A Calico Kind of Day

Change is inevitable, and it can hurt, but sometimes you just have to go with the flow, make the most of what is new.

It was a Calico kind of day. Seemed like I knew it would be as soon as I woke up that morning. She'd pressed her cold little nose against mine and let me know it was time to get up, past time for her breakfast. When I rolled over with a groan, she'd simply sat on my belly until I couldn't stand it any longer.

Calico is a cat. Only she's not a calico. She's a petite gray tabby I'd found wrapped in a calico quilt by the dumpster in the alley behind my house. She was just the cutest, tiniest little thing, so of course I took her home with me. Well, we took to each other right away, and soon she was pretty much running my house. And that is how I came to be hurrying to the bathroom at 5:00 am on a frosty morning in March.

Calico rises early. At least, I think she does. Maybe she never went to bed, but spent the night hunting mice or whatever cats hunt in a house at night. Whether she'd had a peaceful slumber or a night on the prowl, she was wanting her breakfast before she snuggled into her window seat to bask in the weak later-winter sun throughout most of the day. There she would repose peacefully, watching the world through sleepy eyes.

Now, this little bit of fur and fun had taken an immediate liking to me. She liked to curl up on my lap when I sat down to read, or on my keyboard whevener I needed to work. She made her pleasure in my company manifest in every way she could, meowing a protest if I set her on the floor because I needed to use said keyboard, or if I didn't acknowledge her funny antics when she was in a playful mood. But not everyone enjoyed her unqualified acceptance. There was one person in particular who seemed to especially get her hackles up.

Jack Ponds had been delivering my mail for all the years I had lived in this house. I guess you could say we'd grown old together. His steps weren't so brisk as they had once been as he came up the walkway to drop a few advertisements or an occasional utility bill in my mailbox. It was a regular occurrence, though, six days a week, every week of the year, except on holidays. So why Calico decided he was untrustworthy is something I'll probably never understand. But every day, Calico would wait until Jack stepped up onto the porch, then she would set up a howling like a pair of tomcats were going at it. And she would keep it up until he turned away again. Jack would just laugh, call a cheerful, "Good Morning, Miz Lucy", and go on his way. Calico would then sit back down, her ruffled fur settled into its usual sleek do, and lick her paws as if nothing untoward had occurred.

On this particular day, I did my usual routine, coffee and time in the Word, and then a brisk walk around the block, before I sat down to work. Calico watched from her window seat as I went through my usual preparations, her little kitty face almost smiling with contentment, a soft purring rumbling from her chest. Then she jumped down and came across the room to take her place on the keyboard. "Not today, Sweetie," I insisted. This article was due at the Chronicle in a few hours and my mind just didn't seem to want to work at all.

After a few tries, Calico finally contented herself to sit on my lap until about 9:00 am. Then as usual, she leaped down, stretched leisurely, and stalked to her window seat, where she sat staring out at the street, waiting. She was still waiting two hours later, when a uniformed man came strolling up the walk. Calico watched him as he approached. I heard the thump of his step on the porch, but she didn't make a sound. "That's unusual," I thought, and left my desk to see what was up.

On the stoop was a young man of about thirty or so, dressed in a United States Postal Service uniform. It certainly was not Jack Pond. I hurried to the door and opened it so quickly the poor fellow nearly fell off the step in surprise.

"What are you doing?" I asked foolishly. "I mean to say, where's Jack?"

He smiled one of those smiles that, if I were about 40 years younger would have taken my breath away, then he said simply, "Jack retired." Just like that. Well, that set me back on my heels. Slowly I closed the door, and looked at Calico. She just sat there staring out at the postal worker as he trudged to the next house. And I started crying. No excuse for it, I just started crying like somebody had died or something. No more reason for those tears than Calico's yowling at Jack, I thought. But still I sobbed and sobbed.

I sat on the couch with Calico for most of that day, basking in the warm sun, her soft purring keeping company with my wandering thoughts. The tears had dried, but I was having a Calico kind of day. I didn't finish the article I was writing. I didn't read a book. I just sat there, looking out the window, like Calico. And the next day I called the Chronicle.

"I've retired," I told them, "as of yesterday."

Calico hasn't yowled again in all the years she's lived with me since that day, and I let her sit on my keyboard anytime she chooses, because I don't have any deadlines to meet. I meet Jack Pond once in a while at the grocery store, and we say "hi" and smile, and sometimes he asks after my cat. I tell him she's real quiet these day, and he just laughs.

Reviews

[Duncan Brown]

Was was was was was was......................

[Maxwell Ryder]

I think that's fantastic that you've kept a journal for fifty years! I have for eleven, and I hope for many more. You must have an incredible picture of your life (and an incredible number of volumes.)

[Kate Z.]

Actually I don't have volumes, for I have discarded most of them. The journaling isn't about what I wrote but that I wrote. Much of it was the angry maeanderings of a disappointed young woman. Keep journaling. Don't worry about keeping all those journals! I have only kept my "grief journal" and some things I wrote for my children about their daddy, who died 6 years ago. I pray these will be helpful for them in the future. The past few years has been more about my spiritual journey, and those I will probably keep for them because I want them to know that it is a journey, and sometimes a long one.