When Hallgirl2 was in 8th grade, she rode the bus to and from school. Each day, she would be dropped off several blocks from home and make the walk across two busy streets. One day, she came home with a request. When she’d arrived at her bus stop that afternoon, a cat had greeted her—and she wanted to bring it home.
We had three other cats at the time, all that we’d adopted as strays, and the idea of taking in another cat…well, that was just crazy. Not to be deterred by the thought of crazy, I made what I thought was a highly improbable deal with Hallgirl2. We had to go to the store first, and when we were finished, we would bring home the groceries, then go back to the bus stop, and if we could find the cat, she could ask a few of the neighbors if it belonged to anyone, and if it didn’t belong to anyone, then we could bring it home. At the time, I thought it highly unlikely that in a city full of stray cats, we would find the exact same cat that had greeted her at the bus stop. And if we did find the friendly cat, it would be likely that it would come with an owner.
Off to the store we went, and upon unloading the groceries at home, we went back to the bus stop. As I pulled the car to the curb and Hallgirl2 got out, a petite black and white tuxedo cat came out of nowhere and ran up to her, dropping on the sidewalk and rolling onto her back to expose her belly to Hallgirl2. A few knocks on neighboring doors, and several bemused looks confirmed that this little girl was a stray, so we brought her home. She was given the name Maya after the poet Maya Angelou, sisters of survival and fearlessness.
Before we had lost two cats to the busy streets surrounding our home, Maya and the other cats were indoor-outdoors, often spending their nights hunting throughout the neighborhood. One cool fall morning, Maya didn’t appear for breakfast, and for many months, there was no sign of her. Winter came and went. We often thought of her and felt sadness that she’d gone. One spring morning, I opened the back door to call in the cats, when in strolled Maya, over to the cat bowl with the others, as if she’d never left. I’d assumed she’d been adopted into someone’s house, as she’d gained a bit of weight, earning a “pudgy kitty” comment from the vet, but otherwise, she seamlessly fit herself back into the household.
A couple of years later during the summer months, again Maya was absent for breakfast. This time she was gone for several weeks and when she returned, she’d lost considerable weight. I assumed that she’d been accidentally locked into someone’s garden shed and managed to escape when it was opened. At that point, she remained inside for the rest of her life and was never again allowed outside of the house. She seemed to know that she’d used a few of her nine lives and never minded that her days of outdoor explorations were finished.
Over the years, Maya earned two nicknames. As Stunt Kitty, while living on Market Street, she would frequently walk the length of the stair railing, balancing on the rail of the second story landing, above the 12 foot ceiling of the foyer and staircase. She would exhibit her fearlessness by allowing us to tap the opposite end of the railing as a calling, upon then she would casually stroll from one end of the railing to the next. Never did she falter.
Her initial integration with the existing household cats was a rough one, and this demonstrated her largely intolerant attitude towards other cats, earning her the moniker of Nasty Bitch Cat. Although actual physical fights didn’t occur, there was much growling and hissing at others anytime another cat came too close. Throughout her years, she grew mellow with age, but still clearly had those she tolerated and those she would not tolerate at all. The latter learned quickly to keep their distance.
This tolerance, or lack thereof, often extended to people as well. I did not however extend to Hallboy who was five when Maya joined our family. From early on, Maya and Hallboy developed a closeness, where she would stay by his side from the moment he entered the house. When he sat, Maya was in his lap, often under the folds of a blanket or enveloped in his robe. Maya was frequently found cradled against his shoulder, or curled against him in bed at night. With anyone else, Maya’s indifference kicked in and they were barely tolerated—unless Hallboy was gone and the evening was cold. Then, she had priority under a blanket across a lap.
In an unusual move, Maya took a liking to Sam, whom entered the household twelve years after we’d adopted Maya. Sam, a spunky ball of fluff and rambunctious kitten, was tolerated at a higher level than any other cat in our household. As he began to mature past the annoying kitten stage, the two would often snuggle and frequently Maya would seek him out. This was particularly true after Hallboy left for Basic Military Training last winter.
In Maya’s final year, she began to show the signs of age. Although she would never confess her age to us, she was well into her adult years when we’d initially adopted her. Her once pudgy frame began to shrink—“Slimming down for track” is what Hallboy would casually comment, trying to hide a look of concern in his eyes. She gradually slowed and slept more, increasingly seeking out Sam for a warm snuggle. After Hallboy left, her remoteness grew. When her health suddenly deteriorated this past week, Hallboy’s voice from his tech school in Texas was the one in her ears as she passed.
Yesterday evening, the stray who’d greeted Hallgirl2 at the bus stop fourteen years earlier and who had been a close companion to Hallboy for most of his life, was buried under the shadow of the hydrangea bushes in the back yard.