We Didn’t Know He Had It in Him…

by Pringle Franklin

Sometimes he hides behind the back of open doors and pounces on my bare legs. Claws out, Cyrus slashes my calves. Does he relish seeing me jump and shriek? Hard to say. My vet explained it like this: He’s a cat. If he was big enough, he would eat you.

Are you serious? I had asked.

My vet looked me dead-on in the eyes and nodded. Yes. He would.

But he’s so cute, like my own Baby Yoda. And when he’s not wounding me, Cyrus follows me around the house like a besotted pup. He rubs his pink nose against my face and licks me with his sandpapery tongue. Kneading my abdomen in bed, he purrs contentedly, as if whispering endearments. Perhaps this is how it feels to live with an unstable, angry psycho. You never know which personality you’re going to run up against.

But I discovered a new side of him last month, when my 85-year-old mother had a severe case of shingles and moved in with us temporarily. She was too weak to use the stairs, so she was staying in our only bedroom on the first floor. Usually Cyrus likes to sleep near my feet. To my surprise, he circled around and settled himself onto the covers next to my mom. Even in her weakened state, my mother smiled gratefully. Who isn’t flattered when a creature as aloof and unfathomable as a male cat deigns to give them affection?

I called my sister that night before going up to bed. We talked about the cat choosing to stay downstairs with Annie. A.H. had read a Reader’s Digest story about a cat living in a nursing home. Somehow, this cat always hung out in the room of whichever resident was skating on the edge of the eternal horizon. It was comforting to think that cats may have an extra sense of who needs their company. I left kitty with my mom.

We kept the doors to both bedrooms open, in case Annie called out in the night. All was quiet until around 4 AM. I was sound asleep when, from out of nowhere, Cyrus sprung down onto my chest. He put his head against me and rubbed. I was in no mood to play, so I shifted sideways to shake him off and returned to my slumber. I don’t know how much time passed, but the darn cat came back. Barely awake, I managed to ditch him again. When he returned a third time, pawing me and meowing, I woke up enough to have a coherent thought. Could the cat be trying to tell me something? Was it possible? Maybe something was going on downstairs with my mom. The cat followed me as I got up.

I hadn’t even reached the top of the stairs when I heard my mom’s weak cry for help. When I was halfway down the staircase, I saw her body on the powder room floor, bent legs in the air. She was on her back, having lost her balance while using the commode, and now she was wedged between the toilet and the wall. She was helpless as an upside-down cockroach (anyone who lives in Charleston will grasp the image all too well).

Cyrus circled around the heap of my mother’s form. Clearly he was telling her—finally your foolish daughter listened to me, Rescue Kitty!

My mom confirmed that Cyrus had found her some time earlier. For several hours, he’d run back and forth. He would creep around her, survey the situation, and then sprint upstairs to seek a human. Who knew that he had it in him? Remind me how good he was the next time he bites me.