As my husband and I raised the lid on the dumpster behind our condo complex, I thought of the steps lovers take to rid themselves of reminders of an ex—selling once-treasured jewelry at a flea market, donating wall decor to an art gallery, shredding pajamas for the rag drawer.
In our case, the ritual involved mementos of a different sort—neon balls with bells attached, laser chaser toys, an automatic feeding system—all jettisoned for the sanitation pickup.
Two years earlier my husband came home from work telling me about the litter his co-worker’s cat had recently. He grew animated as he talked about the one remaining kitten needing a home—a calico.
I didn’t share his enthusiasm. I’d had a cat 20 years earlier, who toward the end of her life suffered from stomach cancer. I still grew sad when I thought about her.
Alex and I were newlyweds, embarking on a “middle-aged marriage.” We’d been married six months when he came home talking about the kitten. Alex was divorced when we met and had a daughter in high school. I’d never been married before. We were still getting used to being in each others’ space in the small condo I’d lived in for years. One of the challenges during our courtship had been the contrast in our personalities. Alex loved to share details on just about everything that was on his mind. I, however, liked keeping my thoughts to myself and only shared bits and pieces with him when I felt ready, a difference we continued to struggle with after we’d exchanged vows.
For practical reasons, we made the decision that Alex would move in with me when we got married and he would give up his apartment. This meant living 45 minutes away from his daughter during her last year of high school, as opposed to being in the neighboring town a mere seven minutes away. Another adjustment involved his commute. A drive that took 20 minutes each way now took an hour and 15 minutes in each direction or longer if traffic was heavy or there were accidents.
My condo unit was not ideal. It had two closets, providing enough room to comfortably accommodate a single, professional woman who loved to shop frequently for additions to her wardrobe, but challenging with the addition of a husband.
Needless to say, I thought that introducing a month-old kitten to the household would intensify our stress. However, Alex prevailed. After his co-worker brought the kitten to work for a series of “surprise visits,” he came home looking around our unit, pointing out places where we could put water and food bowls and where cat toys could be stored. He volunteered to be the one to maintain the litter box if I agreed to take the kitten.
I went with my husband to his job to see her. She was gorgeous, a swirl of cream, tan, and fudge brown with tan elbow patch markings. When she eyed Alex, she reached one of her little paws out to him. My 6 foot 3 husband gingerly cupped the kitten in his palms with a little room left over. She nuzzled against his chest and began to purr. I softened in that moment and agreed with Alex that the kitten could be a calming force in our lives. And at first she was.
We began talking less about my husband’s horrible commute and our tight closet space, shifting our attention to our new companion. As Savannah grew larger, it became clear that she was more attached to my husband than me. I thought it was cute. She’d sit between us when we watched TV and rest her head on his knee or perch near him on the back of the couch as he napped.
Her treatment of me was not the same and I welcomed this. When I was home alone with her, she would go off to herself, perching on top of the refrigerator or hunkering down under a piece of furniture, giving me the time and space I enjoyed having to myself.
But with impressive agility, Savannah could easily glide from pleasant to annoying. She marked her territory on clothing Alex had left in a laundry basket, leaving his dress shirts discolored with splotchy crescent-shaped stains. She permanently jammed his laptop—which contained portions of a manuscript he was trying to complete—by repeatedly prancing across and sitting on the keyboard. She deprived him of more than one meal by hopping onto the dinette table or counter and running off with a drumstick or tuna salad sandwich. To my horror, not long after I had finished frosting a strawberry cake I’d baked for a book club meeting one day, she was up on the counter, biting off a chunk.
She’d climb into our closets and perch on the shoulders of his suit jackets and my cocktail dresses, digging her claws into them, fraying the fabric.
My husband and I had long conversations about how to address the cat’s behavior. This led us to take her to the animal hospital for a diagnostic. On our veterinarian’s advice we invested in interactive toys, which we spent hours each day playing with her to redirect her from mischief. But it seemed we couldn’t give her enough attention and sometimes even a little was too much.
We bought a spray bottle and kept it on the dinette table in a futile attempt to keep her away from our meals. Savannah was defiant. The more we sprayed her, the more rigid she became, standing firm against the spray, frustrating us endlessly.
Despite all of our efforts, Savannah had a never-ending need for Alex’s attention. He joked that if Savannah were a woman he would dump her because of her clinginess. She followed him around, whining, wanting him to play with her for hours.
The first time Savannah nipped his forearm, we reasoned that she’d gotten a little jealous when she’d seen him sitting next to me. The nips persisted and tended to happen to Alex when he hugged me or showed me any kind of affection.
She developed the habit of pouncing on us, scratching us on the backs of our ankles and calves, and emitting a menacing yowl when we tried to leave for work or retire to the bedroom at night and shut her out of the room.
We began having tension-filled discussions about the cat’s behavior, with me reminding my husband in vitriolic fashion that it was his idea to adopt the cat and him firing off rounds of apologies in response to mollify me.
Alex became our protector, snapping a dish towel at Savannah to keep her at bay as we moved about the condo. The towel seemed permanently attached to his shoulder. He was ready at all times to swat her, like an armed sentinel poised to shoot the enemy.
I became the expert on feline psychology, interpreting her moods based on body language, length of purrs, and tone of meows. We conducted regular strategy sessions on how to maneuver our lives around the cat, talking behind closed doors in hushed tones knowing she would obnoxiously hurl herself at the door if she heard us. It took us a long time to recognize the power shift in the household. It was insidious. We became diminished as the cat grew more powerful. We began to neglect our relationship as we spent more time and energy trying to appease the cat.
I wanted us to surrender Savannah, but kept my thoughts to myself, thinking that my husband wouldn’t hear of it. He’d been so patient with her despite all of her antics. I checked online to see how long a cat could live. I was crestfallen when I learned that a cat could live more than 20 years. Alex and I were in our 50s. It was possible we’d have to endure Savannah’s treatment for the rest of our lives. It was conceivable that she could outlive us! I imagined us rewriting our wills to make arrangements for the pesky cat.
One night, Savannah savagely bit Alex—for reasons we couldn’t determine, except that he was sitting next to me at the time on the couch and we were having a conversation, which may have made her jealous. At first she was nuzzling against his chest as she did the day two years earlier when we agreed to take her home. But in an instant, she twisted her head around and sunk her teeth into the forearms that cuddled her, and then leaped off the couch onto the floor. Alex was momentarily stunned. As he examined his bruised and bloodied arms, she returned, leaping across me and digging her teeth into him again, this time dangling from one of his arms.
After a lengthy conversation, we made the agonizing decision to surrender her to a Boston animal shelter. We “divorced” our cat, freeing ourselves to begin repairing our relationship from the strain of having Savannah and giving her the opportunity to be placed in a different kind of home setting, where she’d be more suited and happier.
“I wonder what Savannah is doing right now,” I said as my husband tossed into the dumpster behind our condo her final possession—a playhouse made of beige carpeting with a scratching post. I imagined her in her cage at the animal shelter, wondering if she was on temporary punishment and thinking that we would eventually come back to get her. As we walked back to our building, I felt Alex’s hand on my shoulder. “Honey, it’s time to move on,” he said.
We were like warriors who’d crawled to safety from a battlefield we were ill-equipped to defend—battered and fatigued, but feeling a sense of relief.
Lisa Braxton is the author of the award-winning Dancing Between the Raindrops: A Daughter’s Reflections on Love and Loss, published in April 2024 by Sea Crow Press. The memoir in essays is a powerful meditation on grief, a deeply personal mosaic of a daughter’s remembrances of beautiful, challenging and heartbreaking moments of life with her family. It speaks to anyone who has lost a loved one and is trying to navigate the world without them while coming to terms with complicated emotions. She is also the author of the award-winning novel, The Talking Drum. She is on the executive board of the Writers Room of Boston, and a writing instructor at Grub Street Boston. Her website: https://lisabraxton.com/
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