Ellen Datlow - Tails of Wonder and Imagination

I got pretty good at telling the story economically. I left out any mention of prayer as such—there were no priests on our itinerary, only men of science. It was amazing how many incredulous vets remembered Ben. It was the no tartar thing that seemed to impress them most. All of them, however, dismissed immediately the possibility of a 47-year-old cat and denied there was any way he could be the same cat despite the resemblance. One guy got pissed off, like I had something to gain by paying an exorbitant fee for ten minutes of his time to tell him a story I knew he’d never believe. Was he an idiot? Couldn’t he see I was doing it for love? Most of the vets were nice, cutting looks at Shannon— Are you crazy too? Shouldn’t you be getting him help? Shannon just wanted the facts. She examined the records of Ben’s perfect checkups with care, except the pissed-off guy’s; he threw us out before she got the chance.

Ben’s first and favorite vet, Dr. Diderada, interestingly enough, seemed to come closest to believing my story. He was last on Shannon’s itinerary. He probably should’ve retired years earlier. He had a distracted, dreamy quality, like an old cat. He gave us pretty much the same lecture the others had—why it was impossible for a cat to be 47—and certainly not one in Ben’s condition. But this time there was something quixotic about the narrative, some sense that among all the dead and dying cats there might be one who lived forever and never grew old, but of course, you couldn’t expect a scientific professional to speak openly of such a creature.

He bent down, looking Ben in the eye, scratching Ben’s trembling chin with his index finger, in a beckoning motion, as if he hoped to lure the true cat out into the open. “Some cats are special, aren’t they Benjamin? The world is their oyster.” The combination of the chin scratch and the mention of oysters—one of Ben’s favorites, especially fried—proved irresistibly seductive, and a resonant rumble issued forth from deep inside him so intense it made the gleaming examining table hum like a struck tuning fork, and both Diderada and Ben smiled like the Buddha. The walls behind them were plastered with lurid posters of cat anatomy, the color of rare roast beef. A plastic cat skeleton on a stand smiled too.

Shannon turned away, whispering, “I’ll wait in the car,” and hurried out.

“Lovely woman,” Diderada said.

Last stop on Shannon’s fact-finding expedition was a visit to my folks, the only witnesses to Ben’s resurrection I knew how to contact. Any angels who may or may not have been in attendance had steadfastly refused to reveal themselves over the years, and my official policy toward them was blissful ignorance. I managed a cranky ignorance most of the time. I never achieved blissful, though I avoided, for the most part, totally pissed off. Still no angels, no answers. I loved living with Ben, but I didn’t like living with an unfathomable enigma.

Mom and Dad loved Shannon, of course, and didn’t mind at all that she’d called that morning to invite us to dinner. They were also quite delighted to see Benjamin. After their last cat Angelina died at 16—toothless, blind, and with daily IVs—they’d decided to forego cats indefinitely, but they missed having a feline presence about the house.

As I mentioned before, my parents weren’t into grappling with reality. They slept under a pyramid and wanted to believe that breathing exercises and dietary supplements and the well-placed crystal would keep them forever young, though down deep they knew better. As much as they liked to flirt with the flaky, they proved immediately resistant to the notion that this Benjamin was the same cat who moved out almost 30 years previously. Metaphorically, spiritually, teleported, time-warped, reincarnated, alien-abducted, cloned, whatever the hell, maybe ; but not literally the same cat living his life ever since, one day at a time, a few months past his 47 thbirthday. That would be crazy.

Ben, who’d had a half-dozen thermometers shoved up his ass already that day, was not overly invested in the proceedings until dessert. He rubbed up against Mom’s legs while she was whipping cream, and when she was done, he stood on his hind legs, his forepaws extended in supplication, and “danced” (an awkward stumbling turn from the usually graceful Ben) and she gave him the beaters. I pointed out they used to go through this identical ritual when I was a kid—Ben got both damn beaters then too—but Mom insisted it didn’t prove anything, that any cat would do the same.

Shannon maintained an aloof silence during all of this, only asking an occasional question, clarifying some detail, never venturing an opinion herself. Over dessert, Mom suggested a therapist she knew. “I went,” Dad said. “I had suicidal thoughts.” He popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Not anymore!”

He told us about his “crisis”—which as far as I could tell consisted of realizing that we all grow old and die. He acted like this would be news to us young people, though he was the one who said, “You’re only as old as you feel, right?” Wrong. Clearly the man had forgotten Angelina. Dad now took antidepressants to make him feel good, guzzled various mood-altering teas Mom bought from websites, and he felt like a new man. I kind of missed the days Dad smoked pot in the basement and thought I didn’t know, while I experimented widely. I’d often speculated that some bizarre conjunction of chemicals in my body expressed in my breath and tears might have affected Ben in some inexplicable way to resurrect him. Might as well believe in fairy dust. God’s will? Divine Plan? Come on . He’s a cat. And if he had a mission on this earth other than enjoying himself with the least possible bother, God failed to inform him of it. Go forth and lick both beaters, my chosen one. I didn’t think so.

“Maybe you’re supposed to be figuring it out for me, Jeffrey,” Ben said once. “You’re the one who cares about this religious crap.” It was true, but I couldn’t figure it out. What possible use could God have for a cat who had so little use for Him? I’ve always wanted to believe but never quite pulled it off except for transitory spasms of awe—what most people call agnosticism. If Ben made God more likely, he also made it more likely that He’s totally batshit nuts. Give me agnosticism any day. And if I wanted something to believe in, my folks always had something new on offer. This time it was some mini-messianic therapist with a nimble prescription pad. My folks were almost becoming conventional.

Shannon was no more interested in hearing about Dad’s rebirth than I was, so we didn’t linger after dessert. At the door, Mom put the therapist’s number in my shirt pocket and gave it a little pat. I couldn’t begin to describe how swell that felt at my age.

Shannon asked one more time, holding him up as Exhibit A, snoozing in his carrier, his face and forepaws sodden from the post-whipped-cream cleaning he’d given himself, “But this does look exactly like the Benjamin you remember, right?”

“Yes, dear,” Mom said. “But it can’t be, can it?” She gave my shirt pocket another pat to let Shannon know she held her responsible for getting her crazy son to a therapist as soon as possible. I would sooner have gone to Dr. Diderada than any therapist my parents would’ve recommended.

Shannon was silent all the way home to my place, staring out the window at the night streets like she was a stranger in town feeling homesick. Every once in a while something would snag her vision, and she’d turn and follow it like she’d never seen it before.