Marty's Tail

At the risk of being lumped into some stereotypical category (i.e., professors who write about their cats), I thought I'd take the opportunity to tell the tale of my female scaredy-cat Marty.

When I was teaching high school English in East Texas, I came out of the building at the end of a long day one spring to find a tiny kitten -- really, too small to be weaned -- in the front seat of my car. She was obviously sick, and her face had been damaged. One side of her face looked like it had been smashed in -- I thought that maybe someone had kicked her, or perhaps run over her with a bicycle. I stopped by a gas station on the way home, and put some water in a cup for her. She drank a bit and then just lay still, mewing quietly.

When I got her home, I put her in the middle of the bed. She didn't move. I remember that she seemed so tiny, swamped by the ocean of the huge white bedspread all around her. I really didn't think that she would live through the night, but I promised myself -- and her -- that if she did, I would take her to the vet the next day.

We named her Marty, because her eye was swollen out, reminding us of Marty Feldman.



Ten years later, she's my chubby, shy girl. It's my guess that Marty was born a barn cat, because she's deathly afraid of people, even me sometimes. She hides in the basement whenever people are over; she is not a lap cat; she prefers to be left alone most of the time. But as soon as we turn out the lights, she makes a beeline for the easy chair. Every once in a while, she works up the nerve to brush up next to my leg. But she soon thinks better of it and hides -- under the dining room table, mostly.

I found out later that one of my high school students (you know who you are, Frank!) found her in the parking lot, and thought "Hmm. Ms. Bad Ass likes animals. I think I'll just put this kitten in her car."

Well, thanks Frank. She's been a good cat for us.