In Cat Years

Gracie and Radar

On a recent Thursday night in September, I found myself watching the first home football game of the season for my alma mater, the University of Missouri. This is one of my favorite times of year—not just because of the change of seasons, but because my husband, Rich, and I met as marching band students at Mizzou in the fall of 1984. Sitting in our comfortable basement family room after 40 years of marriage, hearing the drumline and fight song on TV and watching the tiger mascot patrol the sidelines and hype up the crowd, I was transported through time.

After a year of dating, Rich proposed to me in September 1985. As if the beautiful platinum and diamond engagement ring—a family heirloom—wasn’t enough, my future husband also took me to the local Humane Society to pick out a kitten, which he knew I had been wanting for some time. We were immediately drawn to a little orange tabby, and once we got him home, we knew there was only one name that would fit—Truman. The name of the legendary Mizzou mascot.

Truman was our first experiment with “parenting,” living with Rich in his small apartment until we got married. Playful, cuddly, and a loud purrer, he spent his evenings curled up in our laps as we watched TV and his days lounging in the sun in front of the sliding glass door while we attended classes. After a few months, we began to feel it was unfair for him to be alone so much of the time. A co-worker at my part-time job mentioned that a stray cat had recently given birth to a litter of kittens near her apartment, and she wanted to make sure they found good homes. It didn’t take long for us to decide that one of them should become Truman’s “sibling.” Soon afterward, we brought home a beautiful gray kitten who we were convinced might just be a Russian blue, based on the bluish tint of his coat. But what to name him? As college students and history buffs, we decided that our Truman needed his own MacArthur.

The two young cats became fast friends. By this time, Truman had grown out of his kitten stage a bit and seemed to view the playful newcomer as a bit of a nuisance. When Truman was around 11 months old, we noticed some concerning changes in his health and began a series of visits to the vet. We soon learned that Truman had a disease known as FIP—Feline Infectious Peritonitis—which we had never heard of and which was, at the time, incurable. Before long, he became so sick that we had to make the difficult decision to let him go. Oddly enough, he was purring the loudest I had ever heard on our last morning with him.

With Truman gone, MacArthur seemed lost. Rich and I were also grief-stricken, and the best antidote for our sadness seemed to be another trip to the Humane Society, where we picked out a tiny, fluffy calico kitten who looked very much like a woolly worm. Although we had started a naming theme with our first two cats, this kitten was a female. We wracked our brains for a name, and with the recent popularity of the movie Splash, we soon had an answer that seemed perfect—Madison, which was both a presidential name and one that “could” fit a female.

Our little family seemed complete at that point, until one day when we happened to pass by the pet store at the local mall. In the window were several small kittens, and one of them had a long, snowy white coat and bright blue eyes. Before we knew it, he was in a travel carrier and making the brief trip to our still-small-but-getting-more-crowded apartment. Tyler had joined the group.

In the next couple of years, I graduated from Mizzou with a journalism degree, and Rich finished his master’s in mechanical and aerospace engineering. He had always planned to go on for a Ph.D., and the best fit for his interests and skills at the time was the University of Delaware. I had literally never traveled east of Illinois, but we were starry-eyed newlyweds chasing a dream.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of time to plan the move, so Rich’s mom, Pat, agreed to keep MacArthur and Madison while Tyler stayed with my parents. We weren’t looking forward to being catless, but putting them in the Ryder truck and adding pet deposits to the already exorbitant apartment prices in Delaware just wasn’t an option at first. We settled into East Coast life the best two Midwesterners could, but after several months, our homesickness wouldn’t subside. Since I had finally landed an exciting job with a software company in nearby Malvern, Pennsylvania, we decided it was time to send for the rest of our family.

We soon learned that my dad would not be handing Tyler back to us anytime soon. After being a “dog person” most of his life, he had grown very attached to Tyler, even teaching him tricks like yawning when Dad said, “Show me you’re sleepy!” God bless Rich—he never complained, but I know it hurt him to lose Tyler. Truthfully, though, two cats would be enough for us to handle at this stage in life.

Tyler performing his trick for my dad. It was important that Dad opened his mouth too.

Our next step was figuring out how to get Madison and MacArthur to Delaware. The distance was too far for Pat to drive by herself, but we discovered that pets could actually fly as cargo. Since the Philadelphia airport was fairly close to us, arrangements were made for Madison and MacArthur to fly from St. Louis to Philly in their carriers. I don’t remember the cost, but I’m pretty sure Pat paid for the transport—she’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever known and has been a steady guiding force throughout our marriage. On a warm Saturday afternoon, Rich and I arrived at the cargo pickup area to claim our jet-setting kitties. Although a little rattled and meowing intermittently, they seemed none the worse for wear.

Having MacArthur and Madison with us in Delaware made the transition a bit easier, but within a few months, our lives took another turn. At nearly the same time, Rich began to realize that the program in Delaware wasn’t really for him, and we discovered I was pregnant with our first child. It should have been a completely joyous time, but we were both apprehensive about being so far from our families with a baby on the way. After a year of ups and downs, we were headed back to Missouri—all four (and a half) of us.

Eric was born on a gray, chilly day in November, and we were over the moon. The next couple of years were spent watching him grow, learning to crawl, then walk—all while MacArthur and Madison looked on in bemusement. Madison was standoffish with everyone except me, while MacArthur was just the opposite. He would let baby Eric roll him around on the floor and wrestle with him like a stuffed animal, never once hissing or offering to bite. When Eric napped in the Pack’n’Play, MacArthur was often stretched out beside him inside the playpen.

Our family grew again in 1993 when our first daughter, Erin, was born. By this time, we had bought a small house, and Rich had settled into his job with McDonnell-Douglas (later Boeing). We had also come to the realization that we were never getting Tyler back from my parents, so on another fateful trip to a pet store, we discovered yet another fluffy white kitten—only this time, he had green eyes. Eric was ecstatic to finally get in on choosing a kitten, and Quincy was added to our household.

It was about this time that we really started to notice our kids’ differing personalities. Eric, while rambunctious and witty, has always been somewhat stoic, responsible, and by-the-book. Erin, who was now a toddler, was—and is—a little more whimsical and idealistic. Many of our family videos from that period document Eric’s disdain for his sister as she carried young Quincy across the family room in her favorite position—both hands around his neck. She usually seemed oblivious to the uproar and Eric’s angry protestations of “Let him go!”—already learning how to push her big brother’s buttons.

As time went on, we outgrew our little home and took the giant step of moving farther into the suburbs and building a much larger house. Erin was about to start kindergarten, and I was pregnant with our second daughter, Emily. We were thrilled to watch our new home go from a hole in the ground to a large, two-story white house where we would spend the next 21 years. Having never lived in a new house, I was adamant that our three aging cats would have to stay in the basement. I didn’t want to risk them messing up the top two floors with the hair and bodily fluids inherent with older cats, and since we were finishing the basement, I knew we’d still spend plenty of time with them.

At this time, Quincy was still considered “Eric’s cat,” and Emily was too young to care, but Erin made it known that she wasn’t happy she’d never been able to pick out her own cat. So on a Saturday morning at the local PetSmart, with her daddy firmly wrapped around her little finger, Erin chose our next feline boarder, who became “Truman 2.” I think the name was a compromise Rich struck with her to add yet a fourth cat to our basement while keeping the historical naming scheme somewhat intact.

 In the following years, the kids grew, Rich and I aged, and our cat family slowly began to exit one at a time. Eventually, we were down to just Quincy, who had battled cancer for a few months. As the end neared, I let everyone know that we would not be bringing any more cats into the house after he was gone. After all, Eric was now a teenager who would be leaving for college soon, and the girls were getting older and busier with dancing, sleepovers, and friends.

And so, the day after we walked Quincy over the rainbow bridge, Rich, the girls, and I found ourselves in the kitten room at the St. Charles County Pet Adoption Center…

I’d like to say they took me there kicking and screaming after my previous ultimatum, but the truth is that we just weren’t ready for a house without cats. The girls were still young enough that they would be around for much of the new cats’ lives, and Rich and I knew we would be empty nesters before long. The house would be SO quiet.

 As the girls flitted from cage to cage, my attention was drawn to a fluffy little buff-colored guy who came to the edge of his cage to be petted. He was subdued compared to the others, yet very friendly. We soon fell under his spell and decided to take him to the adjacent room where people could interact with potential adoptees. Just before we walked out, a gray fur ball reached through her cage bars and hooked Erin’s headband as she bent down to pet a different kitten. Somehow, we instinctively knew that this petite gray wisp was picking us. We took both kittens into the visiting room and got to know them.

We discovered that the shelter had named the buff kitty “Fajita,” which the girls thought was hilarious, but somehow we narrowed our choices to Radar or Cosmo. “Cosmo” came from The Fairly OddParents, one of the kids’ favorite cartoons at the time, but I was really fond of “Radar,” having been a huge fan of M*A*S*H and the character Radar O’Reilly while growing up. To add a little gravity to my choice, I mentioned that Big Bird’s teddy bear on Sesame Street was also named Radar, after Radar O’Reilly. Even though the girls weren’t really Sesame Street fans, they seemed to accept that Mom was not going to let go of the name, and it stuck.

I don’t remember how, but as the kittens played at our feet and we took turns holding and petting them, we came to the consensus that the little gray girl would become Gracie. The next era of Lesh cats was about to begin, and, softie that I am, I allowed the girls to talk me into giving the kittens the run of the whole house.

When we brought them home, Gracie was actually a little bigger than Radar, but he had enormous fluffy paws that reminded me of the oversized animal-paw slippers kids often wear. I was pretty sure he would grow into a large cat—we’ve since speculated that he might even be part Maine Coon—and it didn’t take long before he dwarfed Gracie, who stayed small but feisty. Despite their different temperaments, mellow Radar seemed protective of Gracie from the beginning, and thus began a siblingship that would span many years.

Radar and Gracie became fixtures around the house, always cuddling, sleeping, or playing together. Radar made me his human, enjoying my lap during the day and sleeping next to me at night, often on his back in my armpit. Gracie remained pretty independent but allowed us the occasional lap visit.

One day, Erin, now a teenager, and her boyfriend returned from a trip to his dad’s farm, where a stray orange tabby kitten had strolled in and made himself at home. Her boyfriend had decided his name would be Thor, and by some maneuvering that I still don’t understand, we once again had three cats in our household.

Not long after Thor arrived, a friend from church texted me that someone she knew had a very sweet kitten they could no longer keep. She knew we were “cat people”—would we be interested? Before instinctively responding, “Absolutely not!” I looked at the attached photo and shared it with Emily. She was the only one in our family who had never had her own cat—was now the time? He had beautiful Siamese-like markings, unlike any cat we’d had before. He was already named Henry, and we picked him up that evening.

Within what seemed the blink of an eye, Erin was in college, and Emily and Henry were inseparable. He was extremely cuddly with her, and she came to consider him her emotional support cat as we worked through some physical and mental health challenges during her teen years. Eventually, as much as we tried to slow the inevitable, Emily and Henry set off together for Indianapolis, where she earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology.

At home in Missouri, life seemed to come full circle when Rich’s mom took in two adult cats to keep Rich’s dad company as he battled Parkinson’s. After Charles’ death, Pat kept Socks and Kitty until it came time for her to move into a senior apartment. In a beautiful instance of reciprocity, we took in her elderly cats and cared for them through the last years of their lives, with Rich becoming especially attached to them.

Which brings us to the present. In 2019, we moved into a smaller, one-level house that will likely be our last before we need more care in the future. Radar, Gracie, and Thor made the move with us, but just before football season started this year, Thor received a surprise cancer diagnosis that took him from us very quickly at age 14. Radar and Gracie, both 17, are still with us.

Our children are all adults with families of their own and, not surprisingly, they all have cats. Eric and his wife, Mackenzie, started their own literary naming theme with their three kitties—Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, and Fitzwilliam. Emily and her husband, Liam, still have Henry but have added Alfie and Matari to their home in recent years. And although Erin ended up being a bit of a “dog person,” she couldn’t hold out any longer and recently brought home a female kitten she named Stormi to go along with her pit bull mix and black lab. Although her fiancé is allergic, his love for our daughter is evident in many ways, including taking daily medication just so he can love on Stormi as much as Erin.

As Rich and I near retirement, we realize we probably don’t have many more years with Radar and Gracie, but the four of us carry on—older, slower, wiser, but always together. And when they’re gone—no more cats. No, really.