Ready

We’d finished our after-lunch stroll in the park, admired the brook and pond and benches, and returned to our friend Dawn’s kitchen for dessert. For me: blueberries. For my husband Dave and Dawn: ice cream and ginger topping and streusel and blueberries and espresso. For the third time in the past five minutes Annie streaked through the kitchen with a loud meow. She hesitated at the door to the back porch. 

“I think she’s interested in us,” I said. Dave leaned down and chirruped. Annie stepped towards us, then ran away. 

Annie and her brother Oliver had been orphans, hence the names. Dawn and Margaret had adopted them not long after they’d abandoned their sleek condo in a city for a standalone house in a small town. As we’d entered the front parlor—God, I love houses with front parlors—a flash of black had hightailed it out of the room. “That’s Annie,” said Dawn. “It’s probably the last time we’ll see her. She’s wary of strangers. Oliver’s probably sulking under a bed.” He might have if Margaret, called to do inventory at her job at the last minute, had been there. Without Margaret in the house, Oliver would stay hidden.

Then Dawn took us on the grand tour. I couldn’t wait. I’d already been entranced before we’d entered. The house, built in 1930, was utterly charming: white, steep-roofed, with black shutters on the windows and a front porch with chairs and flowers in pots.

Dawn showed us the trio of bedrooms on the second floor, one of which was her music studio. (Dawn is a violinist; we became friends while playing in the same orchestra, years ago.) On the first floor were the parlor, a dining room, two side porches, and an addition at the back with a kitchen and a screened in porch. Splintery picnic table and a fire pit in the back yard, plus a small patch of grass and a steep, wooded hill. Four porches. Four! I was light-headed with porch envy. 

Dawn and Margaret had been renovating the place in their spare time, of which they didn’t have much. Refinishing floors, taking down wallpaper, repainting, and trying to figure out what to do with the wood paneling that was in almost every room. Nothing was finished, but the place was already gorgeous and comfortable. 

“The cats seem to like it,” said Dawn, sprinkling her ice cream with streusel. 

After several aborted approaches Annie had decided that Dave and I were no threat. She sniffed at my fingers and let me scratch the top of her head. I admired her coloring: mostly black, with white paws and chest and with two little streaks of white under her nose that made it look like she an extra pair of fangs.

“She’s so much fun!” I said. “I can’t wait until we get back from vacation in August. We’ve had time to mourn Capone,” (our beloved cat who passed away in January) “and we plan to look for a cat then. Maybe even siblings, like yours.” 

“You’re smart to have waited,” said Dawn. “After all you’ve gone through with your surgery you’re a different person, and it will be easier for new pets to get to know the new you.”

Annie lay down on her side near my feet, showing her belly. Comfortable. More comfortable than I was at that moment. Was I a different person? I shuffled my feet nervously. Annie startled and scooted over towards Dave. 

The conversation turned to matters musical and the moment passed. 

But: I couldn’t stop thinking about Dawn’s comment. I had felt fundamentally different from the moment that I came to in the recovery room and realized, to my astonishment, that I was still alive. Albeit in a body that often felt like a house from the 1930s, a real fixer-upper. 

Was that inner disturbance enough to confuse a cat? Capone, even though I was his third favorite human in a three-human house, had easily adjusted his behavior to my moods and habits. Leaping at my ankles when I was distracted, settling into my lap when I had a good book going, pressing himself into my side when I was sick or sad. 

If anyone I knew could credibly say that I was a different person, though, it could be Dawn. First, we’d been friends for twenty-seven years. Second, Dawn had gone through an extremely serious, prolonged illness herself, one that changed her life profoundly. Maybe she was speaking from experience. 

After dessert we said our goodbyes. Annie followed us to the door. She’d adapted to us pretty quickly, I reassured myself. Still…I needed another opinion. It took me a couple of days to ask Dave if he thought I was a different person than before the heart thing. I was afraid that he would say yes, and that person is worse—when can we get divorced? Or yes, and that person is better, why did I have to wait thirty years to meet her? (This is why no one wants to live in my brain, not that I blame them.)

Dave’s response was immediate and decisive: “Not at all. You’ve always been anxious, but when tough things happen, you handle them. You change how you act, but you’re the same person.”

Bring on the kittens: I’m ready.