paws and pantry

My cat came to me on my birthday two and a half years ago.  Ironically, I found out that his birthday was only a few days away from mine.

Honestly, he was at first chosen for his color.  I wanted an orange tabby.  There were only two of those at ASPCA.  One of the orange cats named Diane hissed at me. Then there was Lake.  Lake was oblivious of me and my husband (boyfriend at the time) when we first met.  Though as soon as we dangled a toy in front of him he went nuts.  We continued to walk around to look at more cats.  Then in the halls was a picture of Lake with his previous owner.  Apparently we found out that he was not only returned to ASPCA once, but twice.  What’s the matter with the cat we asked? He did not get along with the other cats in the family of the second owner.  We had no idea what happened with the first owner.  It was a pretty sad story that he had to be rejected by two homes.  But we were determined to get him. That was going to be our cat.  And I promised myself that I would never do that to him again.

After the paperwork was done, Lake like every other New Yorker rode the subway home.  But the darkness and small enclosure spooked him.  He soon went frantic, jabbing his paws out of the breathing holes in the cardboard box and meowing loudly.  It was a little too weird of a sight, even for the subway.  We had no choice but to abort before he developed a panic attack (hey, why wouldn’t he?)  We then dragged the box and its mortified contents into the streets of Chinatown (Canal Street mind you) to hail a cab that will bring us across the bridge into Brooklyn.  But then every pothole would send a chilling meow down our spines.  We swore to the cab driver that we were not abusing animals.

At last, we arrived in our tiny rent-stabilized studio in Prospect Heights that supposedly banned pets (though we’ve heard quite a number of muffled barks behind doors).  Lake was let out of the box.  Not for a second did he hesitate to explore his new surroundings.  We’d been advised to start with baby steps, a small closet or a bathroom perhaps.  But not for Lake, he was ready for the big world (or perhaps our shoebox studio was only a tad bigger than your average closet).

For days, Lake ate his food greedily.  Lake slept on a blanket on the hardwood floors.  But Lake never responded to his name.  I don’t blame him.  If I were named after a body of water, I would probably feel the same way.  So we went down a whole list of orange foods and objects: Peach, Ginger, Garfield, Tiger, and Mango.  Nothing seemed to get his attention.  Except when I squeezed my vocal chords and made a high pitched “meow meow” he would actually stop to look at me.  This happened on multiple occasions.  So that was how Lake became Meowmeow.

Till this day, Meowmeow still looks up at the sound of his name…if he feels like it.