Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues

TWENTY-NINE

I made a frantic predawn call to the head of the University of Florida’s College of Veterinary Medicine in Gainesville. When I told him everything I knew about Ziggy, he acted as if he heard bizarre stories like that every day. Four hours later, he arrived with four pre-med students who tenderly carried Ziggy to their van. Before the day was over, he called to tell me he had removed Ziggy’s catheter and that Ziggy was fine. He also said he and his wife and kids wanted to make Ziggy a part of their family. Since there was nobody to say he couldn’t, I gave my own grateful permission. We didn’t discuss Ziggy’s vaccine-producing capabilities. That was something for the vet to discuss with research biologists, but I knew he would make sure Ziggy was protected.

On Christmas Eve, I left Ella snoozing in her new kitty bed while I went to Midnight Spanish Mass at St. Martha’s. I’m not Catholic and I don’t speak Spanish, so it was especially comforting to be with strangers united by a story the credulous take literally and the literate take metaphorically—either way, it transcends dogma or fact. I sat at the back and let the words and music and ritual create a space for my mind to take in the idea of omnipresent love present in every newborn, in every parent, in every man and woman with the courage to trust the wisdom in their hearts. When the service ended, I had moved a little closer to remembering what life and love is all about.

Guidry was at the door waiting for me.

I didn’t know what that meant.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

He looped an arm around my shoulders and we stepped into the dark night together.