A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the third installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.
+++
Mort, Kitty, and I moved again in 1986, this time up to Inwood (“upstate Manhattan,” as Ben called it). Already planning our marriage, Ben and I decided to expedite the cohabitation, and so we established our household in the apartment that he had been renting on his own since he moved to New York two years before. We shared the apartment with the two cats and Brodie, Ben's docile German Shepherd, who had seen her prime and was aging gracefully.
There, and in subsequent apartments, Mort would continue to pee pretty much wherever he wanted. And no attempt at disciplining him would take hold. A few years down the line, after Ben and I had seen the Clint Eastwood movie for which he would get the Best Director Oscar, Ben made a comment.
“You know,” he said. “If they ever write a movie about Mort, it'll be called Forgiven.”
At the time of the comment, we were living in L.A., and our apartment in the Beverly Hills adjacent area became Mort's ticket to freedom. We let him roam at that point because we were on the first floor, because the building's front door was always open, and because I knew there was no way to stop him.
Even with his access to the outside, though, Mort would still play his games with other apartment-dwellers. If they were on the first floor, he'd enter their apartments through their windows, and then he'd do his stray-cat routine, listing and looking hungry. The young couple who lived across the hall from us were responsive to my requests. “Don't feed him,” I said. “He's just pretending, and he's plenty fed.”
(I could imagine the act he'd been playing for them. I had fallen for it myself. I remembered one of the early weeks of Mort's and my life together. He'd been limping. I made a mental note of the limp and decided that if he were still limping two days later, I'd take him to the vet. Two days later, he was still limping, but he had switched legs. He was a pro.)
In addition to working his ways with our across-the-hall L.A. neighbors, Mort also charmed Paulo, the elderly gentleman and professional violinist who lived upstairs. When we moved into the building and met Paulo, he had a dog. But, shortly after the ’92 riots, he had to give up his dog (they both had health issues), and so he was particularly responsive to Mort. They had meals together, Paulo and Mort. I recognized that this was good for Paulo, and so I didn't invade on the friendship. But I always would make sure that Mort “came home for bed,” and Paulo was agreeable to this rule.
One night, when I went upstairs to retrieve Mort, he was asleep and smiling in Paulo's violin case. I also got a whiff of room deodorizer. I didn't let it become my problem. Paulo could buy a kitty litter box if he wanted to, I reasoned. It was his decision.
+++
While we were living in that building, Mort spent a good part of the day outside. And he'd always seem to hear me come home from work. I don't know if he recognized the sound or smell of the car or the radio station I frequented, but whenever I parked on the street, Mort would emerge from wherever he had been, run toward the driver's side door, and greet me home from the day. It was charming.
And it was actually kind of more charming that night when Paulo returned from the grocery store just as Mort and I were crossing the street together. Mort saw his friend and stopped, and Paulo, pulling grocery bags out of his trunk, said, “Tonight, Mort, we're having steaks!”
Paulo climbed the stairs with Mort fast behind him. I went into Ben's and my apartment.
“Ben,” I said, “Mort's just gone upstairs to have steaks with Paulo. We're having cereal for dinner. What's wrong with this picture?”
+++
Mort, Kitty, Ben and I didn't leave Paulo because of the steaks. We left for a bigger apartment. That was 1993.
Our new place was a two-bedroom in the same Beverly Hills adjacent ‘hood. About seven blocks north, it was closer to the commercial drag of 3rd Street. It also was a second-floor unit.
Although our front door opened directly to the staircase that led to the great outdoors, Mort no longer demanded egress. He was in his early teens at that point, and I guess he was settling down. The only time I remember him going outside was when I would go down to the courtyard to sit in a lawn chair and read in the sun. He’d come along, and most often he would rest in the shade under my chair. Otherwise, indoors was fine with him.
But indoors was trickier for Ben and me, and in 1995, Mort, Kitty and I left Ben.
We moved to a second-floor apartment in Los Feliz – the apartment I still occupy today. And although Mort had had plenty of experience moving (this was our 8th apartment together), I guess he entered into these digs with a bit of anxiety. One morning, as I was rushing to get to my downtown job, I did a cat-count, as per my OCD rituals. Kitty was present, but Mort was nowhere for roll call.
Oh dear.
I checked the window screens, which seemed to be intact. But I also knew that Mort had a way of working screens that was near-magical. Realizing that his wanderlust may have returned, I made a beeline outdoors and checked the perimeter of the building. There was no sign of him, so I came back indoors.
Cats, of course, have an amazing capacity to find hiding places, and so I checked around, peering in every corner of every closet, in every corner of the apartment. Mort was nowhere to be seen.
Now on a schedule that would make me late for work, I had one final strategy. I would pull out the can opener and open a can of cat food. Surely the noise would bring him forth from whatever lair he had discovered in our new place.
As I began to open the drawer in which I kept the can opener, it seemed to resist in a strange way. It was heavier than usual. And that’s when I saw the tabby grey fur. Mort had gone into the cupboard below the drawer and then had accessed the drawer via its back end. A squeeze much tighter than imaginable to the human eye, but it was his mission, and he accomplished it.
For the next several days, and until he adjusted to our new home, I would entertain the same ritual before leaving for work. Finding Kitty on the couch or a chair, I’d pet her and say goodbye. Then, I’d go to the kitchen, open the drawer, and wish Mort a good day.
to be continued on March 15th.
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part II
A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.
+++
My roommate was active in the tenants' group that formed when the building's owners were trying to convert it to a co-op. She was among those opposed to the plan, and they met often. One night, they were meeting in the living room of one of the apartments that was a few floors up and in an altogether different wing of the building.
At some point during the meeting, the living room curtains moved a bit. Mort made his entrance.
“That cat!” one person blurted out. “He is constantly coming into my apartment. I think he sprayed on my couch.”
“That cat!” another person chimed in. “He claws at my screens... He scared the hell out of me one night. I thought it was a burglar.”
“That cat!” said another. “Who does that cat belong to anyway?”
My roommate cowered for a moment or two, but ultimately copped to her knowledge – at least, she did so to one person. And when the meeting was adjourned, she returned to our apartment, and she brought with her that one person – one person who, I imagine, was among the louder complainers.
I was sitting in my room with my friend, John. We were just hanging out, chatting. Suddenly, my roommate pushed open my door and introduced me to our neighbor. Within moments, I was being read the riot act.
The complaining neighbor ticked off a list of Mort's trespassings. And when she was done, she said, “And if I ever see that cat again, I am going to call the landlord and make sure that no one in this building is allowed to have pets!” She stormed off, and my roommate didn't stick around for any debriefing.
Hmm, nice meeting you, too.
I looked at John, who was as dumbfounded as I. (John also was a big fan of Mort.) We reviewed what just happened. We reflected on the negative energy that had prevented a dialogue. We chilled for a bit.
Then, I got out the phone book, looked up the number of the pissed-off neighbor, and I gave her a call.
After I identified myself, I embarked on my unrehearsed line of reasoning. “You see,” I began, “that's not really my cat. I found him several months ago. He had a flea collar on, but no one responded to the signs I posted. And, frankly, I don't know what to do about him. I've put screens in my window, but he just pushes them away. He seems to want to be outdoors. So, I don't know what to do. May I offer to buy screens for you? I mean, I can imagine how disconcerting it must be to have a strange cat trying to get in your living room...”
The neighbor was beginning to soften. Somehow, my disconnecting myself from Mort was the key. She turned down my offer to buy her screens, though she clearly appreciated the gesture. And before we ended our conversation, she followed through on the brainstorming that my comments had suggested. “You know,” she said, “I have a brother who lives on Long Island. They have a nice farm. Maybe the cat would be happy there. Hmm, yea. I'll look into it.”
“I'd so appreciate that,” I said. “He clearly wants to be outside. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.”
“Yea,” she said, “I'll look into it.”
Thank you and goodnight.
I never heard from her again.
+++
By late 1982, my interactions with Eric were heating up. When my roommate made it difficult for me to enjoy those developments in the apartment we shared on 108th Street, Robin gave me an out. Robin was, at that point, slowly reuniting with Doug. (They had split months before, and he had found an apartment on the East Side; now, she was slowly moving to his place – bobby pin by bobby pin). When I needed to relocate, she was ready to cop to her plans. She moved in with Doug, and I took her 110th Street place as a sublet. Kitty and Mort came with me (although Kitty, still pulling the Siamese shtick, probably would have preferred it if Mort had stayed behind.)
Though the space was a share, my room was quite large – and fabulously private. And although the beginning of my time there would be the time I lived with Eric, ultimately that apartment became the place where I would learn to bask in my privacy and make it productive. Never concerned that I had no direct access to a fire escape, I wrote a hell of a lot. It was in that apartment that I came to believe – genuinely – that I was a writer.
It also was in that apartment that Mort came to believe he had wings.
+++
It was really over with Eric one night the following May. And after I saw him in the Chelsea area, where we had our final dialogue and I knew that was the end, I walked the four miles home. I walked through a thunderstorm that night, and when it had passed, and the New York night air had dried my clothes, I got an ice cream cone. By the time I got home, I was just finishing my ice cream, and I was feeling free. As I came into the apartment, I inadvertently let Kitty out into the hallway. I only realized I had done so when I heard her cries, a half hour later, on the other side of the apartment's front door.
I had been spacing out in my euphoria... in my release.
The next morning, when I got up to go to work, Kitty was still present, but there was something missing from the picture. Mort. He was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had also escaped the night before, and I silently berated myself for being so caught up in my own situation.
But it quickly became clear that he was not only not in the apartment, he was not in the building, and I grew more concerned. I looked out the screenless window. I looked down from my fourth floor apartment to see if there was a sign of him on the street below. No sign.
I ran downstairs, now fully committed to being late for work. I anxiously walked the front of the building, and somehow I found him. He was still within the building's confines, nestled under a flight of wrought-iron stairs (the kind that are used for fire escapes). The stairs led from the street level to the basement level. But I could not access them. A locked gate barred me from entering.
“Mort!” I cried, seeing him lying there, looking peaceful but dazed in the farthest corner of a space so distant from my grasp.
“You,” he cried back to me, bellowing as he had the first night I met him.
I immediately tracked down Caesar, the building's superintendent, and I brought him to the situation. Caesar retrieved a long-handled industrial broom and made his way down the private stairway. Then, as Mort and I winced together, Caesar swept Mort out of the corner where he had settled to die after his fall.
I ultimately took Mort to a place on the East Side where cats (and all other pets) get better medical treatment than humans will ever experience in this country. I left him there, and throughout the week, the prognosis was grim. Mort's tail was paralyzed, but that was not the worst news. He had a tremendous number of broken bones in his pelvic area, and the damage threatened all functioning in that region of his body.
I remember one moment that week, when I was taking lunch orders from customers in my station. Joanie, our amazingly loving manager, interrupted me. “The surgeon's on the phone,” she said. “They might need to do another operation.”
I excused myself and went into the kitchen, got on the phone and agreed to whatever. I understood the hospital's need to keep calling. Every step was an expense. But what did they think? That I had a cap? A cap at which point I would say no, the cat's not worth it?
I can't imagine putting a price tag on a cat.
+++
Several days later, Mort was ready to come home. I went to the medical center, paid the bill, and was reunited with my sweet boy. Despite the cast on one of his back legs, the gash in one of his hips, and his general grogginess, he seemed fine. He was smiling.
Before we left, the woman on staff gave me instructions regarding how to administer medications and salve the still-opened hip wound. The woman also emphasized the concern they felt as to whether Mort would urinate regularly. She showed me how to check to make sure that his bladder wasn't too full. She demonstrated how to palpate the area and so discern a problem. I pretended to understand.
I then carried him out of the medical center just as I had carried him in: in my arms.
Without a cat carrier (I hadn't thought to buy one), it was a little dicey getting a cab, but finally, a driver allowed our fare. Mort sat on my lap as we rode home, and after several minutes, I felt my thigh getting warmer . And I knew why. “Oh Mort!,” I said quietly, leaning down and smiling at him. “You pee'd!”
And because my jeans had soaked up his accomplishment, the cabbie never knew.
Once again, Mort's actions created an unplanned load of laundry, but I was so happy to have him home. He was my buddy, my hunter, my survivor. We were clearly in for the long haul.
to be continued on March 8th
+++
My roommate was active in the tenants' group that formed when the building's owners were trying to convert it to a co-op. She was among those opposed to the plan, and they met often. One night, they were meeting in the living room of one of the apartments that was a few floors up and in an altogether different wing of the building.
At some point during the meeting, the living room curtains moved a bit. Mort made his entrance.
“That cat!” one person blurted out. “He is constantly coming into my apartment. I think he sprayed on my couch.”
“That cat!” another person chimed in. “He claws at my screens... He scared the hell out of me one night. I thought it was a burglar.”
“That cat!” said another. “Who does that cat belong to anyway?”
My roommate cowered for a moment or two, but ultimately copped to her knowledge – at least, she did so to one person. And when the meeting was adjourned, she returned to our apartment, and she brought with her that one person – one person who, I imagine, was among the louder complainers.
I was sitting in my room with my friend, John. We were just hanging out, chatting. Suddenly, my roommate pushed open my door and introduced me to our neighbor. Within moments, I was being read the riot act.
The complaining neighbor ticked off a list of Mort's trespassings. And when she was done, she said, “And if I ever see that cat again, I am going to call the landlord and make sure that no one in this building is allowed to have pets!” She stormed off, and my roommate didn't stick around for any debriefing.
Hmm, nice meeting you, too.
I looked at John, who was as dumbfounded as I. (John also was a big fan of Mort.) We reviewed what just happened. We reflected on the negative energy that had prevented a dialogue. We chilled for a bit.
Then, I got out the phone book, looked up the number of the pissed-off neighbor, and I gave her a call.
After I identified myself, I embarked on my unrehearsed line of reasoning. “You see,” I began, “that's not really my cat. I found him several months ago. He had a flea collar on, but no one responded to the signs I posted. And, frankly, I don't know what to do about him. I've put screens in my window, but he just pushes them away. He seems to want to be outdoors. So, I don't know what to do. May I offer to buy screens for you? I mean, I can imagine how disconcerting it must be to have a strange cat trying to get in your living room...”
The neighbor was beginning to soften. Somehow, my disconnecting myself from Mort was the key. She turned down my offer to buy her screens, though she clearly appreciated the gesture. And before we ended our conversation, she followed through on the brainstorming that my comments had suggested. “You know,” she said, “I have a brother who lives on Long Island. They have a nice farm. Maybe the cat would be happy there. Hmm, yea. I'll look into it.”
“I'd so appreciate that,” I said. “He clearly wants to be outside. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.”
“Yea,” she said, “I'll look into it.”
Thank you and goodnight.
I never heard from her again.
+++
By late 1982, my interactions with Eric were heating up. When my roommate made it difficult for me to enjoy those developments in the apartment we shared on 108th Street, Robin gave me an out. Robin was, at that point, slowly reuniting with Doug. (They had split months before, and he had found an apartment on the East Side; now, she was slowly moving to his place – bobby pin by bobby pin). When I needed to relocate, she was ready to cop to her plans. She moved in with Doug, and I took her 110th Street place as a sublet. Kitty and Mort came with me (although Kitty, still pulling the Siamese shtick, probably would have preferred it if Mort had stayed behind.)
Though the space was a share, my room was quite large – and fabulously private. And although the beginning of my time there would be the time I lived with Eric, ultimately that apartment became the place where I would learn to bask in my privacy and make it productive. Never concerned that I had no direct access to a fire escape, I wrote a hell of a lot. It was in that apartment that I came to believe – genuinely – that I was a writer.
It also was in that apartment that Mort came to believe he had wings.
+++
It was really over with Eric one night the following May. And after I saw him in the Chelsea area, where we had our final dialogue and I knew that was the end, I walked the four miles home. I walked through a thunderstorm that night, and when it had passed, and the New York night air had dried my clothes, I got an ice cream cone. By the time I got home, I was just finishing my ice cream, and I was feeling free. As I came into the apartment, I inadvertently let Kitty out into the hallway. I only realized I had done so when I heard her cries, a half hour later, on the other side of the apartment's front door.
I had been spacing out in my euphoria... in my release.
The next morning, when I got up to go to work, Kitty was still present, but there was something missing from the picture. Mort. He was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had also escaped the night before, and I silently berated myself for being so caught up in my own situation.
But it quickly became clear that he was not only not in the apartment, he was not in the building, and I grew more concerned. I looked out the screenless window. I looked down from my fourth floor apartment to see if there was a sign of him on the street below. No sign.
I ran downstairs, now fully committed to being late for work. I anxiously walked the front of the building, and somehow I found him. He was still within the building's confines, nestled under a flight of wrought-iron stairs (the kind that are used for fire escapes). The stairs led from the street level to the basement level. But I could not access them. A locked gate barred me from entering.
“Mort!” I cried, seeing him lying there, looking peaceful but dazed in the farthest corner of a space so distant from my grasp.
“You,” he cried back to me, bellowing as he had the first night I met him.
I immediately tracked down Caesar, the building's superintendent, and I brought him to the situation. Caesar retrieved a long-handled industrial broom and made his way down the private stairway. Then, as Mort and I winced together, Caesar swept Mort out of the corner where he had settled to die after his fall.
I ultimately took Mort to a place on the East Side where cats (and all other pets) get better medical treatment than humans will ever experience in this country. I left him there, and throughout the week, the prognosis was grim. Mort's tail was paralyzed, but that was not the worst news. He had a tremendous number of broken bones in his pelvic area, and the damage threatened all functioning in that region of his body.
I remember one moment that week, when I was taking lunch orders from customers in my station. Joanie, our amazingly loving manager, interrupted me. “The surgeon's on the phone,” she said. “They might need to do another operation.”
I excused myself and went into the kitchen, got on the phone and agreed to whatever. I understood the hospital's need to keep calling. Every step was an expense. But what did they think? That I had a cap? A cap at which point I would say no, the cat's not worth it?
I can't imagine putting a price tag on a cat.
+++
Several days later, Mort was ready to come home. I went to the medical center, paid the bill, and was reunited with my sweet boy. Despite the cast on one of his back legs, the gash in one of his hips, and his general grogginess, he seemed fine. He was smiling.
Before we left, the woman on staff gave me instructions regarding how to administer medications and salve the still-opened hip wound. The woman also emphasized the concern they felt as to whether Mort would urinate regularly. She showed me how to check to make sure that his bladder wasn't too full. She demonstrated how to palpate the area and so discern a problem. I pretended to understand.
I then carried him out of the medical center just as I had carried him in: in my arms.
Without a cat carrier (I hadn't thought to buy one), it was a little dicey getting a cab, but finally, a driver allowed our fare. Mort sat on my lap as we rode home, and after several minutes, I felt my thigh getting warmer . And I knew why. “Oh Mort!,” I said quietly, leaning down and smiling at him. “You pee'd!”
And because my jeans had soaked up his accomplishment, the cabbie never knew.
Once again, Mort's actions created an unplanned load of laundry, but I was so happy to have him home. He was my buddy, my hunter, my survivor. We were clearly in for the long haul.
to be continued on March 8th
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part I
A NOTE BEFORE READING: Today’s post and the three Thursday posts that will follow come from a memoir project: five Catalysts and five Constants. The project’s essays are all quite a bit longer than my usual posts, so I am going to share this one in four installments.
Between our junior and senior years of college, my friend Robin and I discovered the bench. It was in a great locale. Private – but in the middle of everything. Safe – but within steps of danger. Kind of like each of us.
The bench was on the Upper West Side. Close to school, close to where we each lived. It was on the relatively wide median of “land” that separated the northbound Broadway traffic from that heading south. The cross-street was 113th, which made it conveniently close to the Yum-Yum ice cream shop, where we each had zeroed in on our favorite frozen treats.
We would end up on that bench many a night that summer, enjoying the late, late night air, enjoying our Yum-Yum purchases, anxious to talk further about the subject that was foremost on our minds: Boys. (Guys.) ( Men.)
Robin always seemed so much more versed in this arena. She definitely had more experience. And she appeared, to me, to have more confidence, too. She dressed sexily – in mini-skirts and heels. She spent time on her hair. And she seemed to flirt with ease. I, on the other hand, always was more the comfort-seeker when it came to such matters. My clothes generally flow. My shoes rarely change my height much. If I can't “do” my hair in two minutes, then it's the wrong style for me. And while I enjoy titillating conversation, I enjoy it most with people I know – well.
Regardless of those differences, Robin and I had become close. We would grow along together for several years. And for several summers, we would return to the bench. We would eat our frozen treats and explore the mysteries of life – which were, particularly in those years, all about our lives.
+++
During the summer of 1981, I was job-hopping as a waitress, trying to find a restaurant where I could hang my apron and then focus on other, more creative things. Robin, who also had donned an apron recently, was taking a break from that aerobic career to attend journalism school. Doug was living with her then, which added a new topic to our girl talk.
One night on the bench, we heard a mournful sound. It was coming from the sidewalk across the street. We looked east to trace its source and saw a grey tabby cat begin to head toward us. Sauntering as he bellowed, he safely made his way across the three lanes of northbound traffic. And although we had cheered him on, he didn't immediately jump into either of our outstretched sets of arms. Rather, he made a bee-line for the shrubbery that was behind the bench. (He was a cat, after all.)
Was he afraid or just being shy? Regardless, there was no way we would leave him in the traffic's median. There was no way we would leave him to tempt the fate of another three lanes of Broadway. He had made it thus far, so the least we could do was make sure we got him to safety. Surely, the person who had put the flea collar around his neck would appreciate our efforts.
Yes, this cat was wearing a flea collar, which – in Robin's and my vernacular – meant one thing: he was not available (as it were). He was going to be a “one-night stand.” The question then became: which one of us was going to take him home?
Robin and I each already had a single cat at home. But, in addition to that, Robin had her boyfriend, Doug, and they had their boa constrictor, whom they cleverly called “Snakey.” She knew it would be dicey to walk home with this new rescued cat. And while I wasn't particularly looking to provide refuge for a second cat (I knew that the cleverly-named Kitty, with her Siamese roots, had no desire to share me), I figured I could at least give this wanderer a place for the night. I'd post signs the next day. Surely, the person who put the flea collar around his neck would be looking for him...
And so, in a rare instance in Robin's and my friendship, I was the one who took the guy home. And, in a rare instance in my life generally, it turned into a long-term relationship. I guess whoever put on that flea collar simply didn't care. If they had, they would have looked for the signs – the ones I posted the next day, all over the neighborhood surrounding 113th Street and Broadway.
+++
I must admit, though, it also took me a while to see the signs. It took me a while to accept that this cat was mine. For the longest time, I was hesitant even to name him. But, one day – three or four weeks into our relationship – he weaved his way into the kitchen on 108th Street, and I heard myself say, “Hello, Mort.”
I didn't know where the name had come from, but it seemed right. And it stuck. Later, I would notice the tag in my black wrap-around waitressing skirt. The tag showed a jungle cat in full-leap mode. The tag said “Mr. Mort.”
So, I had named him, but still, was he mine?
Mort would leave the apartment often, exiting by way of my bedroom window, which happened to lead to the fire escape. Sometimes, he would be gone for a few days, and I would just assume that he had gone home.
One evening, after he had been gone for a particularly long stretch, the building's night doorman appeared at my apartment door. He was holding a very dirty Mort. “Is this your cat?” he said.
“Well... I guess.”
I brought him inside and gave him a jump start on the bath that he would ultimately self-administer.
+++
Another time, I came home in the late afternoon, returning from my waitressing shift. My roommate was sitting in the living room, and she looked less than pleased. “There's a dead pigeon on your bed,” she announced.
I didn't feel immediately concerned. I had grown up with cats who were outdoors a lot and whose access included the cow pasture that was adjacent to our house in Virginia. I'd thought I'd seen it all.
But I'd never seen a dead pigeon on my bed.
Fortunately, it wasn't a bloody mess, but oh, what plumage! There were feathers everywhere. I hadn't planned on doing laundry that night, but suddenly, that was at the top of my agenda.
Oh, and I had to scold Mort. I looked at him, shook my finger and firmly said, “Bad!”
( But through my eyes, I probably couldn't hide the other thing I wanted to say. It was, “Thank you. I love you, too.”)
What was left of the main part of the pigeon was smack dab in the upper middle part of my bed – where the bed's heart would be, if it had one. I knew Mort had brought the pigeon to me as a token of his affection. Not only was I touched by the gesture, but I also was quite proud of my little hunter. He had captured a large bird, actually killed it, and then negotiated its carcass through the steel labyrinth that had become his playground. You just can't help but be impressed.
Shortly thereafter, I bought a screen for the window, but Mort still found a way out. He'd bend the screen's corner and slide right through. He'd then go off on his excursions, accessing the roof as well as the other fire escapes that were installed strategically around the 8-story building and within its airshafts.
And over the course of the next several months, he would bring home two more pigeons. Maybe, though, he had heard some of my scolding, as I noted how the trail of feathers carefully circumvented my bed. Cleaning up those second two wasn't such a big deal, and luckily, I made the discoveries before my roommate came home. We never told her about those pigeons.
to be continued on March 1st.
Between our junior and senior years of college, my friend Robin and I discovered the bench. It was in a great locale. Private – but in the middle of everything. Safe – but within steps of danger. Kind of like each of us.
The bench was on the Upper West Side. Close to school, close to where we each lived. It was on the relatively wide median of “land” that separated the northbound Broadway traffic from that heading south. The cross-street was 113th, which made it conveniently close to the Yum-Yum ice cream shop, where we each had zeroed in on our favorite frozen treats.
We would end up on that bench many a night that summer, enjoying the late, late night air, enjoying our Yum-Yum purchases, anxious to talk further about the subject that was foremost on our minds: Boys. (Guys.) ( Men.)
Robin always seemed so much more versed in this arena. She definitely had more experience. And she appeared, to me, to have more confidence, too. She dressed sexily – in mini-skirts and heels. She spent time on her hair. And she seemed to flirt with ease. I, on the other hand, always was more the comfort-seeker when it came to such matters. My clothes generally flow. My shoes rarely change my height much. If I can't “do” my hair in two minutes, then it's the wrong style for me. And while I enjoy titillating conversation, I enjoy it most with people I know – well.
Regardless of those differences, Robin and I had become close. We would grow along together for several years. And for several summers, we would return to the bench. We would eat our frozen treats and explore the mysteries of life – which were, particularly in those years, all about our lives.
+++
During the summer of 1981, I was job-hopping as a waitress, trying to find a restaurant where I could hang my apron and then focus on other, more creative things. Robin, who also had donned an apron recently, was taking a break from that aerobic career to attend journalism school. Doug was living with her then, which added a new topic to our girl talk.
One night on the bench, we heard a mournful sound. It was coming from the sidewalk across the street. We looked east to trace its source and saw a grey tabby cat begin to head toward us. Sauntering as he bellowed, he safely made his way across the three lanes of northbound traffic. And although we had cheered him on, he didn't immediately jump into either of our outstretched sets of arms. Rather, he made a bee-line for the shrubbery that was behind the bench. (He was a cat, after all.)
Was he afraid or just being shy? Regardless, there was no way we would leave him in the traffic's median. There was no way we would leave him to tempt the fate of another three lanes of Broadway. He had made it thus far, so the least we could do was make sure we got him to safety. Surely, the person who had put the flea collar around his neck would appreciate our efforts.
Yes, this cat was wearing a flea collar, which – in Robin's and my vernacular – meant one thing: he was not available (as it were). He was going to be a “one-night stand.” The question then became: which one of us was going to take him home?
Robin and I each already had a single cat at home. But, in addition to that, Robin had her boyfriend, Doug, and they had their boa constrictor, whom they cleverly called “Snakey.” She knew it would be dicey to walk home with this new rescued cat. And while I wasn't particularly looking to provide refuge for a second cat (I knew that the cleverly-named Kitty, with her Siamese roots, had no desire to share me), I figured I could at least give this wanderer a place for the night. I'd post signs the next day. Surely, the person who put the flea collar around his neck would be looking for him...
And so, in a rare instance in Robin's and my friendship, I was the one who took the guy home. And, in a rare instance in my life generally, it turned into a long-term relationship. I guess whoever put on that flea collar simply didn't care. If they had, they would have looked for the signs – the ones I posted the next day, all over the neighborhood surrounding 113th Street and Broadway.
+++
I must admit, though, it also took me a while to see the signs. It took me a while to accept that this cat was mine. For the longest time, I was hesitant even to name him. But, one day – three or four weeks into our relationship – he weaved his way into the kitchen on 108th Street, and I heard myself say, “Hello, Mort.”
I didn't know where the name had come from, but it seemed right. And it stuck. Later, I would notice the tag in my black wrap-around waitressing skirt. The tag showed a jungle cat in full-leap mode. The tag said “Mr. Mort.”
So, I had named him, but still, was he mine?
Mort would leave the apartment often, exiting by way of my bedroom window, which happened to lead to the fire escape. Sometimes, he would be gone for a few days, and I would just assume that he had gone home.
One evening, after he had been gone for a particularly long stretch, the building's night doorman appeared at my apartment door. He was holding a very dirty Mort. “Is this your cat?” he said.
“Well... I guess.”
I brought him inside and gave him a jump start on the bath that he would ultimately self-administer.
+++
Another time, I came home in the late afternoon, returning from my waitressing shift. My roommate was sitting in the living room, and she looked less than pleased. “There's a dead pigeon on your bed,” she announced.
I didn't feel immediately concerned. I had grown up with cats who were outdoors a lot and whose access included the cow pasture that was adjacent to our house in Virginia. I'd thought I'd seen it all.
But I'd never seen a dead pigeon on my bed.
Fortunately, it wasn't a bloody mess, but oh, what plumage! There were feathers everywhere. I hadn't planned on doing laundry that night, but suddenly, that was at the top of my agenda.
Oh, and I had to scold Mort. I looked at him, shook my finger and firmly said, “Bad!”
( But through my eyes, I probably couldn't hide the other thing I wanted to say. It was, “Thank you. I love you, too.”)
What was left of the main part of the pigeon was smack dab in the upper middle part of my bed – where the bed's heart would be, if it had one. I knew Mort had brought the pigeon to me as a token of his affection. Not only was I touched by the gesture, but I also was quite proud of my little hunter. He had captured a large bird, actually killed it, and then negotiated its carcass through the steel labyrinth that had become his playground. You just can't help but be impressed.
Shortly thereafter, I bought a screen for the window, but Mort still found a way out. He'd bend the screen's corner and slide right through. He'd then go off on his excursions, accessing the roof as well as the other fire escapes that were installed strategically around the 8-story building and within its airshafts.
And over the course of the next several months, he would bring home two more pigeons. Maybe, though, he had heard some of my scolding, as I noted how the trail of feathers carefully circumvented my bed. Cleaning up those second two wasn't such a big deal, and luckily, I made the discoveries before my roommate came home. We never told her about those pigeons.
to be continued on March 1st.
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