Leo – in typical feline fashion – trying to remain calm, while adapting to his new surroundings.
A couple of months ago I made a major decision. I decided to move my Uncle Wes* and his cat, Leo, in with me. Wes is my mother’s younger brother. He served in the U.S. Army in the 1960s and has been married only once; no children. A proverbial wild man, he’s led a rough life and is now paying the price for it. Bringing him here was no lightweight decision for me. No one else has lived here with me since my mother died in June of 2020. And Leo has the unique distinction of being the very first feline to step foot into this house. Outside of the occasional stray cat venturing into the back yard, no cat has ever been in here. Twenty years ago I underwent a formal allergy test and learned – as I’d long suspected – that I’m allergic to ragweed, mountain cedar and cat dander – among other things. Other things include stupid people, but that’s a different essay.
Despite not being a people person, I guess it’s my nature to want to help people who sometimes can’t fend for or take care of themselves. As cynical as I’ve become in my seven decades on Earth, a smattering of humanity still lurks deep within my soul. Besides, I prefer to care for those closest to me. I couldn’t stand the thought of Wes spending his remaining years in a state of uncertainty. Like anyone who’s lived into adulthood, he’s made his share of mistakes.
Wes had been living in a dumpy, one-bedroom, one-bath apartment with no washer and dryer in a neighboring Dallas suburb. Fortunately the laundry facility stood next door, but in an increasingly cashless society, he was frequently searching for quarters. He had three cats at one point, but Leo is the only surviving one left. On at least two occasions in the past year he fell in his apartment and couldn’t get back up.
Shortly after my mother died in June of 2020, a close friend told me my parents probably forgave me for never getting married and having children of my own; considering how I cared for them in their final years. Perhaps because I’ve often wondered how – being an only child – I would have handled their health problems if I’d had a spouse and kids. My paternal grandmother was fortunate; with seven adult children in her senior years, someone could always look out for her.
Thus, I have to think of what might happen to me if I get to be that age. My grandmother was 97 when she died, and both my parents lived into their 80s. Wes just turned 84.
I’m lucky if I hear from one of my first cousins and I only know a few of my neighbors. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of elderly and/or disabled people dyeing alone in their homes and lay undiscovered for weeks or even months.
In early 1991 I recall reading one chilling report from a town in Massachusetts – police had discovered the remains of an elderly woman in her home. The most shocking fact of the case to me was that officials believe she died in July of 1989 because that’s when her banking transactions ceased. Another startling attribute was that she had two adult children. Her son admitted, however, that they’d been estranged from their mother for years. Neighbors also emphasized what a recluse the woman was. But, I asked myself, how could someone lie dead in their home for nearly two years before being found?
I’m a recluse; always have been and always will be an introvert. I used to loathe that, but now I cherish it. It’s just who I am. The aforementioned friend had also noted years earlier that he feared I was becoming a recluse because I rarely left the house. My mother was still alive at the time, and I feared leaving her alone because her mind was already sinking into dementia.
Whatever happens in the future, I’m glad I could get Wes to move in here. We get along great, and it’s actually nice having someone else in the house. It’s also nice having an animal in the house. I just have to keep Leo off my bed!
*Name changed
Chief Writing Wolf 