The Bra

We were living in Glen Cove, on Long Island, in New York, Anastasia, Zoë, Martha, and Sylvia. We lived in the wing of a mansion on the water where the bathroom could fit a double bed. 

There was a feline war going on. Zoë hated Martha and Sylvia. Anastasia was okay with Sylvia, who loved her, but was not happy about the fighting. I was supposed to be fostering Martha and Sylvia, but the woman who promised to take them backed out at the last minute. Her loss, but I wish I’d known earlier so I would have bonded with them sooner.

Sylvia was black with a little white patch on her chest. Martha was a tuxedo. They came to me in a very large dog crate. We still use that crate.

They were much younger than I was led to believe. They were not eight-years-old, they were not even one-year-old. They were also not spayed, which led to near-fatal issues later on. They were both depressed. I was told it was because their owner died, but I think it was because they were living in their home with little or no human contact.

They were terrors. Small balls of black-furred terrors.

*****

One night early on, before I understood why kitties should be separated for about two weeks as part of their introduction, I had fallen asleep on the sofa with Anastasia and Zoe cuddled with me. Martha and Sylvia came into the living room together, walking side-by-side, one curling her tail around her sister’s tail in a beautiful expression of affection that has always moved me. Those moments are memories that I could never capture on film and which I realized were one of those gifts that were both meant to be fleeting and meant to be remembered.

The sisters looked at and smelled everything and walked on silent little kitten paws while their tails moved like waves in a language that looked like love. They reminded me of two little old women walking arm-in-arm window shopping in Manhattan.

*****

They weren’t chipped at the time, so they and Anastasia and Zoë wore collars. Anastasia and Zoë were used to theirs and even enjoyed wearing them. The sisters? Not so much. It took me hours to get the collars on. They were wild and I was certain they might have been feral. After many screeches, howls, begging, and pleading, and a great deal of bloody scratches, I got the collars on—one red, one green, and both with big rhinestones. I thought they would look pretty on their black fur. They did. That night I came home to find both collars on the bed, parallel to one another and facing in the same direction.

*****

I brought a hamper of clean and dried laundry to the foot of my bed for a moment. I returned to see Martha with her bottom in the cup of my bra. She fit perfectly and seemed rather pleased with herself. Her front paws were on the opposing strap. She gave Sylvia and me a final look as she flung herself out of the bra and across the bed. She pranced back with that very feline, very self-satisfied air and repeated the process two more times.

When I think of them. And, I do think of them often. These are just a couple of the memories that bring me joy, and I must admit, some confusion. I hope that we all are able to remember our fur babies—who are, I’m sure, frolicking in fur baby heaven—with joy; that we are able to share our undulating tails of love with one another

Tune in next time, dear readers. Until then, the Tribe and I wish you love, joy, and health. We hope you consider: Are you the rescuer or the rescued?