The cat wholl live forev.., p.1
The Cat Who'll Live Forever, page 1
Also by Peter Gethers
The Dandy
Getting Blue
The Cat Who Went to Paris
A Cat Abroad
Written as Russell Andrews
Gideon
Icarus
THE CAT WHO’LL LIVE FOREVER. Copyright © 2001 by Peter Gethers. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
Broadway Books titles may be purchased for business or promotional use or for special sales. For information, please write to: Special Markets Department, Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
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“Recalling a Cat Who Got Around” by J. Barron, from the New York Times, 5/12/1999. Reprinted with permission of the New York Times.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gethers, Peter.
The cat who’ll live forever: the final adventures of Norton, the perfect cat, and his imperfect human / Peter Gethers.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Gethers, Peter. 2. Novelists, American—20th century—Biography. 3. Cat owners—United States—Biography. 4. Cats—United States—Anecdotes. 5. Automobile travel—United States. 6. Scottish Fold cat. I. Title.
PS3557.E84 Z47 2001
818'.5403—dc21
[B]
2001025450
Ebook ISBNߓ9780767910873
v3.0_r1
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Foreword
1. A Cat Rethought
2. A Cat Revisited
3. An American Cat
4. A Cat in the Spring
5. The Cat Who Went Back to Paris
6. A Cat in Retirement
7. The Cat Who Turned Middle-Aged
8. The Cat Who Stayed Home
9. The Cat Who Had a Will to Live
10. The Cat Who Went Back on the Road
11. The Cat Who’ll Live Forever
Afterword
About the Author
DEDICATION
There’s only one possible choice for this . . .
To the greatest little cat there ever was.
Au revoir, pal o’ mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve got to thank everyone who helped and loved my amazing Scottish Fold. Particularly Dr. Jonathan Turetsky, Dr. Andrew Pepper, Dr. Dianne DeLorenzo, and Dr. Marty Goldstein. I’d also like to thank all those who greeted him on his travels and took care of him along the way—but to list them all would take pages and pages and would need a better memory than mine.
For this book in particular, I’d like to thank Steve Rubin, the perfect publisher, Lauren Marino, the perfect editor, Esther Newberg, the perfect agent (and the only person who blubbered more than I did during this whole process), and Leona Nevler, because no one would be reading about Norton if it weren’t for her.
Thanks, too, to all those who let me write about them, particularly my dear old mom and my dear young girlfriend.
FOREWORD
One of the reasons I moved to where I live now is because it’s right near Washington Square Park, in the heart of Greenwich Village, and ever since I came to New York City, this is exactly where I fantasized about living. For human beings, however, wanting to do something and actually doing it are often two very different things. Which leads me to confess that the real reason I finally made the move is because my cat wanted to live on Washington Square Park.
Do me a favor and please don’t ask how I know that this was his abode of choice. I know many strange things about my cat and I’d rather not discuss them because anyone who’s not a cat fanatic will think I’m insane and anyone who is a cat fanatic (or has read about my particular fanaticism) will not even question the above statement. In fact, the only question those readers might ask is, “What took you so long?”
What took me so long was that I never realized that Norton, my exceptional, geniuslike—and did I mention dashingly handsome?—Scottish Fold pal, liked the dog run quite as much as he did.
My ignorance lasted until one day, when we were strolling around the Village on a sunny afternoon. Well, I was strolling; Norton was in his usual position, relaxing, half in, half hanging out of his cloth-and-mesh bag that hung on my shoulder, swivelling his head at everyone and everything around him. At some point we found ourselves in the middle of the park. In addition to the sounds of guitars and bongos (I know it sounds like you’ve suddenly been plunged into a Dobie Gillis episode, but I swear there really were guitars and bongos), there was also the distinct and incessant sound of dogs barking. We made our way to the south side of the square and, sure enough, there was this caged-in stretch of land—some grass, mostly dirt—in which twenty or thirty dogs of all shapes and sizes were rolling, running, jumping, fetching, yapping, growling, howling and generally acting like happy, idiotic canines. Norton was fascinated by this undignified but free-spirited behavior, so we mosyed up as close as we could to the wire fence that separated the dogs and their owners from non-dog-owning humans. Norton twisted himself further out of his bag, sticking his head—which would easily have fit whole into most of those dogs’ mouths—as far across the boundary as he could muster. Several of the dogs raced over and barked hysterically but Norton stayed fairly serene, safe in the knowledge that none of the barkers could quite reach him and, if they could, all I had to do was take a step backward and he’d be out of harm’s way.
I knew he was enjoying all this so I found a nearby bench, sat, and spent a decent part of the afternoon watching him watch the dogs. (I think I’ll skip over the fact of how much time I’ve actually spent during my adult years doing nothing but watch my cat do things that most people would not find all that entertaining. All I’ll say, so I keep some modicum of self-respect, is that I’m a total Knicks fanatic and I tend to live and die with that very aggravating basketball team. Nonetheless, if forced to choose, I’d have to say, “Watching Norton do just about anything, one; watching Latrell Sprewell juke to the basket, two.”) A few days later we went back to the same bench and my little pal seemed to have just as good a time, so after that we started going more often. And very soon after that I bought my new apartment, which I tell people I bought because it’s right on Washington Square Park but which I really bought because it’s only about fifty yards from the dog run. Even though I don’t have a dog.
Once we were so conveniently located, Norton and I went by there almost daily. We liked to take little strolls together in the afternoon; it got me away from the stress of sitting at my computer for hours on end and it got him away from the stress of . . . well . . . napping by my computer for hours on end. After a few weeks, we didn’t just sit on the bench on the outsider side of the fence, we started sitting inside the dog run. At first, the regular inhabitants (both human and canine) were not thrilled to see a feline intruder. They (the canines, not the humans) would come running up, barking ferociously, and my cat would retreat hastily into his bag. But gradually, the ferocity stopped and curiosity took over, and then it was even possible to spot a kind of friendly wariness. Norton, throughout this process, usually just nestled calmly on my lap, half in, half out of his bag.
One day, the two of us were sitting in the sun, in the middle of the dog run, and a woman came in and sat down beside us. I was reading, Norton was sitting on my lap, totally out of his bag now, soaking in the rays. The dogs were basically ignoring us, except for one small one, a Scottie, I think, who didn’t seem to understand that Norton wasn’t a dog, because he couldn’t seem to comprehend why Norton had zero interest in running around and playing fetch with him. The woman next to us sat there quite a long time; I was vaguely aware that she kept staring over in my direction. Then, finally, she nudged me. When I looked up, she didn’t make a big deal out of it, she just said, “That’s Norton, isn’t it?” I nodded once, muttered something like, “Yup,” then she didn’t say anything else for a while. She did start nodding, though, repeatedly, as if finally grasping some long-sought knowledge. Then, her head still bobbing slowly, her voice betraying just the tiniest bit of awe, she said, “So it’s true . . .”
I knew immediately what she meant. She had read about Norton. She had heard about him. His travels, his adventures, his remarkable effect on everyone around him. And now she had seen him in the flesh (or the fur, as it were), which is all it ever really took for people to understand how genuinely special he was.
I looked at my little cat and patted him on the head. My hand lay there, taking comfort in the smallness and the familiar fit within my palm.
“Yes,” I said, smiling down at my beloved gray pal, “it’s definitely true.”
CHAPTER 1
A
CAT RETHOUGHT
Ever since I made the decision to write this, the third book about my gray, floppy-eared Scottish Fold pal, Norton, I have been trying to decide exactly how to begin.
That very human, very non-cat-like flaw called overthinking settled in all too quickly, and, as a result, more and more time passed while I sat, stared into space, and didn’t type. This book would, I thought, for many reasons, be somewhat different from the others and there were distinct choices that had to be made. Each choice would clearly alter style, tone and philosophy, if I can be pretentious enough to suggest that the books about my cat actually have a philosophy (and, please, don’t worry; believe me, I know enough to understand that I’m writing something much closer to Tuesdays with Norton than I am to Meowing and Nothingness).
My first instinct was to begin like this:
One of the reasons I became a writer is because using words the way I do is as close as I can get to putting some kind of order in this rather crazy world of ours.
I was then going to go on and describe that one of the things in life that drives me most crazy is the way the English language is constantly mangled. As always, this is an area in which we should learn from the feline way of doing things. Cats have a way of speaking that is direct and unmistakably clear. Their words might all be the same but the meanings behind them are just a tad less ambiguous than human-speak. There is no mistaking a meow that means “feed me” for one that means “scratch my stomach.” Has anyone who has been owned by a cat for any length of time ever confused an “it’s nice sitting by the fire” meow for one that says “let me out” or “sorry, there’s no way I’m going to the vet”? The answer’s no. Of course, not only is cat body language less inhibited than ours, cats tend to speak in commands, which does make life easier, at least for them. The only question I can come up with that a cat might ask is, “Are you okay?” And, if you’re not, the follow-up meow is usually another directive: “Here, shove over so I can snuggle up to you and make you feel better.” Cats have definitely gotten the act of communication down to an exact science.
But when humans open their mouths, the screw-ups are endless. The constant misuse of “I” for “me,” for example (hint: If you don’t wish for me to publicly humiliate you, never say “Just between you and I” or “Come with Freddy and I” in my presence). And the addition of the word “very” when describing something “unique.” That’s the same as saying “very one-of-a-kind” which is linguistically impossible. Then there’s the fact that no one seems to know what the word “irony” means. It does not mean funny or snide or coincidental or satirical or anything along those lines. If you don’t believe me, here’s the definition straight from the Random House Dictionary of the English Language: “The use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning.” If it’s raining outside and you say, “Beautiful day, isn’t it,” that’s irony. And the reason this matters to me is that the title of this book is, to a large extent, meant to be ironic, and it’s important to understand that going in. Nothing and no one lives forever. Not plants, not people, and most unfortunate of all, not cats. In some ways, “life” itself is the ultimate ironic word because to live means that, eventually, you’ll die. And that realization, that experience and understanding, is partly what this book is about.
But only partly.
I’m mainly trying to convey the feeling and the strength that come from being in contact with a truly amazing life force.
All of which is a long-winded way of explaining why my first choice for an opening didn’t make the final cut. That and the fact that irony is not a concept that cats even understand. And although this book is written for humans, since cats can’t read (unfortunately for me; if they could there’s a reasonable chance I’d be the richest person on earth!), I didn’t think it was appropriate to begin with something that went so against their nature.
A second possibility was to go for pure drama. For a long time, this was my intended first sentence:
On the day I moved into my dream apartment, I found out that my cat had cancer.
I’m sure you can see the value of that. I mean, it’s definitely a grabber. And, like everything else I’ve ever written about Norton, it’s true. But ultimately, I rejected that, too. Too sad. Too self-pitying. Way too cloyingly sentimental. And definitely not what this book is about. Most certainly not what Norton is about. What you’re about to read is, I hope, anything but sad. It is not about illness, it is about health. Rather than the trauma of being sick, it is about the satisfaction and the bonds that arise as we age and learn how to care for each other—and learn how to accept that caring from others.
Anyone who has read earlier tales of life with Norton can tell you that I will almost always go for the gag—on paper and in life—and also that I am not a big fan of fake sentiment (several ex-girlfriends would say I’m also not a fan of real sentiment). But I am a fan of genuine emotion and, luckily for me, rarely is that exclusive of laughter. So in no way is this book depressing. It is, I hope, hilarious and joyful and as life-affirming as it’s possible to be without turning into a Steven Spielberg movie.
In a way, this rambling and overthinking has actually done what my two initial openings couldn’t possibly do. I did manage to bring some order, not just to this book but to my thought process. And, probably more important, I realized that, despite what I wrote earlier, the title is not really ironic.
The more I thought about it, the more I understood that in many ways my little gray pal will indeed live forever. And live exactly the way he’d like to: bringing pleasure and, on occasion, even meaning into other people’s lives. I guess that’s why, when push came to shove, I decided that what this book really is about is quite simple.
It’s about my cat, Norton.
Exactly the same as the other two books. And that’s why the real opening is as follows:
The wonderful thing about having a relationship with a cat—one of the many wonderful things about having a relationship with a cat—is that you never have a clue where that relationship will lead you . . .
CHAPTER 2
A CAT REVISITED
The wonderful thing about having a relationship with a cat—one of the many wonderful things about having a relationship with a cat—is that you never have a clue where that relationship will lead you. It can, and often does, lead toward love. But it can also lead toward frustration. And sometimes heartache. Or comfort. It can lead toward other relationships, feline as well as human. Sometimes it can lead to all of the above—in various combinations and even at the same time.
That relationship can also bring you to something truly extraordinary and life-changing, as has been the case with my extraordinary and life-changing Scottish Fold, Norton.
If you’ve read the many words I’ve already written about my amazing pal over the years, you won’t need to be convinced of his ability to astound. You have already witnessed how he is—in no small way—responsible for my love life, my house, my travels, my professional success, and whatever emotional maturity I’ve managed to achieve. If you haven’t read my rapturous descriptions, here’s a little something to chew on (or scratch on, as the case may be) . . .
The backstory:
When we first met book publisher and writer Peter, he was your basic, insensitive oaf. Also a cat hater.
Enter Norton, age six weeks, a gift from one of Peter’s girlfriends, Cindy.
Cindy goes. Norton stays. Peter becomes so attached to his kitten it borders on insanity (but is also totally deserved). Many other girlfriends come. Many other girlfriends go. Norton clearly has to take things into his own paws if he’s ever going to have a stable home life.
Peter has to travel for business. So Norton travels with him. This changes in the years to come. Norton eventually has to travel for business so Peter travels with him. They go to Fire Island (Norton is stunned by how low his owner will sink to get a date for New Year’s Eve), California (Norton meets the folks), Vermont (Norton goes cross-country skiing), Florida (Norton goes to a spring-training baseball game and becomes a huge fan of Andres “El Grand Gato” Galarraga. He also falls through the roof of a hotel restaurant, scaring two old ladies to death). There’s much time spent in Paris (Norton greets Harrison Ford with a . . . um . . . petit morceau de la merde dans la baignoire. He also scares away a luscious Danish model and goes clubbing with Roman Polanski), and a sojourn in Amsterdam (Norton goes to the taping of a topless Dutch TV quiz show—see, now aren’t you sorry you didn’t read the first book?!). Peter takes up with Janis, with Norton starring in the crucial matchmaking role of Dolly Levi. Peter buys Norton a house in Sag Harbor. Peter deals with the death of his father. Peter, thanks to you-know-who, finally understands what love is.
