People and Animals

Eleanor should have visited the cat sanctuary when she still drove. But here’s the thing. Just to be a person is a full-time job, and if you’re not paying attention, you’ll be ninety-five before you know it.

Eleanor calls me on a Saturday because the world is all jammed up in her ears. She’s afraid that people are forgetting how to be a person. Not the people at the cat sanctuary, of course. We return her calls on weekends, even though she can only donate a little swig of her COLA. 

It tickles Eleanor that they call it COLA. Cost Of Living Adjustment. Eleanor says it would be a toot to tape her check to a bottle of pop and figure out how to ship it to the cat sanctuary. She just might rig that up some year. 

Eleanor has noticed people out there are laughing less these days. The man who sells the deer corn looks green around the gills. If you ask him why, you’ll get an earful of fears. He squawks a lot of horseradish, but Eleanor has known him since he was swimming in his father’s flannels. So, Eleanor makes a second banana bread and leaves it on the counter when his back is turned. Someone needs to remind him of things.

Eleanor is going to be ninety-five in May. When she tells me, I interrupt her to get the date. She teases me. What is this, the pharmacy? DOB, DOB, they’re always asking her DOB. She doesn’t mind. She likes it when the youth behind the counter says he only needs the month and date, not the year. She asks him if she can pass for forty. He gets nervous, so she makes jokes about The Botox, and then they both get to be people together.

You can be a person everywhere. If you’re not careful, word will get out, and you’ll never have a free moment. It’s kind of like this. The fox doesn’t have her kits in just any yard. Animals, wild and domestic, have radar. Eleanor gets the foxes. She doesn’t just feed them. She calls the ma “Sophia Loren.” She congratulates her on having babies who look like red velvet cupcakes. Animals know what’s inside.

It’s the same with people. There’s a tall glass of water at the post office who scares everyone. Eleanor sees people drop their parcels when she barks “NEXT!” They whimper over to the next window, even if the line is twice as long. Not Eleanor. She asked the clerk her name once, and you’d think it was the cure for shingles. The answer came slow, like she had to think about it. Now Eleanor comes up with questions in the parking lot. What’s your favorite color? Isn’t that Liam Neeson a handsome man? Can you recommend a song that will make my niece think I’m cool? How many animals have you got at home?

The clerk doesn’t have any animals at home, so Eleanor tells her about the cat sanctuary. If I ever see a Kayla, about six foot two, real pretty but with a war face, that’s Eleanor’s gal. She’ll need a cat sweet as pudding, the kind you could dress up like Raggedy Ann and not get scratched. I promise Eleanor I will remember. I write it down next to her birthday.

Eleanor has just one cat now, Tiny Tim. This is a good time to be ninety-five, because big men in little shorts will schlep the litter to your door. Eleanor scolds the UPS man for dressing like it’s August all year. His name is Armand. She threatens to crochet him tall socks to cover his knees. He’s got a congregation of pit bulls at home, all named for kinds of cheese. He’ll show you pictures, if you ask. When Gouda died, Eleanor thought that big man might return to the Earth from whence he came. But Eleanor made him promise to sing when she turns one hundred, and she said she was praying for him. Nobody has ever told Eleanor not to pray for them.

When Eleanor calls, I remind her that any one of us at the cat sanctuary would come pick her up. I would tie streamers on my sedan if given the honor. Name the date and time. I will be there. The sanctuary is wheelchair accessible. She is part of this family. She should see the one-eyed sibyls and jowly juggernauts she’s helped to save. 

Eleanor likes it when I return her calls, because I talk about cats like people. Sometimes she’s not sure if I’m referring to the town councilman or some fat tabby. How long have I been at the cat sanctuary? She can’t remember. I can barely remember. All I know is that I went to school to be a minister, but I ended up here. Even if I could find the door, I would stay, because of the cats, and also the people.

Eleanor can’t come to the cat sanctuary, even if we pick her up. She’s not planning any excursions. The days get away from her too quickly as it is. A trip to the grocery store takes over an hour. She has to check in on the deli man’s sick daughter and the dairy man’s gout. When people tell you things, you have to remember. You have to follow up. That’s just being a person. You go find them even if they are on their knees, rotating the stock. Her niece helped her set up a spreadsheet for all the birthdays. Eleanor keeps collecting more. 

Eleanor says it’s best I didn’t become a lady pastor. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But the cat sanctuary seems more urgent. How old am I, forty? I ask Eleanor how she guessed within two years of the right answer. My photo on the website is blurry, and I am peeking out behind the cat called La-La as though she was a shawl. I should have remembered that Eleanor does not use the World Wide Web anyway. 

Eleanor says she doesn’t know, but she hopes I’m here for the duration. She never thought she would live to ninety-five. She thanks me for calling back on a Saturday. Toodles for now. There is so much to get done today.