our and Journey’s great dismay, the vet had shaved her, not merely for spaying but all over! She was no longer a beautiful long-haired cat and knew it. And blamed us. Once home, she shot out of the carrier and perched on a hay bale, where she regarded us angrily. We couldn’t help laughing, making everything much worse. Journey looked ridiculous and shrunken, almost as if skinned down to her muscles. While writing this, I asked our youngest daughter if she had a picture of the travesty.
“Oh no, Mom!” Beth begged. “Don’t post that on the internet! Journey would never forgive us.”
I conceded out of respect for our now-old lady, gracefully bearing time’s ravages already.
Even when Journey’s hair grew back to its former glory, she didn’t immediately forgive us. Journey was our cat, true, but on her terms. We understood why the vet had to shave her when she got into more cockleburs. Despite extreme care, we could hardly remove the burs from her fine fur and delicate skin except by cutting them out. We left as much of her lovely coat as we could, but Journey liked to randomly bite and scratch during these procedures and generally just for fun anytime, taking her victim by the face, sinking her claws into both cheeks for a good grip and biting their nose. She rarely sat still inside or out but would run across the lawn as if pursued to the death, which she probably had been at least time or two. I suggested calling her “Flash.”
“That cat is demonic!” Taylor declared after one of Journey’s fits. “Dad should shoot it!”
“No!” wailed Ari, who suffered any amount of feline abuse to try caring for Journey. Though vain beyond anything, the gorgeous cat hated being groomed. She also initially hated our youngest daughter, who tried to pet and hold her with rare success.
Journey’s predecessor, Kitty, allowed Bethie to haul her anywhere, merely closing her eyes and hunkering down when Bethie zeroed in on her and we all yelled, “Run, Kitty!” Kitty met her end on the road, a sweet vocal cat we sorely missed, particularly after her rather mean replacement. Bethie eventually gave up on toting Journey, but not before Journey got a grudge and bit or scratched the little girl when convenient.
After one deep, wicked and unwarranted bite, I took Ari aside. “Journey can’t do that to Bethie again or we’ll have to get rid of her.” Cat scratches and bites become easily infected, and Journey had administered the worst bite I’d ever seen. Ari walked on eggshells until Bethie’s index finger healed and afterwards, hoping and praying Journey wouldn’t attack again.
One cold day in early spring after Journey’s usual antics, the girls woke up and came downstairs to see the cat acting uncharacteristically sane, much like the demoniac in Mark 5, clothed and in his right mind after Jesus healed him.
“What happened?” Tay asked in awe.
“Mama kitty,” I answered casually. Struck by inspiration as I struggled to groom Journey that morning, I seized her scruff firmly but not enough to hurt. Journey quieted instantly. I continued holding her in my lap. She didn’t resist me even after I released her neck. I finished grooming her without incident, a dreaded daily task because her fur matted otherwise. After that, she grew to love grooming, and by the time spring rolled around fully, she loved us too, becoming a changed cat we could trust. Mostly.
Next: Journey Becomes Mama Kitty
