Sometimes I Wonder

Sometimes I wonder when Julie was happiest. 

I asked Angela this question once. 

“In our apartment in Cambridge,” she said, “right after we got her. She was a kitten and she was so full of life.”

I remember. 

It was a small apartment, no bigger or better than Amy’s, but it was hers. No older cats who had their run of the joint. No chinchillas or tarantulas or tapirs or whatever else might have lived in Amy’s place. Just me, Angela, and Julie. She weighed about four pounds. How can something so tiny have such a presence? I swear that she could access every inch of that apartment. In a flash, she’d go from the couch in the living room to the bedroom; from the bedroom to the top of the fridge; from the fridge to the bathtub. Every place she went was brand new. Sources of wonder abounded. 

Some Julie pics from this era are timeless, like the debut album of your favorite band. 

There's Julie in the dishwasher, pure mischief in her eyes. 

There’s Julie in the bathtub, peeking over the edge, only her eyes and the top of her head visible, planning her next strike. 

There’s Julie in the sink, lounging against the cool enamel, rubbing her face against the faucet nozzle.

There’s Julie on the floor in the living room, reaching her paw out to the camera, an indomitable force of kitten energy. 

And there’s a dozen more Julies, all over the place, all adorable but most of them a blur. I guess the digital camera I used in 2007 was not capable of capturing her relentless motion. 

There are other times when I think she may have been happiest. 

I remember the year Julie and I (yes, just the two of us — I’ll elaborate later) lived in Staten Island. Another small apartment, but this was no small Julie. She might have been her peak weight at this point. Seventeen pounds of cat. She’s never doted on. Has any cat been more doted on than Julie was in 2015-2016? I came home early most days, sat around, and watched Netflix with Julie on my lap. I think she got more treats this year than in the rest of her life combined — in part because I was always there, in part because she had not yet gotten her diagnosis of heart disease. 

This was a small kingdom, hardly befitting a cat of Julie’s elegance, but it was hers. No dog to annoy her. Just windows overlooking New York Harbor, the couch I convinced the previous tenant to leave, and the cheap bed I purchased, which now resides in our guest bedroom. She particularly loved looking out that window toward the Harbor on a snowy day.

Or perhaps it was in Philadelphia, where she had the run of two stories of townhouse. It was Julie’s first brush with a basement. She loved the basement there. Whenever the door opened, she’d be down there in the blink of an eye. Something about its cold, dank darkness. 

Philly was also her first exposure to an outdoor area she could explore. Our rowhouse had a small back patio. No grass, just concrete, and the view was of the four fences surrounding you. But it was nice to have some outdoor space. Julie loved going outside on nice days and rolling around on the ground. Much like with the basement, I think she liked the way the rough surface felt against her fur.