“Standing for the Toms” by Angela Townsend
Arlene never married Lars because some things are better left unsaid. He asked until the time for asking was over. She didn’t want anyone else, but she didn’t want him on her couch after 7:30 at night. That’s when four cats poured themselves over her flannel jams. If she wanted to watch Under the Tuscan Sun, they didn’t mind. They weren’t going to yell out the wrong answers to Jeopardy! There wasn’t room for some droopy man butt on that couch. Lars and Arlene lasted because he went home at night.
Arlene tells me this because I answer the donation line at the cat sanctuary. She is calling from North Jersey, which she describes as a sovereign nation. Once, the parking lots pulsed with unneutered males, tabbies swaggering like mobsters. From Ho-Ho-Kus to Metuchen, every Taco Bell was a refugee camp. You’d see their tails wriggling in the dumpsters. They ripped each other to ribbons, jowly old Romeos missing eyes and ears. There must have been gals, or else the bachelors wouldn’t have hung around. But female cats have self-respect, you know? If you’ve ever seen an old calico, you know. She carries herself like the broad on Downton Abbey, even if she’s been birthing kittens since she was a lean little linguini.
Arlene laughs. The toms with their tetherball heads are studded loaves, hot cross buns missing a few raisins. The kittens are God’s favorite biscuits, but not even the Almighty intended so many. That’s how Arlene met Lars, anyway. All the sour people called a meeting at the Methodist church to talk about the cat problem. They wanted Animal Control to round them up and put them down. A man with eyebrows like Vincent Price said they were spreading disease. All the ladies with the flat-ironed hair agreed.
Lars stood up. He was respectful. He talked about Trap-Neuter-Return. There was evidence. If you “TNR” the cats, they’ll stop fighting. They’ll learn rules. They’ll show up for breakfast and stop dumpster diving. They’ll abide by a new form of government. Lars didn’t just talk. He said he only needed nine good people, and the ten of them would show North Jersey how it was done. Could he find nine people? He looked around the room, and he looked at Arlene, and that was thirty years ago.
Arlene wants me to know that she and Lars trapped over four hundred cats. Nobody got rabies. Arlene learned some zoology. She learned how to tell from someone’s expression in the Shop-Rite line if they might be willing to feed. She got bold, recruiting anyone with kibble in their cart. Everyone can do something. You just show up with the three-ounce cans, and your Sharks and Jets will trot up. In the winter, you put hay in the cat houses—blankets freeze, and that’s bad news. You’ll probably have to yell at some 21-year-old Pizza Hut assistant manager at some point. You name the little hoodlums, whether or not you intend to.
Some folks stop at “Gray Cat” or “Tiger,” but Lars and Arlene had fun. Arlene remembers them all. There were a lot of Food Network chefs in her colonies, old yellow Guy Fieri and three-legged Ina Garten. The tortoiseshell Giada walked directly into the fog one night, then turned back and stared for a long time, and they knew she was not coming back. Arlene swears she’ll never get over Emeril. He showed up with no eyes and a smart mouth. In one month, he was on Arlene’s couch. He died in her arms. She called Lars and he spent the night. Lars didn’t say it, but he knew there wouldn’t be another one like Emeril.
Arlene keeps the ashes in the guest bedroom. She knows “they” aren’t in there, but it’s good to have something you can hold. Damn cherry boxes with little name plates. No doubt they’re all unneutered again up there, running loony and spitting out kittens faster than the angels can catch them. But nobody’s fighting, and they’re all eating swordfish and oysters. Lars never liked the whole “Rainbow Bridge” schlock. He wasn’t a spiritual guy, but he said that nothing as honest as a cat can really come to an end.
Lars is the reason Arlene called. He had a couple of nephews, but they’re fine. They don’t need his little IRA. Lars heard that my getup takes cats no one else can take. He liked that we’re not a shelter, we’re a “sanctuary.” He read all our newsletters back to 2006. He never knew anyone would take the persnickety ones—that was a Lars word—or the ones who couldn’t walk. And then there’s all those diabetic cats who don’t have Medicare. No one realizes insulin is the most expensive thing.
When Lars got sick, he asked Arlene to take care of things. Most of the money should stay in North Jersey. But if there really was a sanitarium—Lars was a jokester—near Princeton, where the “bad” cats were safe, he thought we should get a chunk of things. Arlene checked us out. We were legit. Lars didn’t want his name on any walls. He just wanted to keep a room ready for the hooligans down in Jersey’s tenderloin. Could we rig something up?
Angela Townsend is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee and seven-time Best of the Net nominee. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Chautauqua, The Disappointed Housewife, Pleiades, Sky Island Journal, SmokeLong Quarterly, and West Trade Review, among others. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar. Angela has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 34 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and loves life affectionately.
