One More Story

When I was in graduate school, I made a friend named Emilie who had a cat named Chicken. Like me, Emilie was from Massachusetts; unlike me, she had a car. I think we really became friends on the rides she gave me back and forth, whenever we went home for holidays, or just a visit. As I have written before, there is nothing like a road trip to determine whether or not you and somebody else are compatible. And Emilie is one of those friends who continually offers up more reasons to like her. One of these was made manifest on our first drive "home," when I showed up at the designated meeting spot with Rory neatly tucked into her cat box. Once we were in the car, I looked around. Chicken had no cat box, that I could see. Chicken was free-range.

Now I had done this myself--driven with Rory loose in the car, sitting on my lap, roaming around as she pleased. But I had always assumed others would find it strange, unsanitary due to copious amounts of fur and possible accidents or even dangerous. Not Emilie. So an extremely grateful Rory was released, and for the most part, on that first drive and those that followed, Rory and Chicken proved as simpatico as their people.

Until one ride, when we were on the highway, driving fast on a crowded turnpike, Rory and Chicken decided it was time for their first real fight, way in the back seat of Emilie's station wagon. There were yowls and cries, hissing and more yowling, and we were initially taken aback, then a little bit concerned, then legitimately worried that someone was maybe going to lose an ear. Somehow, and I have no idea who started it, we were suddenly tossing candy back at the whirling cat fight, the angry cats themselves. M and M's, maybe? Jellybeans? Maybe it had just been Easter. I think so.

Anyway. Our aim was weak, our intent more to startle, but the few flying pellets that actually made contact with cat, as well as the sight of tiny objects being launched over their heads, proved sufficient distraction. The cats settled down, temporarily at least. I can't remember a subsequent episode.

It turns out that Chicken is still alive. I am glad of this, for Emilie, who is coming home herself, again. But thinking of Rory and Chicken sitting proudly on our laps, looking out the windows with their paws against the tops of the door frames, makes me feel wistful for another time and place, a time and place when Rory was younger, and I was, and there was nothing but road ahead and candy in the car and music on the radio and conversations that could take you all the way to Massachusetts. And back again.

Thank you, Emilie, for reminding me of this. It was all I could think about as I drove up the Merritt Parkway yesterday afternoon, but last night, when I was writing, this--like so many other memories, I am sure--slipped away. It makes me happy to remember Rory in that car.