Ghostwriting No. 11: The Cats

So we have two cats. Lots of other bookshops have cats, too, and have their own reasons for keeping them, and there are arguments against keeping cats (allergic or phobic customers being the most important one). Why do we have them?

A refugee cat stayed at the shop just after the tornado of 2006. Phey's house was among those destroyed in the storm, and she lived at the Haunted until her owner got settled in a new place. It was a little crazy at first; I'd never lived with a cat before. Then I realized that people were coming to the shop to check on Phey, that Phey liked the place, and that I was enjoying the company of a generally quiet, observant, sometimes silly companion. By the time she left, I was ready to give another cat a permanent home at the bookshop.

In July, I adopted a shelter cat and one of her kittens. Nierme was a little standoffish at first, but she'd just been through an awful experience: barely old enough to be a mother, she was abandoned with a litter of five in a cardboard box that had been taped shut. Only the fact that she was smart enough to chew air holes into the sides of the box saved them, and she still had that tense survivor's edge. But Elijah, the kitten, was naturally calm, so he relaxed much more quickly into bookshop life. He played with small children who came to visit the shop and spent the rest of his time purring on my lap or washing his mother's face. Everybody loved him.

He died on Thanskgiving that same year of a heart defect. For about a week I could barely work. I'd never lost a furry companion before, and I kept tearing up every time someone asked where Elijah was - and everybody asked, because everybody had been watching him grow and enjoying his warm, gentle personality. Nierme was inconsolable. I took her home and watched movies with her and 'talked' to her, but she still crawled around under the chairs at the shop, crying and sniffing for Elijah's scent.

In the end, I went to the animal shelter to find her another baby. I wasn't really ready. I'd adopted Elijah and Nierme because Elijah had just captured me somehow, had seemed like someone I wanted to know. I didn't want to know any other kittens yet. But one kitten had other ideas.

A flying, soda-can-sized ball of scruffy gray fur landed on me as I was headed to the door. It yelled, "Me!" Then it lost its balance and scrambled wildly to stay on my shoulder, accidentally leaving three parallel scratch marks. Maybe this doesn't sound like a good first impression, but his unreserved and instant trust made me decide to adopt him.

My friend D and I went to pick him up the next day. No sooner had we opened the cat carrier back at the bookshop than he systematically explored the entire place. Nierme bristled - a stranger who smells like flea rinse is generally a bad thing - and in the end we had to keep the new kitten in the office for a few days while she got used to his scent. But the tension stayed high even after we got the new kitten neutered. He had the attitude that went with the messy mane and the three parallel scratch marks. (We even named him Logan after The Wolverine.)

Then Logan got sick. He couldn't stand up and couldn't eat. Heartsick, I drove him to the vet's office and waited for the bad news. A couple of days later, our amazing vet, Dr. Brian Hayes of the Cat Clinic of Iowa City, called to tell me that Logan would have to eat special food for a while, but he would otherwise be fine.

In all the tension, I hadn't noticed how worried everybody else felt. All the people who had missed Elijah were as frightened for Logan as I was, and when he returned home safely, everyone fussed over him, much to his delight. Including Nierme, who greeted him by slamming him to the floor and washing his ears vehemently, as if to say "Don't ever scare me like that again!" I agreed.

Logan and Nierme had become family, and so had the regular patrons who had come to care for them. When I invited people over to celebrate Logan's first birthday, a crowd turned up and brought simple toys - crumpled paper and cardboard tubes - as well as fancy catnip mice and little knitted balls. I got to know other people because I liked the way they treated the cats and ended up chatting with the people myself. Children came specifically to visit the cats, allowing me a chance to enjoy the kids' company, too. And Logan, and gradually Nierme as well, thrived on the constant adoration.

They also work here. No, I'm not kidding. They kill any insects or spiders that sneak into the building, saving me the time and worry. They entertain kids so the kids' parents can browse. Nierme inspects arriving books; if she makes a certain face, I know she smells book mold, so I don't buy them. The cats keep readers company and have, more than a few times, consoled the unhappy or served as stand-ins for cats left back home. I watch Logan for cues about new people at the store; he has very sound intuitions, steering clear of people feeling rushed or anxious, gravitating to those who arrive relaxed or curious. Nierme makes sure I know about problems in the shop, and not just empty water dishes; she comes to get me if a book falls from a shelf. Later, after hours, when I'm listing books for sale on the internet or catching up on trade journals, they curl up in my office chair with me and keep me company. Sometimes they barf or knock something over, but doesn't everybody?

Both have large vocabularies; Logan makes a certain range of sounds when hunting, another range when playing with children, another when demanding dinner. Nierme mimics human tonalities; she can complain, question, call for help, or drop an offhand 'what's up.' I've learned the difference between the vocalizations and body language that mean 'clean my litterbox now' and those that mean 'go away, I'm busy being beautiful.' The first thing I hear in the morning is Nierme's funny little chirp greeting, and the last thing I hear before leaving at night is Logan's 'don't leave' cry. These sounds are part of life now, like leaves changing in the fall and the ubiquitous coming and going of Vonnegut novels.

Does this answer the question of why the Haunted has cats? For some reason, some people are reassured that the cats are important when I tell them about the bug-hunting. Others see the way that Nierme and Logan act like part of the team with Ali, Anna, Jon, Luke, and me, and they get it. Little kids are usually too delighted to question the fact. For everyone else:

Logan's on my lap right now, trying to use my right arm as a pillow, which makes typing complicated, but he's purring. I have a stack of medieval history books to price and some African-American Studies to sort. Ali's laughing with Luke up at the front counter, and someone just walked past the office door, saying "I'll be in the Nature section" to someone else who is, by the sound of her footsteps, already up on the stage. We've been saying goodbye to a lot of old friends during this traditional Iowa City moving-away season, but we'll be here when those friends come back to visit. Things change; sections get bigger or smaller, the cat on my lap now weighs eleven pounds instead of three, and some of our friends are only here once every few years instead of every few days; but some things stay the same: the sense of community, even family; the ongoing conversations; the shiver-inducing feeling of being surrounded by ideas and stories in tall and alphabetical ranks; the playtime with puppets and the recommendation of books; and the occasional demands for chicken-flavored crunchy treats. As with most lives, the life of the Haunted Bookshop includes ambition and direction, while some parts of the life just sort of happen. And, as with most lives, some of those parts somehow become necessary when we aren't noticing. Including the parts that go meow.