Corky the Cat

Vestige s01e09

My mother hated cats. We were a dog family; that was very clear. At some point in my young life, the subject of cats was deemed taboo and never brought up. We just knew we weren’t a cat family. As all of the kids grew up, we would each learn this lesson through awkward silences. I think the age is roughly four when kids start wanting pets, and all four of the Girvan kids knew—by the sheer coldness of my mother’s “no”—that we would never ask for a cat more than the first time. She hated cats; that much was sure. How much she hated them, we didn’t learn until I was twelve.

It was summer in Mobile, hot and muggy, and, of course, reckless and wild for kids of the ’80s. Every day was wide open to some sort of outdoor adventure. As it turns out, there was lots of stuff to occupy kids in the yard: dirt, grass, trees, tree stumps, sheds galore—so many places and things to find and do.

One day my sister found a cat. She was a stray, dirty, and a mongrel, but she seemed sweet. In the backyard by the Splish and Splash is where I first remember seeing her.
“What’s that?” my brother said.
“A cat,” I said. I had to do a double take. A cat!

Both my brother and I rushed to my sister.
“Get that cat out of here,” my brother said, like a no-nonsense bouncer.
“Hold on a second,” I pushed back. “Let’s not overreact. It’s just a cat.”
“Well, I guess,” my brother said.

Job and I gently approached the fuzzy little animal.
“She’s really friendly,” my little sister reassured us.

I petted the kitten, and it purred.
“It purred,” I said to my brother. I had never felt a cat purr before. It was exhilarating.
“Let me pet it.”
He did. It purred for him, too.

For the next fifteen minutes, my brother, my little sister, and I took turns cradling and cooing over the mangy little kitten. A cat shows its affection differently from a dog. There’s something about that purr that drives a little kid crazy. We were in heaven.

Eventually, my dad emerged from the house into the backyard. Immediately, he saw the cat.
“What is that?” he said slowly and steadily.
“It’s a kitten,” my brother said.
“I know it’s a kitten. What’s it doing here? And what’s it doing in your arms? What’s going on?” He seemed confused.
“I guess it’s lost,”
“No. Why are you playing with it?”
“Come on, Dad. It’s really cute.”
“His name is Corky,” my sister said.
“Corky,” my dad said. “It has a name? That’s it. Give it to me.”

My father snatched the kitten from us with one hand.
“I’ll take this away before your mother sees it.”
“No!” we all screamed, but my dad was already in the house.
“Come back, Corky!” we screamed, to no avail.

I think my sister took it the hardest.
“Corky,” she wailed all afternoon, wandering around the yard like a vagrant, looking for her lost pet, her lost friend. When my mother asked her what was wrong, she cried out, “Daddy took Corky away.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” my mother said. “I’m sure he’ll bring him back.”

I could tell she was lying.
“No, he’s gone forever.”

My sister was right. Corky never came back. Eventually, my sister forgot about it, and my brother and I didn’t mention it again. I didn’t know for sure if my mother ever found out about our new pet. We did only have it for fifteen minutes.

Later in life, I learned that a feral cat had scratched my mom’s face pretty badly when she was a child. Her fear of cats lasted through my childhood, but, curiously enough, she bought a ragdoll cat named Spencer for my youngest sister when she was a teenager. The cat had a really bad attitude, and it ended up living with Dad in his apartment.

So, I guess in the end we were kind of a cat family. Never say never.

This story is roughly 78% true