PRECIOUS WAS A CAT

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Precious died a while back and we were devastated. Only an animal-lover would truly understand. She had lived in our home—or we had lived in hers—since she was three years old.

She came to us as a stray, glaring at us from the relative safety of our alley—before we put up our tall wooden fence. William wanted her.

I wasn’t giving in. “She’s bound to belong to someone. She looks well-fed.”

Her big yellow eyes stared hypnotically, and William was hooked. He begged. “Please, can’t we adopt her?” His brown eyes beseeched us to take her in.

I was stubborn, still saddened by the death of our beloved seventeen-year-old, Leroy Cat. “I don’t want a long-haired cat.” The one in the alley was definitely longhaired, a Maine Coon Cat, we discovered. She was black, with a white chest, cheeks and feet.

“An animal that chooses you is the best kind,” our vet said.

What can I say? I was a soft touch for a certain twelve-year-old boy. It didn’t take me long to capitulate. “We’ll have to be sure she doesn’t belong to someone else, though.” On a loose piece of elastic, I sewed a cloth tag with our telephone number and the request to let us know if this cat already had a home.

Two weeks passed, and the cat continued to hound us. During that time, a little girl who lived down the street insisted that the cat lived on the next block and her name was Precious. William and a friend followed up each lead. No one called to claim her.

Precious seized every opportunity to sneak into our house. She rubbed up against us, promising her complete devotion, if only we’d take her in. Gradually, we got used to the idea that she didn’t have a home.

One day, our next-door neighbor, out working in her yard, saw us with her. “I don’t think she belongs to anyone,” she said. “She was real skinny when I started feeding her, couple of months back. I think somebody moved off and left her.”

“Really?” I could see William’s eyes light up.

“I wish you’d adopt her. She really needs a family.” She went back to her weeding.

“Can we, please?” He asked me. “I think she likes us.” She raised her chin and he scratched under it.

“I think we like her, too—a little bit.” I looked at her round yellow eyes and her pretty black and white coat. And I realized we had grown to love her.

“Yes, I think she needs us and we need her, too.”

She really was Precious.