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| Billie Silvey |
| The Story of Marlowe |
| January 2007 |
| The actual trip was accompanied by the most mournful of wails and cries, from the time you started the engine until you turned it off again. As Marlowe grew older, he’d spend the evenings on Frank’s lap or mine. Our favorite excuse for not getting up to get a glass or water or a cup of coffee became, “I’ve got a cat.” |
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| Early Easter morning in 1988, a stray cat had a litter of kittens on our driveway. Our neighbor wanted them, and we were eager to oblige. She put a box on her front porch with shredded newspaper in it, and one by one, she carried the kittens to the box. One by one, the mother cat carried them back to our porch. That happened a couple of times before the neighbor gave up and put the box on our porch. The cats had adopted us. That’s the way it is with cats. You can have an idea, but they make the final decision. There were six of them, cute little furballs with coats ranging from yellow tiger to gray tiger to gray with white bib and socks. |
| We found good homes for five of the kittens. One went to our eager neighbor, one to the woman painting her house, one to the postman, and one to a close friend of ours. The runt of the litter, by far the most inquisitive and adventuresome, stayed with us--for 18 years. We named him Marlowe for the detective Philip Marlowe. Marlowe always was a little strange. One morning, we heard a strange noise from the living room. “Thump, mew, thump, mew.” We hurried in and found Marlowe. He was standing under the coffee table and jumping straight up, bumping himself on the underside. We moved him out from under, but before long, the sound started again. He’d moved back. |
| Thinking the sunlight would be good for him, I started taking him out in the backyard while I was hanging clothes. Our neighbor over the back fence had a German shepherd with the unlikely name of Gigi. One day, I heard Gigi bark and glanced over into the yard to see Marlowe--not as long as the space from my thumb to my little finger with my hand spread--tiny back arched and spitting valiantly at Gigi from the top of the tall fence. I grabbed her up quickly. She wouldn’t have made one bite for that German shepherd! About that time, I discovered large welts all over Marlowe’s little body. The vet said he was allergic to fleas, and we’d have to keep him inside. Marlowe became a house cat. |
| As he grew to be a juvenile, the house was almost too small to contain him. He’d walk around the room on top of the drapery rods, haunt the front screen and challenge all the neighborhood cats that came by, and disappear into every box and grocery sack we’d bring home. We bought him several commercial toys, but his favorite was always the pull tab from a milk bottle or the big rubber band from bunches of broccoli. Grocery day was always playday for Marlowe, and when we’d move furniture to clean, we’d discover all his “toys.” |
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| When guests would come to visit--especially those guests who just loved cats--Marlowe would disappear under the bed. But let someone who didn’t like cats or who was allergic inside the door, and Marlowe would make a beeline for them--rubbing against their legs, climbing into their laps, snuggling against them and purring. All the cat-lovers who came thought we had the must unsociable cat in the world, but other guests thought he was the friendliest. |
| Marlowe loved it when we moved to our Culver City house. It had a lot more doors and windows, a lot more possibilities to find that elusive spot of sunlight. There was a natural racetrack through the house, which he took full advantage of whenever we tried to catch him. He hated to go anywhere in the car, and he’d object from the time we’d get the cat carrier out until we opened it again and let him jump free safe at home. A trip to the vet meant catching Marlowe, trying to position him over the open carrier while he stood splay-legged like a spider holding on to all four sides. |
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| He spent most of his last year in his favorite spot of sunshine just inside the French doors onto our front porch. There he’d visit with various neighborhood cats who would drop by. We spent a couple of weeks rehydrating him by injecting fluid just under his skin. It helped at first, but eventually, nothing did much good. Finally, we loaded up sadly for that last trip to the vet. Frank and I were brokenhearted as we stood over him, stroking him until we felt his body stiffen--and he was gone. |
| For months, neighborhood cats would call from our front porch for him, cards and emails came from friends, and I’d be unduly cautious when I’d get up in the middle of the night, forgetting for a while that he wouldn’t be underfoot. |
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