The cat gave me more attention than I solicited. I just sat and visited, otherwise minding my own business. The cat evidently wanted to visit too. He caressed my feet and legs with his chin. He walked away and then came back for an encore. He stood where I could easily stroke him, and I obliged with a rub and a pat. He showed no inclination to go away.

“I believe your cat likes me,” I said.

“He’s not my cat,” said Glenna, “He belongs to a friend of mine who’s allergic to cats. I’m keeping the cat for him until he finds him a new home.”

“Seein’ as how we get along so well, I might be able to provide him a home. I think we could become buddies,” I said.

"I’ll talk to my friend and see what he says,” replied Glenna.

My wife Mardelle and I were on a little trip, and had stopped off at her daughter Glenna’s place on our way. On our way back Glenna said that she had talked to her friend.

"He said that you could have the cat, but he asked that you shouldn’t change his name,” she said.

The name was Calaban. He was a pure bred Siamese cat, of the old standard variety, rather than one of the skinny, sharp nosed, new models. His owner didn’t pass on his papers, which made no difference, since he was to be just a pet.

I had never liked cats much, but I loved birds. I didn’t like the way cats sneaked up on baby birds that could barely fly a few feet. Now I found myself a cat owner; correction, caretaker. Nobody really owns a cat. It’s more likely; it’s the other way around. Mardelle had a Burmese cat named Nedra that lived with us, and I liked her all right. Like Nedra, Calaban would be an indoor cat, and couldn’t harm the birds.

Calaban had a sociable personality. He got along with Nedra as well as he got along with people. He entered a room of people and chose one to give his attention, sometimes jumping into her lap. It was always the one who least liked cats. 

Like all cats, Calaban liked to stretch his claws. Being an indoor cat, Calaban preferred the furniture to his scratching post. There was no other choice than to have him declawed. We had him neutered as well, to discourage spraying. A month later a woman who had a female Siamese cat, looked for a mate for her cat. Alas, she spoke too late. We felt bad about it. He would have sired beautiful kittens.

Calaban was tolerant. He would lie on the floor on his side and let someone push him around, even under the couch, and then come back for more. He liked to play trapeze, being swung between my legs.

Sometimes Mardelle let the cats out for a short time. On one such occasion, Calaban encountered our neighbor’s cat. A fight ensued. Although Calaban was holding his own, I thought it an unfair fight since the neighbor’s cat had a full set of claws. I broke up the fight with my shovel and chased the intruder home. Another time Nedra was attacked by the same cat and received a gash in her belly. With much ire, Mardelle informed the neighbor. Late that night I heard the neighbor’s car leave. I never saw their cat again. I often wondered where he dumped the cat.

On her outings Nedra would frequently cross the road into a field to hunt mice. Calaban, no hunter, and not too bright, followed her sometimes. One day, having followed, he turned to come back. A car approached. The driver saw him and slowed to a stop. Meanwhile Calaban saw the car, turned and ran back under it. The cat was injured in his back. The driver, a decent man, helped Mardelle lay him on a piece of plywood and get him to the vet. Home from the vet, Calaban was a sorry sight. His hind legs didn’t work, and to get around he dragged himself by pulling with his forefeet. We made him a bed near a wall where he spent the next month. Nedra had no sympathy for him. When she passed through the room where he lay she walked along the opposite wall. She was no Samaritan but a priest. She wouldn’t associate with him until he could walk again.

When Nedra, with a head start of four or five lives over Calaban, died, he began to grieve. His appetite sagged and his coat frayed a bit. We found a four-month-old feral kitten at the Humane Society, and brought her home for Calaban to train. She was half Siamese, half alley cat. She was a beautiful, blonde kitten with typical Siamese markings. As she grew, her coat darkened and her body took the shape of an alley cat. Calaban trained her pretty well, but she was skittish of strangers for many years hence.

We named her Madeline. Before we had her spayed she came into heat and raised a ruckus for a few days. Calaban tried to do what he could for her. He had lost his ability, but certainly not the idea. After she was spayed, the two got along like buddies. Calaban became a smooth operator. He licked her ears just enough to give her the idea to reciprocate. He then laid back and enjoyed his luxurious grooming.

Calaban had a pal for the remainder of his 21 years. Without Calaban, Madeline mellowed into a lap cat—almost.