On a beautiful autumn day, wisps of sunlight crept across my garage floor, settling on a metal tool cabinet. I had been filling boxes, moving furniture and eliminating extra supplies for the past month.
In a few weeks I would leave Idaho, my home of 30 years, and drive across the country to Tellico Village.
Frankie, my long-haired white cat, was uneasy about my recent activities and followed me everywhere. Soon he began to meow, telling me it was now after five. I left my chores and walked into the garage. On the lid of the metal tool chest was his water and inside were cans of cat food.
Just as I opened a drawer to remove a can, Frankie jumped into the air, attempting to land on top of the four-foot-high cabinet. Because he had crossed eyes that impaired his sight, he missed the target.
His body collided with the cabinet and his eye hit squarely into the sharp metal corner of the drawer. I watched in horror as he cried out and fell to the floor, his head bulging from the crash. Cradling him in my arms, I inspected his injured eye. It looked awful. With tears sliding down my face, I placed Frankie in his carrier and quickly drove to my veterinarian’s office. Dr. Becker confirmed my suspicions. Frankie was now blind in his damaged eye.
Back at home, I held Frankie, fussing over him and stroking his back. He nuzzled his nose next to mine, purred and nestled into my lap. In spite of his many worrisome adventures, he was a 10-year-old, happy cat who would continue his life in high spirits.
At the end of the month, I invited my neighbors for drinks and dinner. They had been wonderful friends for many years and I wanted them to taste one last meal before I packed all my cooking supplies. From the kitchen I could see both the living and dining rooms as I prepared the salad. Close by was the laundry room where I heard Frankie batting a small ball of paper around the linoleum — pouncing on it and tossing it high into the air.
I became engrossed in my kitchen duties, struggling to make a special dinner. I never noticed the sudden silence. Before long a strange smell engulfed my nostrils. A cloud of acrid smoke came from the front of the house. There on the glass coffee table lay Frankie, peacefully resting on the decorated top, raising and lowering his white tail over three short, burning candles. He had no notion of the nearby fire.
Cat hair does not burst into flames; it sizzles, smells and turns black. Rushing to rescue Frankie from incineration, I grabbed the napping cat and placed him in the kitchen sink, running cool water over his blackened tail. Surprised from his sleep, he tried to flee and fought to escape. As I poured more water over his once-white tail, huge globs of blackened fur fell into the sink. The horrid smell was bitter and intense.
Just then my neighbors walked in. “What smells? Oh, my gosh! Is that our dinner?”
“No. It’s not!” I answered indignantly. “Come here,” I called. “Look what happened to Frankie!”
On the kitchen counter sat a wet cat with white hair sticking out from most of his body. He looked like he had an electric shock. His long tail was practically nude but for a small white, marshmallow-shaped tuft at the very end. I patted him with a towel, rubbing and drying. Before long he began to purr with pleasure and I moved through the house, opening windows and turning on fans.
Frankie was delighted to see my neighbors and quickly forgot about his latest emergency. After a glass of wine, the smell diminished. Dinner was served and the rest of the evening was joyful and uneventful.
Bobbi Wolverton is a Village resident and author of “Behind the Smile during the Glamour Years of Aviation.”
