fill the mind,
and it is a safe world
for children and cats,
and God is not so lost.
17
Dogs are all the same
at the animal hospital.
You’ve seen them, Boris.
Pacing and complaining
and peeing on the floor.
And the cats,
with their heads tucked
inside their owners’ bellies,
they aren’t much better.
How is it then, Boris,
that you are so
magnanimous
when you arrive?
Sitting quietly in your
kitty bag,
taking stock of
all the wimps
around you,
pausing now and then
to wash your pretty feet.
And when I carry you
into the examining room
it is you who does
the examining.
Freed from your bag,
you move from table to
chair to table,
inspecting all the instruments
and spray bottles
and that big jar of dog treats
behind the soap.
Taking your time.
And when the doctor
walks in,
you are stretched out
on that stainless-steel counter,
humming a tune
and wondering if anybody
is up for a game of Scrabble.
Outside in the waiting room,
the waiting and pacing
and crying and moaning
goes on,
but in here, Boris,
everything’s cool,
we are so very cool,
and the man you now
refer to as Doc is
admiring your
thick gray coat and your
sharp white teeth,
and your purr is making the
room tremble.
A hospital takes
the measure of a man,
Boris, and you are the
manliest man of a cat
any of us has ever seen.
Tossing a dozen dog biscuits
into your kitty bag,
you say sayonara
when the exam is done,
and the doctor retreats quietly
into his office
to pop a couple
testosterone pills,
while out in the waiting room
the place falls into a hush
as you pass by,
already curled up
in one paw
and a martini
in the other.
18
I know I probably shouldn’t
mention the other male cats
who came before you, Boris.
It doesn’t take a girl
long
to find out
how touchy men are
about old boyfriends.
No matter how much
you’re dying to tell
the guy you’re with
about the time
your old boyfriend
made you drive
a stick shift in the
middle of the night
on the way to Myrtle Beach
even though you’d
only driven automatics
and he went to sleep
and left you there on
the freeway trying to
downshift from fourth
to third
so you could catch
that exit ramp
coming up,
and the thrill of that,
that you managed it
with no lessons,
or that other boy
you jumped out of the plane
to impress
and floated down at 5,000 feet
only to realize
a couple days later
he was gay
and you nearly
splattered yourself
all over Dayton, Ohio, for him,
even though it’s a great story,
DON’T TELL IT.
So maybe, Boris,
I shouldn’t tell you
about the others.
About Audience and Beckett
and Louie and Tobias
and Edward, dear Edward,
whom I found dead
by the side of the road,
after coming home from
a funny movie,
and the awfulness
that I’d been
having a good laugh
at the moment of impact
when that car
slammed into him
and, God, I hope
killed him instantly.
Everyone loved Edward.
Can I tell you that, Boris?
That when a couple
came to buy my house
they wanted Edward with it
and they weren’t kidding.
He was a sweetheart,
loved to ride on my shoulders.
He’d been abandoned like you, Boris.
You two would have had
Yes, there have been others.
But there never was
nor ever shall be
another Boris,
you can believe me
when I say it,
and I tell you we are
here now together
to make our mark,
you and I,
in this brief moment
before we lie down
to an eternal sleep
among the roses.
There have been other cats, Boris,
but of those who disappeared and are
maybe still alive,
one of them is probably
telling some other human
that she’s not the first
he’s loved.
No, there was that other one,
years ago,
with the small blond boy
and all the goldfish
and that constant
Beatles music.
Boris, if you live someday
with another person,
please be kind
when you speak of me,
and explain that, yes, I
was maybe now and then
too alone,
but that I
made you happy,
and that you
made me happy, too.
19
Last December I moved
one state south,
and that night, Boris,
you and your sister
were put in kitty-crates
and were driven
six long hours
squeezed in the
back of the van
with the dogs,
the Labrador
panting like a bellows,
the corgi
throwing up on her bed,
the dachshund
whining and wanting some
immediate answers now.
What were you thinking, Boris?
Were you remembering
how it was at the shelter,
how they hauled
you and your sister in crates
from the main building
to the little storefront building
every morning,
and put you in the window
for everyone to see,
then hauled you back
again at night?
Did you learn to hate
a crate?
Did you learn
that vans suck?
What must you
have been thinking, then,
put in the back of my van,
in a crate,
and driven six long hours south.
Did you think
you were going back, Boris?
Back to that big main building?
And did you take one
last look
at the lattice fence
you loved to stroll on,
and the poplar tree
you loved to climb,
and the house where
the triplets gave you shrimp?
Did you work
on your attitude,
those six long hours
in the van,
and tell yourself
you could live in a cage again
if that’s the way it is?
Life isn’t perfect.
And were you ready, Boris,
to say good-bye to me
up until the very moment
the van stopped
and you were lifted out
and carried into
a house
that had the same old furniture
you’d been clawing up for three years,
and a warm fire
in a large stove,
and, yes,
even your favorite
brand of kitty litter.
If your life passed
before your eyes, Boris,
between the old house
and the new one,
then we are
made of the same stuff.
Because I, too, have mourned
the passing of fences
and yards
and small children
as I drove away
from an old life
on my way somewhere else
where I hoped maybe I’d find
something that was missing.
I have never managed this
without tears.
But isn’t it so, Boris,
that every new place
has such beautiful trees
and a blue sky
in the morning.
Isn’t it so,
that every new place
is worth trying.
Here, we walk among
the cedars, Boris,
hope in our hearts,
three happy dogs
in tow.
About the Author
CYNTHIA RYLANT is a Newbery Medalist and the author of many acclaimed books for young people. She’s well known for her popular characters for early readers, including Mr. Putter & Tabby and Henry & Mudge. She lives in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her website at www.cynthiarylant.com.