He hadn’t spoken to me in eleven years.
We met in January seventeen
years ago. I don’t remember it being cold, but it must’ve been because
I wore my oversize coat. I was in eighth grade and patches of clubs and
honors littered the sleeves of my jacket. It was a week or so after
Christmas, and I was mourning the loss of a family member–a car
accident on Christmas day.
Dozens filled the room I walked into, but
he picked me out straight away. Before I knew it, he was on my
shoulder. He was no bigger than the palm of my hand.
It was a match.
He
purred all the way through his flea bath, through the massive hair
dryer that fluffed him, through the car ride to his new home. We named
him Oreo. I don’t know why, seeing as how he is all black, but Oreo
fit, and Oreo stuck.
Oreo was born on October 31st, the lady at the
shelter told us. A black cat born on Halloween. Throw in a broken
mirror and an open umbrella, and we’d be set for life.
When we got
home, we gave him the dish that belonged to Nonny before he died on
Christmas day. Before Nonny, it belonged to Buttons.
Oreo slept in
my bed–often under the covers. He sat on my lap when we watched TV,
but when I left for college over eleven years ago, Oreo couldn’t
forgive me.
He greeted me with hisses and a twitch of his tail. If I came too close, I walked away with scratches up and down my arms.
I
spent the last few days at my parents’ house, where Oreo lives. He
doesn’t leave their bedroom now. He’s grouchy and old and crotchedy.
He’s a curmudgeon. He and the dog don’t get along. In my parents’
bedroom seeing the new furniture layout, Oreo came out from under the
bed and meowed. Like I have so many times before, I held out my hand
for him to come sniff.
He did.
And then he stretched out in front of me, inviting me to scratch his belly.
He purred.
After over eleven years, Oreo and I reconciled.