CREATIVE NONFICTION
FIONA C. HANKENSON
MY HUMANS ALLOW ME TO BE OUT
I wasn’t sure if Oliver would ever fully trust me again. After we responded to ‘healthy kitten to a good home,’ his life was relatively tame. That is, until we sedated him with prescription drugs and drove him to a college town in Michigan, two states away, for my new job. There was considerable yowling during transit, particularly from Oliver. The unease was compounded by our son, dismayed to leave his childhood friends, and my husband, who wasn’t happy with any of it. Our road trip was disrupted by an overnight hotel stay (no pets allowed). We smuggled Oliver covertly inside on a luggage cart, hidden under a blanket amongst our bags and belongings. I spent that night with him on the hotel bathroom floor as my family went off to dinner. Oliver’s long ginger-blond fur was unkempt from the car ride, and he flashed his bottlebrush tail as he paced across the tiles. Disoriented and restless, he channeled how we all felt, leaving our beloved city behind.
***
Our slice of neighborhood in Michigan perched just on the fringe of the student rental district, such that we learned early to lock our doors and extinguish lights before bed to avoid being targets of petty theft (yard signs pilfered, garden gnomes vanished) and drunken misbehaviors (pumpkins smashed, porch-side urinations). Initially, we were dismayed at these actions and sought counsel from neighbors. They all had similar stories, many much worse of finding undergraduates in various states of stupor and undress on their back porches, passed out on lawn furniture, and occasionally inside their homes. The surrounding homeowners served as foster parents, as they roused and returned these lost students to their own quarters.
We looked for silver linings. We fenced our yard. We adopted a Labrador. Oliver chattered away incessantly at us as if to communicate his dire plight for which we were personally responsible, even though Coco, quite timid and sweet, let him walk all over her, literally. Oliver was kept inside, unlike the dog, until his insistent forlorn howls became too much to bear. When we finally conceded, he didn’t stray far from the house, crouching amongst our tall ornamental grasses. Eventually, curiosity enticed him beyond the bounds of our lawn, and he’d often return dirtied and collarless from escapades. After the mishap with Animal Control, and a night spent alone in a shelter one town over, we made sure to clip on heavy-duty tags that bore our address and phone number.
On walks with Coco, as she pulled ahead on a leash, Oliver tracked us through the tree-lined blocks at a close distance. It was common for drivers to slow up beside us and call out, “Is he with you?” as they pointed at Oliver a few paces back. We’d nod, confirm, and share a good-natured laugh. He was courageous and overconfident and lounged on the road, which caused cars to pull over or around him. Oliver was returned to our address by delivery drivers and neighbors alike. To deter calls from concerned citizens that encountered him in town, we added another tag to his collar: My humans allow me to be out.
In time, like our young teenager, Oliver stayed out longer. We called for him, “Oliver, come!” late in the evenings and listened for the jingle of tags as he sprinted to the backdoor. Coco would give him a nuzzle as he came inside and I’d gather him up in my arms, cherishing the furry weight against my chest while breathing in his scent. The times when the odor of cigarettes from his fur stung my throat, it swept me back in memory to my own teenage years, our living spaces perpetually hazed with low-lying clouds from my father’s chain-smoking. What college kids invited you to their party? Or wait, was it that neighbor who lights up on his porch after dinner? Oliver remained silent, despite my line of questioning.
***
“I’m very safe and warm and unwilling to brave the cold,” the text message buzzed my phone as if Oliver had pawed out his plan. A subsequent text read, “LOL,” along with a picture of him. The next one informed me he was going to stay over.
These were sent from the same unknown number that had called me on a cold evening several weeks prior. An older woman’s voice recorded: “Uh, hi, just wanted to let you know that Oliver is over here and we’re going to keep him tonight since it’s cold and pretty late. We’ll send him home in the morning. Thanks.” The voice was scratchy and deep. The voice of a Smoker. I called the woman back and insisted he be let out, “We get worried when he doesn’t come home at night.”
Similar text exchanges continued over that winter. The mystery woman explained how much they’d enjoyed Oliver’s company. Now empty nesters, they missed the cats they’d once owned. Oliver had been their house guest for months, and she reassured me that they fed him well and watched TV altogether. Around the holidays, she left cat treats and cookies on our doorstep, as if courting Oliver and us. In turn, we dropped off a gift at her address, a few streets farther away than I thought he would wander. The stink of cigarettes blasted me when I opened their screen door to knock; I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose in distaste.
I later found articles that described how cats will adopt other families. When I shared this realization with my husband, he joked with his usual wit, “Then perhaps the Smoker should help pay our vet bills.”
***
The vet charges began after a small soft and squishy bump appeared on Oliver’s forearm that winter. Oliver seemed unfazed as we palpated the mass and just revved his purr motor up to a greater magnitude. As much as Oliver hated his carrier, still scarred from his imprisonment during our cross-country move, as the lump slowly enlarged, we decided it was time for a professional diagnosis. The final report revealed: “benign fibrolipoma of the antebrachium.” The tumor had an alien pathology; some days, it was soft and squishy, like a little marshmallow, and other days the cancerous cells swarmed angry and hard like a marble and Oliver would pull away when it was touched. After removal, the surgeon shared that ‘good margins’ had been achieved, an ample harvest of the abnormal tissue that spared the critical nerves and blood vessels. The skin healed pink and his fur grew back to mask the scar line.
The Smoker, who’d finally introduced herself as Polly, came by for a visit in those first weeks after surgery. I kept her updated on his diagnosis and recovery as she had texted concerns about the lump she too had observed. I brought Oliver out on our porch and placed him between us, his neck ringed by a plastic cone and goofy from pain medications. It was awkward in person; we talked more to him than to one another.
It seemed no time had passed before we noticed the nub, that became a pea, that rapidly became a walnut. The same location on the same leg as before. This time the mass spread quickly and expanded to wrap Oliver’s entire forelimb from paw to elbow. Without any chemotherapy or radiation, those microscopic abnormal cells left behind after surgery had returned, exponentially unchecked. Oliver licked at his leg; the skin over his forelimb was so tight that it bruised. His surgeon advised, and we agreed, that the only humane option was to amputate. After the procedure, as his broken body healed, we carried him everywhere, up and down the stairs, inside and out, until his sutures dissolved, and eventually, with encouragement, he began to navigate again on his own.
It was not surprising when he ultimately resumed his pleas at the backdoor for release, yet it seemed unsafe to let him wander the town. As a compromise, we clipped him to a leash staked out in the yard. Even with a long line to roam, he took to slipping under the bushes and rarely explored. As an old proverb prophesied: "A cat has nine lives. For three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays.”
***
These days our son is typically out with his friends and my husband and I have a pleasant evening routine. When we take Coco for her walks, beverages in hand, our route sometimes winds us past Polly’s house, and it makes me smile to myself. I’m not sure what inspired me, but I did eventually send her a picture of Oliver, quite spunky on three limbs, not four. He was snuggled on my lap and stirred awake by the selfie. I stroked the tip of his pink nose, back over those pert ears, and along to that fluffy puffy tail.
Polly and I had not been in touch over the many months of his convalescence, but I texted her that Oliver was doing well and invited her to stop by. Within minutes she replied, “What a beautiful boy!” Next came a picture of two gingery kittens, lounging side by side. Miniatures of the cat nestled in my arms.
“Greetings from Frankie and Gordie!”
Another bubble: “They adopted us!”
Then Polly sent one additional text, “Oliver must have softened us up for them.”
As if he sensed this shared admiration, Oliver roused himself enough to catch my eye, intensified his purring, and outstretched one paw to softly tap-tap-tap my chin before slipping once more into repose.
***
Our slice of neighborhood in Michigan perched just on the fringe of the student rental district, such that we learned early to lock our doors and extinguish lights before bed to avoid being targets of petty theft (yard signs pilfered, garden gnomes vanished) and drunken misbehaviors (pumpkins smashed, porch-side urinations). Initially, we were dismayed at these actions and sought counsel from neighbors. They all had similar stories, many much worse of finding undergraduates in various states of stupor and undress on their back porches, passed out on lawn furniture, and occasionally inside their homes. The surrounding homeowners served as foster parents, as they roused and returned these lost students to their own quarters.
We looked for silver linings. We fenced our yard. We adopted a Labrador. Oliver chattered away incessantly at us as if to communicate his dire plight for which we were personally responsible, even though Coco, quite timid and sweet, let him walk all over her, literally. Oliver was kept inside, unlike the dog, until his insistent forlorn howls became too much to bear. When we finally conceded, he didn’t stray far from the house, crouching amongst our tall ornamental grasses. Eventually, curiosity enticed him beyond the bounds of our lawn, and he’d often return dirtied and collarless from escapades. After the mishap with Animal Control, and a night spent alone in a shelter one town over, we made sure to clip on heavy-duty tags that bore our address and phone number.
On walks with Coco, as she pulled ahead on a leash, Oliver tracked us through the tree-lined blocks at a close distance. It was common for drivers to slow up beside us and call out, “Is he with you?” as they pointed at Oliver a few paces back. We’d nod, confirm, and share a good-natured laugh. He was courageous and overconfident and lounged on the road, which caused cars to pull over or around him. Oliver was returned to our address by delivery drivers and neighbors alike. To deter calls from concerned citizens that encountered him in town, we added another tag to his collar: My humans allow me to be out.
In time, like our young teenager, Oliver stayed out longer. We called for him, “Oliver, come!” late in the evenings and listened for the jingle of tags as he sprinted to the backdoor. Coco would give him a nuzzle as he came inside and I’d gather him up in my arms, cherishing the furry weight against my chest while breathing in his scent. The times when the odor of cigarettes from his fur stung my throat, it swept me back in memory to my own teenage years, our living spaces perpetually hazed with low-lying clouds from my father’s chain-smoking. What college kids invited you to their party? Or wait, was it that neighbor who lights up on his porch after dinner? Oliver remained silent, despite my line of questioning.
***
“I’m very safe and warm and unwilling to brave the cold,” the text message buzzed my phone as if Oliver had pawed out his plan. A subsequent text read, “LOL,” along with a picture of him. The next one informed me he was going to stay over.
These were sent from the same unknown number that had called me on a cold evening several weeks prior. An older woman’s voice recorded: “Uh, hi, just wanted to let you know that Oliver is over here and we’re going to keep him tonight since it’s cold and pretty late. We’ll send him home in the morning. Thanks.” The voice was scratchy and deep. The voice of a Smoker. I called the woman back and insisted he be let out, “We get worried when he doesn’t come home at night.”
Similar text exchanges continued over that winter. The mystery woman explained how much they’d enjoyed Oliver’s company. Now empty nesters, they missed the cats they’d once owned. Oliver had been their house guest for months, and she reassured me that they fed him well and watched TV altogether. Around the holidays, she left cat treats and cookies on our doorstep, as if courting Oliver and us. In turn, we dropped off a gift at her address, a few streets farther away than I thought he would wander. The stink of cigarettes blasted me when I opened their screen door to knock; I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose in distaste.
I later found articles that described how cats will adopt other families. When I shared this realization with my husband, he joked with his usual wit, “Then perhaps the Smoker should help pay our vet bills.”
***
The vet charges began after a small soft and squishy bump appeared on Oliver’s forearm that winter. Oliver seemed unfazed as we palpated the mass and just revved his purr motor up to a greater magnitude. As much as Oliver hated his carrier, still scarred from his imprisonment during our cross-country move, as the lump slowly enlarged, we decided it was time for a professional diagnosis. The final report revealed: “benign fibrolipoma of the antebrachium.” The tumor had an alien pathology; some days, it was soft and squishy, like a little marshmallow, and other days the cancerous cells swarmed angry and hard like a marble and Oliver would pull away when it was touched. After removal, the surgeon shared that ‘good margins’ had been achieved, an ample harvest of the abnormal tissue that spared the critical nerves and blood vessels. The skin healed pink and his fur grew back to mask the scar line.
The Smoker, who’d finally introduced herself as Polly, came by for a visit in those first weeks after surgery. I kept her updated on his diagnosis and recovery as she had texted concerns about the lump she too had observed. I brought Oliver out on our porch and placed him between us, his neck ringed by a plastic cone and goofy from pain medications. It was awkward in person; we talked more to him than to one another.
It seemed no time had passed before we noticed the nub, that became a pea, that rapidly became a walnut. The same location on the same leg as before. This time the mass spread quickly and expanded to wrap Oliver’s entire forelimb from paw to elbow. Without any chemotherapy or radiation, those microscopic abnormal cells left behind after surgery had returned, exponentially unchecked. Oliver licked at his leg; the skin over his forelimb was so tight that it bruised. His surgeon advised, and we agreed, that the only humane option was to amputate. After the procedure, as his broken body healed, we carried him everywhere, up and down the stairs, inside and out, until his sutures dissolved, and eventually, with encouragement, he began to navigate again on his own.
It was not surprising when he ultimately resumed his pleas at the backdoor for release, yet it seemed unsafe to let him wander the town. As a compromise, we clipped him to a leash staked out in the yard. Even with a long line to roam, he took to slipping under the bushes and rarely explored. As an old proverb prophesied: "A cat has nine lives. For three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays.”
***
These days our son is typically out with his friends and my husband and I have a pleasant evening routine. When we take Coco for her walks, beverages in hand, our route sometimes winds us past Polly’s house, and it makes me smile to myself. I’m not sure what inspired me, but I did eventually send her a picture of Oliver, quite spunky on three limbs, not four. He was snuggled on my lap and stirred awake by the selfie. I stroked the tip of his pink nose, back over those pert ears, and along to that fluffy puffy tail.
Polly and I had not been in touch over the many months of his convalescence, but I texted her that Oliver was doing well and invited her to stop by. Within minutes she replied, “What a beautiful boy!” Next came a picture of two gingery kittens, lounging side by side. Miniatures of the cat nestled in my arms.
“Greetings from Frankie and Gordie!”
Another bubble: “They adopted us!”
Then Polly sent one additional text, “Oliver must have softened us up for them.”
As if he sensed this shared admiration, Oliver roused himself enough to catch my eye, intensified his purring, and outstretched one paw to softly tap-tap-tap my chin before slipping once more into repose.
Fiona C. Hankenson is a 2nd year MFA student of the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. This flash CNF submission is condensed from a longer piece; this work is original and unpublished. Fiona’s work has been published in 50-Word Stories and she currently resides in Philadelphia, PA. As an aside, Oliver is honored, yet unsurprised, by his influence on this piece.
