Whitefoot

 

The easy breeze through the small opening of the screen in the window clattered the long, vertical blinds of my parents' living room. Many cats before Whitefoot had long since torn the screen to make the perfect entrance into the house from the front yard. Yet as he poked his orange face through the screen it seemed to belong to only him. 

The stray cats my dad has been collecting from around the neighborhood lazed behind him in the flowerbed, where my mother's beautiful flowers towered over them, offering shade from the hot, Northern Arizona sunshine. Whitefoot rubbed his orange body against the window frame, drifting casually into the living room. My dad sat in his usual blue chair. His novel, a trashy detective novel, was open on his lap. His head leaned back in the chair as he dozed. Whitefoot meandered toward him, casually stopping at the fish tank to check on his nemesis, Spot. Satisfied that he could not catch him today, he stepped gingerly onto my dad's lap, and curled up for his own nap. 

Early on in Whitefoot's life, he and his brother, Ginger, had been far too shy to let other people witness their open adoration of my father. For the first several years of their lives my children and I saw only glimpses of these illusive creatures as they slipped from one hideout to the next. Born on the Reservation these brothers had come to my parents skittish, shy, and reclusive. 

My boys, with the great courage of seven and nine-year-old boys, attempted several rounds of pulling the cats out for closer examination when we visited. These adventures usually ended in tears and bandages. Whitefoot and Ginger were nothing if not ruthless. This story was true beyond the screen door as well. Countless fights in the middle of the night with the neighborhood riff-raff led to abscesses, injuries, and trips to the vet. 

Rural Northern Arizona is no joke for animals. Coyotes howl in the distance. Stray cats prowl the street night and day. Wild and unkempt dogs wander through yards seeking chickens, and any other available snacks. It was not many years before Ginger fell prey to the wild, leaving Whitefoot alone. Losing his brother deepened his bond with my dad, however, this was not the usual bond between a person and a cat.

The first rule of their relationship was that my dad insisted he did not like the cat. I was told with great regularity that "This cat is a pain in the ass." Yet, when I visited my parents and the sun set, Dad would walk between the front door and the back and shout into the night, "CAT! CAT! Get your ass in here!" Sometimes Whitefoot would bound across the yard and head inside. Other times Whitefoot refused to come in. My dad would shout into the night, "Fine you asshole! I hope you fucking freeze!" Silent looks greeted him from his grandchildren as he slammed the door and stomped back into the house. However, until the cat came home, he continued to yell for him, not resting until Whitefoot trotted back into the house safely and soundly

The second rule of their relationship was they are both assholes (This is said with love. I love my dad a lot. He can still be an asshole. The cat is a complete asshole).  My dad is a cantankerous dude. My siblings and I have many memories of my dad shouting at us, asking us if we had been born in a barn, or throwing up his hand and stomping out of the house with our various antics. Whitefoot was cut from the same mold. He hissed. He scratched. He growled and scowled. Heaven help the fool who tried to pick him up. Whitefoot marked my parents' entire house multiple times, requiring my mom to hire carpet cleaners repeatedly. With great regularity, he fished in the fish tank in the living room. He would perch right above it, peering in. His paws would dip into the water as he watched the fish circle. Determined he would reach in up to his elbow to swipe at the fish. Most memorably, Whitefoot caught the great, big goldfish and ran through the house carrying this fish. Ultimately the fish was so damaged my dad had to hit it on the head with a hammer to put it out of its misery.

The third and final rule of their relationship was they were inseparable. Whitefoot followed my dad everywhere. If Dad was home, Whitefoot was either in his lap, meowing to be in his lap, or standing on the counter next to him waiting for the leftover milk from Dad's cereal. If Dad were in the garden, or the garage, Whitefoot was right behind him waving his tail and trotting along. Mom and Dad would joke that Whitefoot allowed them to sleep in his bed. If they got carried away by taking up too much space in the bed, Whitefoot would meow loudly his objections until they moved over.

Whitefoot had high expectations for what his life ought to look like. Every morning, after drinking his milk from Dad's bowl, Whitefoot would stand in the kitchen meowing at my mother. He wanted his food, but lest you think he could easily munch on a bit of kibble or wet food, you would be gravely mistaken. Whitefoot notoriously hated every kind of food my mother gave him. Almost weekly she would bemoan the state of Whitefoot's diet. She was constantly shopping for different types and trying other brands. Whitefoot was continually rejecting her attempts. 

One day, a few years ago,  my dad was doing his normal drill, building houses, and hammering away on whatever project that day required. At some point during the day, he scratched his leg. This was not uncommon. My dad's body is a tapestry of scars. A life in construction generally includes a wide range of injuries. Just a few of my dad's consisted of: chopping off 3 fingers and sewing them back on, falling from a ladder and breaking his arm, catching a trailer and tearing his Achilles tendon, among others that I am likely forgetting. My dad did not think anything of his little scratch. This scratch became infected. He cleaned it and thought nothing more of it. 

Far away, from Colorado, I heard my mother recounting strange behavior in my dad. He started forgetting things that he normally would not forget. I laughed and chalked it up to getting old. He missed a doctor's appointment. And then he missed another. My mom soon discovered that instead of going to HIS doctor, my dad was taking Whitefoot to the vet. He insisted something was wrong. He demanded they run tests on the cat. He cleaned its teeth. He checked for cancer. 

I imagine his interactions looking something like this:

The large, white van rumbled as it pulled off of Highway 89 into the parking lot of Aspen Veterinary Clinic. Our pets have been patients at this clinic since it opened. Many of our family's cats, dogs, and one bird have circled through these doors. Slamming the driver's side door, Dad swung open the back of the cargo area. Shoving aside tools, saws, and miscellaneous papers he reached for the cat carrier. Inside his carrier, Whitefoot snarled his protest. Never one for social interaction, the vet's office was the last on Whitefoot's list of places he wanted to hang out.

"Well, you idiot cat. This is what happens when you run around the neighborhood fighting with other cats and who the hell knows what else." My dad likely grumbled as he pushed open the gridded, wooden doors leading into the waiting room.

"Back again, Galen?" the receptionist chimed upon spotting him. "Did you make an appointment this time?"

"I'm pretty sure. Andrea told me to be here at 9:00. I don't know, I just do what I am told," he responded.

"Hmmm… I don't see you on the schedule. What's going on with Whitefoot today?"

"I'm not sure. I was just told to bring him in - that he had an appointment. Maybe you could look him over?" And off Whitefoot went to the examination room where the vet happily charged my dad for each unscheduled visit, never thinking to call my mom to see WHY my dad was bringing a perfectly healthy cat to the vet for no apparent reason. 

Finally, the doctor called, and the vet bills arrived. 

Simultaneously Dad's health was crashing. He felt terrible. He was weak and feverish, and his blood pressure was low. Conversations over the phone were filled with confusion, concern, and so many questions. Mom could not grasp why he was going to the vet instead of the doctor. Finally, she took a morning off of work at the local preschool where she worked to go to the doctor with him. Finally the pieces of the puzzle began to come together. Dad was very sick. The little scratch on his leg and turned into sepsis. It had entered his bloodstream and his system was crashing.  

Things moved dreadfully fast at this point. The sepsis caused blood clots that raced for his heart. I stood in the hallway at my school as I took the call. My students were quietly working as I watched through the window.

"Deanna, you should come home." My sister-in-law said. "This might be it."

My legs began to shake as I hung up the phone—my dad. There was still so much left unsaid between us - so many things I still didn't know about him. So many stories and questions. Talking to him had never been easy; knowing him had never been easy. As the bell rang and my students walked out of the door of my classroom I knew I needed to go home.  I might never get to ask those questions or hear those stories.

I raced home—fifteen hours in the car with two of my kiddos. I was so tired as I drove across the Reservation, sleep crawled over my body and into my eyes. Sometime around midnight I pulled off the road and drove down a dark, dirt road off of the highway, and slept in the driver's seat for half an hour, an hour, maybe? The dark night edged forward as I finally rolled into the driveway of my parents' home. Scooting my children in door, the stray cats sat and stared in their silent vigil waiting for Dad. Whitefoot stood quietly watching as we dragged our bags in the door and fell into bed.

While we drove, Dad had emergency open-heart surgery to clear the sepsis from his arteries. He suffered several small strokes.

Whitefoot was pretty annoyed his favorite human was nowhere to be seen. He meowed at my mother and any of us who would listen every chance he could get. He hogged Dad's side of the bed. He sat expectantly on the counter waiting for his milk. We all gently patted him, as if patting the cat could make Dad feel better.

Seven weeks later, my dad came home. He walked unceremoniously into the house and sat down in his blue Lazy Boy chair. The cat wandered in and found him sitting, dozing, and warming up his seat. Whitefoot hopped happily up on his lap. Stretched a big stretch, and curled up to sleep like no time had passed.

Life snapped back into its routines. The jagged scar on Dad's chest slowly smoothed over into a thin, white line through his thick, dark chest hair. Yet life had slowed way down for my parents. My dad rarely took jobs anymore. He spent much more time in his garden, or his greenhouse. He spent a lot of time driving my mother around as she progressed in her degenerative eye disease, and her vision began to fail more and more. Dad referred to his new life as 'Driving Miss Daisy.' 

Yet his - their constant remained the same: Whitefoot.

The car purrs softly in the driveway. I sit staring over the steering wheel as Whitefoot lies in the sun on the gravel rocks inside the fence. Inside the car, my chihuahua and golden retriever somehow know where we are, and can't wait to be unleashed into the yard to smell the countless smells, and pee on everything they can. I understand that the moment I open the door this moment will be lost; Whitefoot will race up the tree hissing while the dogs bark frantically. This quiet pause before chaos breaks forth allows me to sit in the reality of my parents' life for just a moment. The statue of the Virgin Mary stands guard over the poppies blooming, the spigot where the hose unrolls itself stands properly contained, the iron wind chime sways gently, ringing softly. Whitefoot is thinner, but no longer terrified of the world. He is king of his castle and lord of his domain. The back door swings open as Dad walks out into the yard having heard the car pull up. Before I know it the dogs are running about, the kids are talking to Dad all at once, and we are hugging, grabbing bags and phones, and heading into the house to Mom.

It is the same scene I have lived through a hundred times, the same house I was born in, the same driveway I roller-skated on when I was 10. My parents are the same people, just older, more forgetful, blinder. Every time I pull in, I worry that is will be the last time I pull in to them both inside the house. I worry this is goodbye when I pull out to head home to Colorado. 

That day in the sunshine was my goodbye to Whitefoot. I didn't know it, but it was the last time I watched him sunbathe. The last time my dogs would chase him. Dan, my brother, texted me Christmas morning to tell me that he woke up to Whitefoot cold and stiff on the living room couch. My dad dug him a little grave in the yard in the animal cemetery where all of our lost pets have gone - minus the goldfish, Spot. I'm pretty sure he was flushed. 

Daniels' cat, Minerva, has wandered into the house from the Mother-In-Law suite. Her little nose twitches as she looks for her archnemesis, Whitefoot. The coast is clear. She licks his bowl and sips his water. Wary, she heads back to my parents' bedroom. The soft bed looms before her. She cannot smell any sign of Whitefoot. Nimbly, she jumps up, landing between them. She takes another long glance waiting to see Whitefoot's paw ready to smack her, or his hiss warning her to leave. Instead, only silence. She curls up, licks her lips, and falls asleep.

Minerva, goddess of wisdom, has bestowed a tiny bit of wisdom on her namesake, Minnie. This little, gray cat senses a void, She knows just how to fill it.

She's no Whitefoot, but she'll do, my Dad said over the phone as he and my mother discuss the treats they will give her today. Dad has just finished his cereal and left the last bit of milk for her to sip up.

He's a tough act to follow, but I think she is on her way.