Lessons Grady Taught Me

Grady, Kitley, Smokey, Taffy, Bailey, Cleo, Smudge, Jazzy, Sadie, Babette, Daphne, Mama, Button, Monty, Skeeter, Beaudie, Shadow, Rollie, Velvet, Lady, Oreo, Ebony, Peppy, and Libby. There's Laddie too. (Okay, he's a dog, but the cats who've known him don't seem to mind; they just think he's a big, funny-looking cat.) They all adopted me, sometimes one at a time and sometimes in a group, over a period of three decades, and each one has a story to tell. At one time we were one big happy family – only a dozen at most at one time but everybody got along. Well, mostly – you know how cats can be. By the way, my name is Deb. I'm the human they've allowed to live in their house. Grady is a classic example – our feline family's grande dame – which, out of respect, is why she's listed first. This story begins with her.

One brisk autumn day I was on my front porch taking in the newspaper when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I saw her then – a rather straggly-looking long-haired gray cat moving almost purposefully down the road toward my house. I called her by her species' generic name (“Kitty”) and she stopped, sat down, and stared at me. I told her what a pretty cat she was (cats don't care when you're not quite telling the truth; it's the tone of voice that matters). She sat there just looking at me for quite a while, until she finally decided I looked harmless enough, whereupon she came closer, but not too close. It was then that I noticed the bulging tummy.

“Where do you come from, girl?” I asked. She blinked then, maybe a little embarrassed. “Come on, gray lady,” I coaxed her. And eventually she did at least come to the porch. But if I took a step toward her, she got that fight-or-flight look in her eyes and the muscles tensed for action. Not wanting to force the issue, I just put some food and water under the porch steps and left her to it. Within a few days she would actually let me touch her head, but if I reached closer, she'd back away.

“Somebody hasn't treated you very well,” I told her. She just gave me a wide-eyed green stare, blinked, and went back to eating.

A couple of weeks later she disappeared, and I knew that somewhere she was bringing kittens into the world. I'd made a place for her in the shed next to the house, but something evidently startled her and she never came back to it. Then one bright sunny day, I noticed that one of my other cats on his back porch perch was intently staring at something outside. When I looked toward a neighbor's wood pile, I saw first one tiny head, then another, pop up and disappear like fuzzy little jack-in-the-boxes. I counted five, and my heart sank, because my neighbor isn't the cat lover I am.

After a restless night, the very next morning, perhaps a little earlier than my usual routine began, I followed my dog, Laddie, to the back porch to let him out and, as was also my custom, I glanced out at the back steps before opening the door. By then, “gray lady” had become “Grady” and there she sat, not alone but  surrounded by five tiny, furry, mewing bundles, all hopping and cavorting around her while she just stared up at me as if to say, “Okay, I've done my part, now it's your turn.” For a few seconds I couldn't believe my eyes. This skinny little momma had managed to jump over a 4-foot chain link fence and carry each baby, one at a time, to what she must have thought was safety.

Well, she was right. Instead of letting Laddie into the back yard, I walked him out front to do his morning business; then I turned my attention to our six new house guests. The 'kids' were still playing close to mom on the back steps. The first problem was how to get them into the house. It proved to be a snap.

I simply opened the door, said, “Okay, amazing little Grady, come on in,” and in she trotted, with the kittens scampering after her. Within a few seconds all were safely ensconced on my back porch, and for the next few weeks that's where they lived, ate, played, and learned to use the litter box. By six weeks, they were ready to leave the nest. Despite their less-than-ideal beginning, they grew into very pretty young cats. Eventually, we found homes for all five, but Grady stayed with us for a good, long, pampered life.

I've learned something from each of the animals I've adopted, but none more so than Grady. She was patient, resourceful, and trusting (after she'd been given good reason to be). She took responsibilities seriously, never abdicating the privilege of motherhood until it was time for her children to be on their own, at which time she let go with confidence, grace, and just the right measure of motherly insistence. And finally, Grady taught me that no matter what has happened in the past, the future can still hold wonderfully pleasant surprises...if you choose carefully where to put your trust.

 

 

 

A Road Well Traveled

At one time, when Oregon was just a square on a map to me, I thought of the state as a vast green forest dotted with small towns inhabited by hardy men in hunting plaids and plump women wearing aprons. That was when I lived in southern California, a mythical place that might make one think after a while that the rest of the world is hopelessly outdated and overweight. But that’s another story.

In 1983 I prepared to have my preconceptions verified when we visited Oregon for the first time. It was December, and so at Shasta City we encountered snow. Isn’t this exciting? I thought as I concentrated on keeping the car solidly in the slow lane. When we came to the town mysteriously named Weed, it was with a mixture of trepidation and relief that we left the relative comfort and reliability of the Interstate for the unknown domain of a state highway that promised to deliver us to our southern Oregon destination. Coming from Los Angeles, I’d almost forgotten such two-lane highways existed. In southern California even city streets are often four-lane thoroughfares, or at least the constant hum of traffic gives that impression. Visiting Oregon for the first time, I learned all over again why songwriters have so often extolled the virtues of country roads. You really do feel as if you’re being taken home.

A pristine example of this is the slice of Highway 97 between Weed and Klamath Falls. It rolls through open country comprised of hills, dales, farmland, and forests, with the occasional village dotting the landscape. I propose that those 70 miles make for one of the prettiest and most varied stretches of roadway anywhere in the entire country. The first time I drove it, I was struck by how many different vistas greeted our eyes as we rounded the next curve or topped the next hill. Even on the many straightaways we were impressed by the lavish display of Nature on either side of the highway. No garish billboards or rest stop areas comprised of gas stations and fast-food eateries every few miles; just unadorned, quiet land stretching to the sometimes seemingly endless horizon. My sentiment then was, “I hope the car doesn’t break down. But if it does, this wouldn’t be a bad place to live.”  Not just to breathe, eat, sleep, work, and play – but actually to live.

This impression was verified and is now permanently etched on my mind by one inconspicuous turnout on a flat stretch of road between a forest and a mountain, where the quiet as well as the view is spectacular. We sat on a bench that had been built by some sage years ago, and we each had our picture taken with a huge, glowing white Mt. Shasta as a backdrop, literally filling the center of the frame. Whoever planned that highway has at least one family’s abiding gratitude for preserving for our benefit a truly perfect spot. I’d venture to guess that almost everyone who travels through that wide sweep of land feels impelled to pause there to savor the peaceful vista and to record the occasion. Should some enthusiastic builder ever decide to impose a housing development on the valley, I hope he’ll just pull over, sit on that bench, and revel for a while in the quiet and in the panorama…then picture his grandchildren doing the same thing.

 So, I have an Oregon highway and its astute planners to thank for reminding me that in our sometimes chaotic world there remain refuges from the hustle and bustle, and that, although I still appreciate museums and concert halls, I’m a country girl at heart. Since 1983, I’ve experienced the impressive variety of not only Oregon’s topography but her population as well, and so I’ve come to appreciate that the state is an amazingly diverse square, with towns small and large and, yes, even a cosmopolitan city here and there. But I will never tire of that vision of Mt. Shasta that greets travelers who emerge from the Siskiyous, as if a benevolent giant were saying, “Welcome!” on behalf of the entire Pacific Northwest.