A Twelve Year Lie

Jackson and I have been together for 12 years. The shelter folks told me it was unlikely I would find a kitten in January since it wasn't "kitten season" but I found him tucked away in a cage, a small orange ball. I lied on the adoption application, saying I lived in a house where pets were allowed and that he would be an indoor cat. My application was approved, and we went home to my 400 sq. ft. apartment where pets were not allowed. I had successfully adopted an out-of-season, red-headed cat using lies and deceit.

Living with Jackson has not always been easy. His younger years found him in constant conflict with the world and me. I can't count the number of objects I've hurled at him to prevent one behavior or another (but he's fast and I always missed). I once had a bean-bag chair that he considered a litter box and a litter box that he considered a sandbox, sending litter far and wide, so I started to let him go outside. He was promptly pounced upon by another cat, chased through the screen door by a dog, and bumped by a car. He remained (and remains) undeterred; the outdoors are his oyster. What with all the cat fights, illnesses, syndromes, and, yes, even an animal behavioralist, I can't calculate the amount of mental and financial resources that have been spent on Jackson's physical and mental well-being. Throw in a 48 hour mystery disappearance and a blundering vet tech who nearly caused Jackson's liver to fail, and you can say he's become quite the drain on resources.

It hasn't been all roses for him either. I use to dip the tip of his tail in Tabasco because he used to suck on it and the sound woke me up. He got blamed for tearing up the toilet paper when it turned out to be Lucy's handiwork, and he eventually had to share his life with three other cats and a dog. Still, he's been a trooper. From Austin to Chicago (and two years stuck in an apartment) to Ithaca to Atlanta, Jackson traveled well, claiming wherever it is we lived as his own and letting everyone know it. He's a model patient, taking his medicine without much complaint or hassle, something that can't be said about the rest of our brood. Jackson's a poor hunter, but that didn't stop him from trying to snag a wild turkey and he twice refused to back down to some shifty deer who thought they had the right of way. And when trouble rings the doorbell, he's quick to cast differences aside and hide under the bed with Algebra.

At 12, Jackson lives a quieter life. I miss seeing that mischievous gleam in his eyes but it's also nice not being forced to walk around the neighborhood shaking keys or tapping his food dish with a spoon trying to lure him home. He still has an attitude problem, and everyone, including Boo the dog, knows to respect his personal space, that our casa is his casa. His lower canines are gone so his bite doesn't inflict the same damage it once did, and at 16 pounds jumping on and off the counter requires more effort. Almost every morning he sits on my lap while I drink coffee and at night he'll get on my lap and lord over the rest of us.

Better (and lesser) writers than me have and will pen their experiences with their cat or dog and become best-selling authors. Over 12 years, Jackson has provided more than enough material for a book, and it's to my discredit that I didn't keep a journal of his escapades, brushes with death, eccentricities, and overall impact on my life. Matt Damon would've made a good me in the movie version.

I did lie on the shelter application, but I've never reneged on my signed pledge to provide Jackson with the best life possible. Few cats have had it better than Jackson; few people have had a better companion. Not all lies have bad endings.