Desmond turns to us as we watch television and says, “I want another cat.” His lengthy eleven-year-old body reclines on our worn leather couch, hands clasped behind his head, his elbows spread like wings. After three days, his crying has subsided, and his confident expression suggests he has solved a problem.
“Chakra’s body’s not even cold yet,” his dad snaps.
Lee’s response surprises, reminiscent of the therapist telling us it was too soon to think about having another baby, a few weeks after Riley died, when we mentioned it in a session. It pissed us off and we didn’t listen to her. Desmond wants to create hope and bring new joy into his life, like we did after his brother’s death. And a cat is easier to acquire than a baby. No fertility issues to deal with. This I can do for him and Lee. I know my husband, and he just doesn’t realize he wants another cat yet.
Desmond researches cats and breeders. He sends texts and emails. We find a breeder we like (the least strange) and pay the deposit. New hope created with a Venmo payment, like a reservation made at a favorite restaurant that momentarily staves off craving.
***
Driving home from Ventura with our new kitten, I am nervous and excited as we ride on the curvy highway alongside the rolling ocean waves. “The sky is extra blue,” Desmond declares.
I try not to look, both my hands gripping the steering wheel on the one lane highway. My Prius feels unsafe for new life, and I think about Lee’s running joke, “You need to get rid of that lawnmower you drive.” Maybe he’s right, but it’s been so reliable and it was the car I had when Riley was born.
“You know who’s going to love this cat the most?” I ask. “Me” Desmond replies.
“No,” I say. “Your father.” He thinks he doesn’t want a cat, but I know he does…the same way I know he’ll be hungry twenty minutes after I am.
Cut to, “Who’s my good kitty? You are! Who’s the best kitty ever?” Lee says, reminiscent of the way he used to talk to Riley when he was a baby.
“You totally called it,” Desmond says.
Lee bends over and scoops her up. He’s wearing a grey robe I purchased for him, because of his complaints of being cold and turning the thermostat too high. He holds her on his shoulder like he’s about to burp her. She nestles into the robe’s shearling.
***
I didn’t anticipate how it would feel having a kitten—the tiny and fragile new being in our house. She feels like a cloud in my arms, as if she could float away or dissipate. “I love her so much. I don’t want her to die,” Desmond says.
I lay awake at night worrying if she’s breathing like when the boys were infants. By bringing her into our lives, we have created hope, but also the risk of loss and heartbreak.
“I don’t remember worrying about Chakra at all when she was a kitten,” I tell Lee. “We didn’t have a kitty playpen for her…we’d just let her roam.”
“We were just stupid kids then,” he says.
I see the younger us in our beach cottage on Walnut. My straight blond hair tucked behind my ear. Lee’s dark facial hair shaved into a goatee, no trace of gray in either of us. I open the door for the pizza delivery guy and Chakra peers through my legs. “She’s so cute and so little,” he says.
I laugh, giddy on too much red wine. Later that night, we’ll eat pink frosted cookies, stay up way too late, and try to get pregnant.
“Yes,” I agree, thinking about how we finally had Riley a few years later. Slightly older, no less dumb. And now this kitten in our middle-age, the sunlight shining on her fur and our undimmed appetite for life.
You can read the full essay here:
Appetite
