Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, October 10, 1993 TAG: 9401150006
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: D3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Elizabeth Strother
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
I was putting up two ladies from England, on "holiday" with a church group, and I needed only to provide bed and breakfast for five days, a couple of dinners and a little congeniality. No problem.
So I picked them up and we went through the little formalities - names (Denise and Jose, pronounced Josie, not Ho-ZAY), how the trip had been thus far (wonderful), what they do back home (Jose's husband used to keep a kennel, and she has worked quite a bit with dogs). Ah. "Well," I said brightly, "I hope you like cats, too, because I have two new kitties."
Silence.
That's all it was, just a little blip. Not all that noticeable, really, because the conversation went merrily down other roads.
Now, I know a little about the English, in general. They truly do drink lots of tea, and they're balmy for animals. Love 'em.
So I was surprised when Jose revealed anxiously, in a whisper when the two of us were alone, that Denise doesn't like cats. Denise herself confirmed this quite openly and emphatically when later, over tea, she had occasion to comment that she rather liked dogs, but she didn't care for cats. Never had.
Uh-oh.
It didn't seem to be much of a problem, though, because the kittens had decided they didn't care for visitors, either, and had hidden. I was vaguely concerned as I turned in that night because I hadn't seen so much as a whisker of them for hours. But I figured they'd stay away from the strangers in the house, anyway.
It was, oh, along about 3 a.m. when I was dragged from a deep sleep by a knock at the door. I finally figured out that it was Denise standing in my doorway, and that she was saying, with some alarm, "There is a cat under my bed." I looked at her dumbly, thinking, "So?" - awake enough to know that I couldn't say that, but not enough to figure out the socially acceptable response. "Can you come get it?" she asked.
Of course! That's what I needed to do! So I sprang up and trotted over to her room, scrambled under her bed and snagged the fearsome critter. It was the tiny gray one, Ginny, 3 pounds of savage fluff. Denise's alarm was genuine, though. "Oh, it f+iiso little," she said with wonder when the cat was safely in my arms, but when I turned to give her a closer, reassuring look, she shrank back - in fear or loathing, I don't know which.
"Well," I asked with a knowing little chuckle the next morning over breakfast, "did you all sleep OK last night ... after cats were retrieved from under beds? Heh-heh-heh."
"I slept very well," Denise said kindly, and looked at Jose. Jose looked at her plate.
I realized, the alarm in my head clanging, that Jose was fighting some sort of internal battle. She hesitated, took a deep breath and said, "Billy slept in my room last night." Oh. Billy is the other kitten, a little bigger than Ginny, a handsome tabby. "And I LOO-ved having him."
Oh, relief. Jose not only has raised dogs, she likes cats. Said something about having one, I was thinking.
"I felt just this little wisp," she was telling me, brushing her hand lightly along her arm. "Just this little wisp. And I looked and saw he was on my bed." Oh, great. "And he was L-O-O-vely! He curled up on my shoulder and purred. It was L-O-O-vely having him there. Really." Uh-huh. I made polite apologies and thought, "It could have been worse. He could have terrified Denise."
But it was worse. "I woke up later," Jose went on, picking her words delicately. "And I crossed my legs like this, at the ankles." She demonstrated with her arms and wrists. "And ... '' hesitating now ... "I felt something wet."
Oh saints above, tell me he didn't! But he had.
Later, after I had stripped the bed and started the laundry and delivered my guests to their rendezvous with their church group, I blurted the whole domestic disaster to my priest, Deborah. She laughed. A deep, long laugh. It was comforting.
Don't worry, she assured me. "You think you can keep everything under control, make everything come out right. But part of life is giving up that control, realizing things will happen that you have no authority over, that you cannot prevent."
She was right. Her words freed me from a lot of senseless agonizing.
I was sorely tempted to take refuge in them the next Monday, when my guests were dining elsewhere and I had put in a particularly long day at work. It was pouring rain, there was a bit of chill in the night air, and it was wonderful to be, at last, in my cozy kitchen. Then I noticed the box of English Breakfast Tea. Only two bags left. And the bread. Just crusts. Not enough for our civilized breakfasts of cereal, toast with butter and marmalade, and tea with milk.
We can make do with just the cereal, I told myself. But they did seem to so enjoy their toast and tea ... I headed back out to the grocery store.
The ladies returned from their dinner party shaking the rain from their plastic capes, and Jose headed straight to the kitchen. "BET-tea!" she squealed from there. "You remembered the bread and tea! When I heard you had worked late I thought, 'Oh, Bet-tea won't remember to get more bread and tea.' You're a good girl!"
Such delight from such a small effort.
No one has complete control, it's true. But some small things we can make come out right.
by CNB