For the next month or so, True Stories Well Told is featuring essays shared by writers at First Monday, First Person, my “salon” for memoir writers held at the Pinney Branch Library in Madison.

By Richard Senn

Do you believe in angels? I know that my wife, Denise, is a firm believer in them. She even collects angels. And she is an accomplished ceramicist, with one of her favorite subjects being angels. But in what form can an angel touch your life? Is it only in the conventional image of someone with wings and a halo? Or perhaps a chubby, elderly, bumbling man trying to earn his angel wings as in the movie classic “It’s a Wonderful Life”?

Well, I believe that my family was touched by an angel on a bitterly cold January day. Only this angel was one foot high, with big yellow eyes, long curly whiskers and a scrawny tail. It was a feral cat. I don’t think the timing of its arrival could have been any better. The winters can be brutal in Wisconsin, but last winter was one of the worst I have ever experienced. Along with most of the northern states, we were cursed that winter with alternating cycles of fierce winter storms and bone-chilling cold. The difficulty of that winter was complicated by a very traumatic holiday season for us. My wife’s sister died the previous summer from cervical cancer at the tender age of only 35 after valiantly fighting the disease for a year and a half. She left behind three beautiful young children and the ordeal adversely affected us all. Christmas is an important tradition in my wife’s family and this was the first holiday season without her. It was a strain on everyone, but my wife had the most difficulty coping. In fact, I could tell that she had been severely depressed for most of the year.

I live in the country near Madison, Wisconsin, encompassed by farmer’s fields and lush woods with a 180-acre nature preserve across the road. I can always tell when winter conditions are the worst by the activity at the bird feeders in our backyard. The opossums come out at night to gorge on the cracked corn scattered on the ground feeder. And bevies of quail and ruffed grouse march across the road from the nature preserve o dine on seeds that the birds cast haphazardly on the ground.

I remember that it was bone-chilling cold one January morning when my daughter, Danelle, dashed for the school bus from the comfort of our garage, trying to minimize her exposure to the frigid arctic air. However, in her haste, Danelle forgot to close the side garage door. Late that afternoon my wife came home from work and eased her minivan into the security of our garage. As she stepped out of the van, she noticed something move along the back wall of the garage.

We have an old chest of dilapidated drawers stacked against the back wall in our garage that is used for storage. The lower right-hand drawer was missing, leaving a gaping hole. From the recesses of this hole, a pair of large yellow eyes glowered at my wife. She approached the chest of drawers cautiously to get a better look at the owner of these large eyes. Bending over and peering into the recess, she saw a scrawny, dirty, burr-infested tabby cat curled up in the corner of the drawer. It was very cold in the garage. My wife ran into the house, grabbed a couple of old towels and stuffed them in the hole so the bedraggled feline could have some warmth.

I remember that for the next few weeks she religiously fed the cat and spent time talking to it and trying to pet it every day. I kept telling my wife that once the weather improved, the feral cat would scamper back into the woods. Any port in a storm, you know. But the weather did not get better. In fact, it got much worse. And one night toward the end of January an arctic blast swooped down from Canada and the temperature plunged to 30 degrees below zero without the wind chill, Consequently, even in the a shelter of the garage, it was so cold that my wife became concerned about the cat’s health. So, she grabbed one of the large towels used for his bed, trapped the cat in the corner of the drawer and wrapped the towel around him so she wouldn’t get scratched. Folks, this cat was not a happy camper. The cat kicked, squirmed and struggled valiantly to extricate itself from its terry cloth cocoon. But my wife held on to him firmly.

Quickly my wife transported the cat to the office at the back of our house. She unraveled his cocoon and slammed the office door shut. Then she set the cat up with his own little apartment, including a food dish, water bowl, litter box and a cat carrier with a towel in the bottom for a bed. For the next month, our office was this cat’s castle. I thought he would be ecstatic to have his own comfortable abode out of the arctic elements. But, whenever someone had to use the office, he would retreat to the security of his cat carrier or hide under the computer table and glower at the intruder.

Every day I saw my wife in the office continuing her ritual of trying to socialize with the forlorn feline by cooing at him and attempting to pet him. He wanted no part of this attempt to convert him into a member of society. I thought it was a lost cause, because it is very difficult to domesticate a feral cat. Then, one day while I was working on the computer, I noticed this layer of dust all over the office. I realized that the cat was creating this dust bowl by his daily ritual of using the litter box. He acted like a bird taking a bath, strewing litter everywhere as he tried to cover up the evidence of his dirty deeds. After all, no one ever taught this poor feline proper etiquette.

Since the office contained a lot of expensive electronic equipment, I demanded that my wife remove the cat from the office. I didn’t want to jeopardize the proper functioning of all these fancy gadgets. I told my wife I wanted the cat back in the garage by the time I got home from work that evening. It was the end of February or early March by then and the weather had improved considerably. Oh yeah, she took care of it all right. When I got home from work that night, the cat was smugly staring at me from the comfort of his cat carrier in our bedroom. And my wife had given him a name, Lucky. Because he was lucky to be alive. I knew then that this “lucky” tabby cat was a permanent addition to our family.

The complete socialization of Lucky into our family and menagerie of five other pets took about another four months. For the first two months, he spent most of his time in the comfort of his cat carrier, occasionally venturing out when he thought no one was looking. As Lucky became comfortable with our bedroom and the constant attention of my wife and our daughter, he became bolder. He began to spend very little time in his cat carrier and we eventually removed his security blanket. Lucky then began to venture bravely into the living room and other uncharted territories, investigating the stomping grounds of our three other cats and two dogs. By now I knew Lucky had decided that maybe this wasn’t such a bad place to be. Then, finally feeling safe and secure, one night he curled up on our bed, purring like a runaway motorboat. He has been there ever since. Except, of course, when our daughter steals Lucky for herself. This is one popular kitty.

After a year, I could hardly believe that Lucky was once a scrawny, confused and antisocial feral cat without a friend in the world. He became a sleek, handsome tabby cat who was playful and very affectionate. In fact, Lucky is the most affectionate cat I have ever known. Our daughter’s best friend, Amy, wanted to steal Lucky and take him to college with her. At night he curls up on the pillow next to my wife’s head, purring in her ear. Lucky knows who was his savior.

One of Lucky’s playful antics is his ritual while I get dressed in the morning. First, he looks up at me from our bed with his bright, inquisitive eyes and offers me his right paw. I shake it. Then he offers me his left paw. I shake that one too. Then Lucky extends himself on his hind haunches and offers me both paws. I vigorously shake them simultaneously. The morning ritual is usually completed by Lucky playing with the shoestrings on each of my shoes as I attempt to tie them.

Yes, I know my wife is right. There are angels. They come when you are very much in need, as we were that winter. And we were touched by an angel in the form of a playful, affectionate tabby cat who has blessed our home and charmed my family with his angelic personality.

©2023 Richard Senn

Rich is retired from working for over 25 years in the biotechnology industry. He started spending more time on his writing this year with a particular emphasis on creative nonfiction.