Barb Inherits a Cat

Barb called Dudley with a financial question. This was exciting.

“Dad, what do you think about pet insurance?”

Dudley sat up. He had opinions about insurance, cats and, more recently, veterinary medicine. This was an unusually favorable combination.

“What happened?”

“My roommate moved out.”

“Okay.”

“And I inherited her cat.”

Dudley paused. “How do you inherit a cat from someone who’s still alive?”

“They couldn’t take him.”

“Ah.”

“He’s twenty-three.”

Dudley paused again. “Years?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“That is not a cat. That’s a relic.”

“Be nice.”

“I am being nice. I’m impressed.”

Barb laughed.

“So should I get pet insurance?”

Dudley was ready. Premiums. Deductibles. Exclusions. Preexisting conditions. Then something strange happened. He heard Betty in his head. Not literally. That would have required a different kind of insurance.

He heard the question she had been asking him for months whenever he tried to solve something before figuring out what they were actually trying to accomplish.

“What do you want?”

Barb was quiet.

“What?”

“With the cat. What do you want?”

“I want him to be okay.”

“Okay.”

“And comfortable.”

“Okay.”

“He’s really old.”

“You think?”

“Dad.”

“Sorry.”

Barb continued.

“I don’t want something to happen and then not be able to help him because I can’t afford it.”

That was the real question.

“Well,” Dudley said, “the first thing to remember about insurance companies is that they like money.”

“Very insightful.”

“They particularly like receiving money.”

“I had heard that.”

“They are somewhat less enthusiastic about returning it.”

Barb laughed.

“So no pet insurance?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Dudley was proud of himself. Three months earlier, he absolutely would have said that.

“Insurance is useful when there’s a risk you can’t comfortably handle yourself.”

“Okay.”

“So I’d see what you can actually buy for a twenty-three-year-old cat. What it covers, what it excludes and what it costs.”

“And then?”

“Figure out what you’re trying to protect against.”

There it was again. Betty. Dudley was becoming alarmingly reasonable.

Borris had recently helped him think about this. Borris was getting older. He remained magnificent, an orange-and-white longhaired cat with the bearing of minor European royalty and the work ethic of a decorative pillow.

But he had started coughing up hairballs more often and occasionally his food. At first Dudley and Betty watched him. Borris ate, slept, demanded attention when he wanted it and rejected it when somebody else wanted to give it. All normal.

Then it happened again.

Eventually Dudley said the sentence no cat has ever enjoyed hearing.

“I think we should take him to the vet.”

Borris was not consulted. Neither was he fooled by the carrier. The carrier had never taken him anywhere he wanted to go. Borris disappeared.

Dudley searched the house.

“Where’s Borris?”

Betty looked at him.

“You got the carrier out.”

“Yes.”

“So he’s hiding.”

“I know he’s hiding. Where?”

“If I knew that, he wouldn’t be very good at it.”

Eventually they found him. Borris objected to being found, picked up and especially to being placed in the carrier. By the time Dudley got him inside, their relationship had deteriorated substantially.

The drive did not improve matters. Borris spent most of it producing sounds suggesting Dudley had violated not merely his trust but several international treaties. At the vet, he became quiet, which Dudley knew was worse.

The veterinarian examined him. Borris permitted this with the rigid dignity of a political prisoner. There were questions about eating, hairballs, appetite, weight, water and bathroom habits.

Then came the possibility of tests, followed by the possibility of more tests depending on what the first tests found.

Dudley looked at Borris. Borris looked back. The message was unmistakable. I will kill you in your sleep. 

They did the reasonable things. The vet checked him over, ruled out the obvious concerns and talked about eating too quickly, hairballs, food, age and what they should watch. Nothing immediately terrible appeared. The bill demonstrated that veterinary medicine had become quite sophisticated.

On the ride home, Borris faced away from Dudley.

“I’m sorry.”

Borris stared out the window.

“We had to make sure you were okay.”

Nothing.

“You throw up a lot.”

Borris slowly turned his head.

Dudley stopped talking.

Borris remained angry for several days. He ate the food Dudley provided because principles have limits, but he did not sit with him, seek him out or acknowledge Dudley’s attempts at reconciliation.

Betty found this hilarious.

“He’s not talking to me.”

“He’s a cat.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“He’s mad.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Betty looked toward Borris.

“I’d give it a few days.”

“A few days?”

“You kidnapped him.”

“I took him to the vet.”

“You know that. He doesn’t.”

Jingo watched from beside Betty and had no intention of becoming involved. Dudley suspected she was taking notes.

Eventually Borris forgave him. Or forgot. With Borris it was difficult to know.

One evening he climbed onto Dudley’s lap, turned around three times and settled down as though the previous week had never happened. Dudley didn’t move for twenty minutes. His leg went numb. Some things were worth enduring.

“So what would you do?” Barb asked.

Dudley came back to the conversation.

“With pet insurance?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d look at what you can actually buy for a twenty-three-year-old cat. It might make sense. It might not.”

“But what if something really bad happens?”

“What do you mean by really bad?”

“Cancer or something.”

Dudley was quiet for a moment. That was where the math stopped being particularly helpful.

“You know, I’ve thought about that with Borris.”

Barb waited.

“He’s getting older. If he got cancer, we could spend a lot of money trying to treat it.”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know.”

That answer surprised both of them.

“I’d want to know what the treatment would do for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would it make him better? Would it give him a couple good years?”

Dudley paused.

“Or would we put an old cat through surgery and treatments and appointments because we couldn’t stand the idea of losing him?”

Barb was quiet.

Dudley looked across the room. Borris was asleep on the couch.

“We love that stupid cat.”

“I know.”

“He’s not stupid.”

“He once got stuck behind a door that he closed himself.”

“He’s still not stupid.”

“Fine.”

Dudley smiled.

“But what I want for Borris isn’t every possible day I can get.”

He looked at him again.

“I want him to have a good life.”

Barb didn’t answer immediately.

“That’s what I want too.”

“For your cat?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s probably where I’d start.”

They talked about money after that, but not much. Barb could set aside money for veterinary expenses or look at insurance to see whether it covered a risk she couldn’t comfortably handle herself. The rest would depend on the cat, the situation and what a treatment could reasonably accomplish. There would have to be judgment. Dudley was discovering that judgment was what remained after the spreadsheet ran out of useful cells.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime.”

“You’ve gotten better at this.”

“At pet insurance?”

“No.”

Barb laughed.

“At not immediately telling me what to do.”

Dudley considered this.

“Your mother has been working on me.”

“I know.”

They said goodbye.

Betty came into the room a few minutes later.

“Who was that?”

“Barb.”

“Everything okay?”

“She inherited a twenty-three-year-old cat.”

Betty stopped.

“How?”

“Apparently cats are transferable assets.”

Betty ignored this.

“What did she want?”

“Advice about pet insurance.”

“And what did you tell her?”

Dudley smiled.

“I asked her what she wanted.”

Betty looked at him.

“You did?”

“I did.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re surprised.”

“A little.”

“I listen to you.”

“Eventually.”

Dudley accepted this.

Borris walked into the room and stopped near Dudley. Their diplomatic relations had apparently been fully restored.

“You know what else we decided?”

“What?”

“We just want them to have good lives.”

Betty looked at Borris, then at Jingo, who had appeared beside her because Betty had entered a different room and therefore Jingo had also entered a different room.

“That’s pretty much what I’ve always wanted.”

Dudley nodded.

Some things could be insured. Some could be planned for. The rest would have to be handled when they came.

Borris walked over and sat beside Dudley. Dudley scratched behind his ears. Borris began to purr.

For now, everybody was okay.

That was enough.