Saved by the cat: Remembering Zach

Our first cat was a grey tabby named Zach. His full name was Zachary Morris, after my daughter's favorite character on "Saved by the Bell," but we only called him by his full name when we yelled at him, which was quite often when he was a young ‘un.

Zach joined our family at a sad time. I was in the process of getting a divorce. My children were quite young, just four and six, and still recovering from all the calamitous events that necessitated the break in the marriage.  When my grandmother suggested that a kitty might be just the thing to help with the healing, I pounced on the idea. I didn’t know anything about cats then, but I knew my kids were hurting and I wanted the hurting to stop.  

My grandmother’s nephew, the owner of Zach’s gold tabby mama, was a sweet guy who knew a lot about cats. He told me transporting our new pet would be easy. All I needed was a box with a sturdy cover. I showed up at his house with my four-year-old and a laundry basket, because really, how could such a feeble tiny thing ever find its way out of a laundry basket?   

It was twenty years ago, but the memory of that first ride home still makes me laugh out loud. We were barely out of the driveway when Zach wormed himself out of the basket and onto the back seat. He sniffed around, then proceeded to climb up my daughter, who was buckled into her booster chair.  

  

My daughter screeched and screamed. She giggled so hard she cried. I couldn’t see anything from where I sat. I was glad the giggles outweighed the screams.  We were only a few miles from home. I was on the highway during the worst of it, probably doing more than sixty.  The louder she got, the harder I pressed on the gas. 

I prayed that the kitty wouldn’t make his way toward me. As soon as I started visualizing what could happen if he did – the tickling the swerving the crashing the plummeting off the bridge into Lake Quinsigamond  –  he jumped onto the nape of my neck and latched on good.  That was my first inkling that this strange four-legged tormentor was a mind reader.  He dug in his claws like a mountain climber on Everest, then began traversing my body: one shoulder blade then the other, under an armpit, down to my ample belly. He snuggled up a little bit there and I remember thinking maybe he’d quiet down and settle in for a nap.  

But no. I guess my shrieking and laughing and jerking around unsettled him. He made for my thighs and that’s when I remembered the strange hole in the floor of the car, near the gas pedal. It was about the size of a Hershey bar, as was this cat. I had no idea what purpose the hole served. But I was pretty sure it led to the engine. I pictured that innocent mewing baby weaving around my ankles and creeping into that gaping black maw and I knew I had to do something fast. 

I grabbed at the kitty. He swatted at my hand, cutting me for the first time. I grabbed again and again and each time he’d bob and weave like a prize fighter. Finally, I managed to get a grip around his middle, which wasn't much thicker than a cucumber. I tugged and tugged while his tiny talons plunged deeper and deeper into my thigh.  Finally, I broke his hold. He tried to twist himself out of my grasp, but I held tight. I reached back as far as I could and tried to drop him behind me, onto the floor of the back seat. But the jiggling critter wouldn’t let go. He started to work his way up my arm. 

What I did next is not something I am proud of, but I want to be honest. Plus, he survived. I loosened my grip and flung my arm back as hard as I could. He flew into the air and landed on the back seat. I heard the thud quite clearly. 

He was quiet after that and we all made it home more or less in one piece. When we got in the house, I let him attack the living room. While I scavenged in the medicine cabinet for bandages to cover up my tattered thighs, Zach explored under the couch, swiped at dust balls under the piano, swatted at dust motes. I found him curled up on the carpet sound asleep, right in the center of the room on a big square of sunlight.   

He nearly died one more time that day. 

It was late at night. The children were fast asleep. The house was quiet, except for the soft pad pad pad of tiny paws. I was sitting on the kitchen floor watching Zach.  I’d been sitting there for hours, mesmerized. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, this perfect new soul discovering his universe one sniff at a time.  He nosed at base boards and licked at crumby corners. He attempted to find a secret passage behind the refrigerator but got quite frightened when the motor kicked on. He scurried off, tripped over his own legs, and somersaulted across the floor.    

He found the telephone cord, a snarled mess several yards long that always got in the way. I watched, curious to see what kind of gymnastic feat  the  little goof would attempt next.  He swatted at the cord. The cord swatted back. He lunged at it and pulled on it. Within seconds the little guy had gotten himself severely tangled. He couldn’t move. He went limp. I realized he was strangling. I jumped into action. Even though it took no time at all to free him, it felt like ages. 

He stood there, dazed. I kneeled down on the floor and scooped him up. I cuddled him to my chest. His tiny heart hammered against my own. His body curled into my palm and soon he fell asleep.  I inched my way toward the cabinets, and leaned back carefully. I didn’t want to wake him. I held him the way you hold a sleeping baby, just tight enough. I was surprised that I hadn’t forgotten that hold, and I was glad too.  

Himself