The Lark: Vol 4, Issue 15, March 2025

A beautiful, warm spring day. My companion and I, hand in hand, are strolling down Thayer Street as we often did in those days. We pass the Hungry Sheik, next to the Avon Theatre, and then we smell the fragrance of incense wafting from the open door of Spectrum India. Passing the display window, my companion exclaims: “Look!” A glance through the window reveals, nestled below hanging India cotton dresses, a ball of gray fur. We see, within the ball of fur, a cute kitten face with come hither eyes. We come hither.

Through the store entrance, past the racks of hanging beads, the India cotton shirts and dresses, we bear directly toward the store window. Hands stroke the soft kitten fur, eliciting loud purrs. A voice from the back of the shop says, “Would you like her?”

“What?” we say.

“She’s from a litter of six, we’re trying to find good homes for them.”

“Well, we don’t know,” we say. “We hadn’t thought of adopting a kitten.”

“Can you give her a good home?”

“Sure, we can do that,” we lie. Home for us is two separate dorm rooms in the Brown Grad Center. Are pets even allowed??

“OK, you can have her, but promise me that you will give her a good home.”

We promise.

We emerge from the store, little kitten cradled in the arms of my companion. Our first joint possession. We name her “Kitty”.

We reverse course and walk to the Thayer Market. Pet products display. We grab a small bag of dry cat food, several cans of wet, a couple of food bowls, and, most importantly, cat litter and some cat litter boxes. Dollars paid at the cashier.  Pets are expensive!

“She’ll have to stay in your suite,” says my companion. “My suite mates would be unhappy if I brought in a kitten and what about the litter box? They would never agree to that.”

“But what about my suite mates?” I respond.

“Oh, they won’t care,” she says. “They’re boys.”

“OK,” I say.

So, Kitty is installed in my suite of five single dorm rooms with a shared bathroom. The litter box is installed in the bathroom with the door carefully propped open for “Kitty’s” access. Happily, she seems to be litter box trained. My suite mates accept her without complaint, as my companion predicted. Kitty gambols throughout the suite, making friends everywhere.

I take Kitty over to my companion’s room for a visit. Companion’s suite mate wanders in.

“What a beautiful kitten,” J says. “Look at her tail. She’s a Maine Coon Cat!” she exclaims. “You know they are quite valuable. And, I think they have a reputation for not being too friendly. What’s her name?”

“We call her Kitty”, we say.

“Well, that’s original,” J deadpans.

Somewhat embarrassed, my companion suggests, “We can call her Camille.” My companion had just read La Dame Aux Camellias by Alexander Dumas, fils. (Verdi based his opera La Traviata on this book – naturally my companion’s favorite opera.) Camille does seem appropriate. Kitty does have the air of a 19^th century Parisian courtesan.

“That’s much better,” responds J. “And we can call her Millie, for short.”

“Perhaps,” we say. We begin to worry that our possession of this kitten has begun to erode.

Despite this new name assignment, I continue to call her Kitty.

Back in my suite, everyone is accepting of the little kitten. One of my suite mates is especially taken with her. He is an undergraduate. How he managed to get a room in the graduate center, we do not know. He also does not seem to go to class very often. So, as my other suite mates and I are out about our graduate studies, Mr. Undergraduate remains in the suite and spends a lot of time with Kitty. I soon discover that he has developed a game with her that consists of provoking her to bite and scratch his hands. He thinks this is hilarious and great fun. I worry that this is inculcating bad habits. And didn’t J say that Maine Coons were, by nature, not too friendly? I worry.

Luckily, the semester is soon over, and I leave the Graduate Center to move into an apartment that I have sublet for the summer. I work at weaning Kitty of the bad habits she has been taught, with some success. At least, she learns not to scratch or bite the hand that feeds her. However, I notice that she does seem to possess a somewhat irascible nature as J had predicted. But we get along amicably. Every night, she curls up at my feet to go to sleep and, by morning, is curled next to my face.

When my summer sublet ends, Kitty and I move into another apartment shared with a fellow grad student. Kitty is growing quickly out of her kittenness and is becoming a cat. She has long grey hair that needs to be brushed frequently to prevent the formation of clumps, including on her long bushy tail. She knows that she is beautiful. Luckily, she and my roommate become good friends. Every morning, as he drinks his morning tea and puffs on his first pipe of the day, she curls up at his feet next to his Wallabees.

The weeks pass. One morning I wake to hear Kitty moaning in the hallway. I look out from my room to see her alternately rolling on the floor and crawling on her belly, emitting woeful moans. My roommate comes to see what is going on.

“Bill, I think she is in heat,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

That morning Kitty establishes herself as usual at my roommate’s feet as he drinks his tea, but she seems to take a new, amorous view of his Wallabees. She rubs against them with the ardent caresses of a besotted lover. Sadly, but not surprisingly, the love of the shoes is unrequited.

Later, I pass by the apartment of my companion and inform her of Kitty’s condition. That afternoon, she runs into her friend J, who continues to be interested in the being that she calls Millie and informs her of this new development. J, who has also left the Grad Center and lives in an apartment in a big house, has recently acquired her own cat, a handsome, grey striped, big tom cat named Moses. He moves with the noble bearing and demeanor of his namesake (at least as portrayed by Charlton Heston). This cat Moses could be face to face with the Burning Bush and not flinch. He could hear the voice of God and not cower. J and my companion form a plan. Wouldn’t handsome Moses and beautiful Millie make gorgeous kittens?

The next day I bring Millie to J’s apartment where she and my companion have planned the romantic rendezvous. When I arrive, they already have placed Moses in the large basement of J’s house where he awaits his lady love. We gently carry Millie down and place her at the bottom of the stairs. Moses watches warily at some distance. We quietly tip toe up the stairs, close the door, and leave the lovers to their task. At first, silence from below. Soon, we hear loud meows, hisses, and the sound of tumbling.

“Rough love,” says J.

The hisses and spats continue for a little while and then, silence. We wait. After a time that we think adequate for a successful consummation, we creep down the stairs to see what has happened. Moses is in the middle of the basement slowly pacing back and forth without his normal royal demeanor. He seems to have a tear in his ear with blood dripping onto the floor. On closer examination, we notice scratches on his nose. From the corner of the basement, we hear soft hissing. There Millie crouches glaring at Moses, and maybe us too, with hate. Moses may be a handsome tom, but, for Millie, he does not have the same charm as my roommate’s Wallabees. We decide to give the pair a little more time to make up and discover mutual affection, so we go back upstairs and wait some more. Time passes, only silence from below, then, suddenly, a new round of meowing hissing, spatting, and tumbling sounds. Soon, we hear banging on the basement door. J opens it and Moses hurls himself out. He could face a Burning Bush, but Millie is a true terror. We can see Millie below walking around the basement, proud to be in full possession of the love ground. I go down, pick her up, and take her home to her Wallabees. Soon after, Moses will run away perhaps in search of a Promised Land where the felines will be more receptive to his gifts.

Kitty and I live contentedly together for the next couple of years. A visit to the vet had brought an end to her romantic yearnings, and Kitty was happy with her celibate life. When my companion and I married, we moved into an apartment where our landlady did not allow pets. J gallantly offered to take Millie, an arrangement that we assumed would be temporary; but as soon became clear, J considered it permanent. The adoption of Millie seemed to be compensation for the loss of her beloved Moses.

Soon, J and her companion D moved to New Hampshire taking along Millie. When we went for a visit, we found Millie enthroned on their living room couch, surveying us with her queenly gaze. She graciously allowed us to pet her head and rub her chin.

“See,” D said, “She remembers you. She normally scratches strangers who try to touch her.”

That was the last time we saw our dear Kitty. A few years later, we received a note from J. Millie had passed away at the ripe old age of 15.

Millie RIP