Love The Gretel

MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
November 2001

I had to give her away, my little Gretel, to get my soon-to-be-ex-husband out of the house. That was the first thing he said to me, that day, after the lawyer had called him at work to serve him the divorce papers, and he’d come home that evening, furious and refusing to leave even though it was he who since September 11 had no interest in me, even less than the little he had had before. This is what he said, glaring at me: I get the cats. “Yes,” I said, “it’s in there, didn’t you read the papers?” “Oh,” he said, surprised,“I didn’t see that” and for a second I could see why once long ago I thought I would like to have him around. But then the glare came back – “Where does it say it?” – so I had to leaf through the pages until I found it. “Okay,” he said to himself. “Okay.”

Gretel, of course, had to go, because she was part of a package with her sister, the crazy Astrid. Astrid was the one who bounced off the walls and furniture, always in motion, the first to come out from under the bed when we brought them home. They were the replacement kittens, a week after their predecessor Ivan had died, exactly one month after Sept 11, five days after we got married. My new husband wanted cats more than me; he wanted girl cats, he wanted sister cats, and so we got these two.

They were abandoned kittens, left by their mother, then kept out on a porch for a few months in a run down area of St. Paul along the tracks, where the foster animal rescue family lived. I could tell, having had many kittens in my life, that they were unsure of humans, wanted the attention and yet exceedingly wary of it, Gretel more than her sister. But something about her drew me to her against my better judgment. I choose her, the most scared one, the most fluffy one, the one with the haunted eyes. It was like choosing myself.

And then I made it my job to win her over, to convince her that I would accept her on her own terms, that she would choose to come to me and I would not force her if she did not want to come.

Eventually she came. It took forever, it seemed, but she started to learn to trust. I tried to always be still with her to let her know that she was in control, that there would be no sudden moves. And slowly she began to walk to my out-stretched hand, first in a semi-crouch, ready to run, then eventually more upright and confident, and then finally with her tail held high. At first she’d just sniff but then she started to rub her face on my fingers. She started to teach me what she liked. Somehow I learned that she wanted to be touched, but not when she was on the bare wood floor. She’d run to the doormat, surprised at herself for encouraging this, and roll onto her side, asking for rub-the-Gretels. It was delightful: she so enjoyed being petted and loved but only when she wanted it, only where it was safe. I never tried to touch her at other times. Sometimes though I’d stand by the mat. “Rub-the-Gretel?” I’d ask in her direction, holding my hand low enough for her to slide against it. “Rub-the-Gretel?”

She learned in such a short time, I was stunned. I can’t imagine the enormous trust that a tiny scared fluff of a kitten must have had to muster to be able to believe this huge human would not hurt her, and would be willing to do something pleasant at times. It was inspiring to me.

It was also heartbreaking. When I took her to the vet, she’d bury her face in my arms and tremble. She wasn’t a cuddle cat, not yet, but she allowed me to comfort her when the outside world was even worse than being close to me. And she tried to get so close; her whole body wanted to be touching me as tightly as it possibly could. It was unbearable, that sweetness.

And then she had to go. She was the sacrifice that I had to make to make him go away and to keep her with the only creature who spoke her language and who had know her since they were born and before. She and Astrid had to stay together, even if he and I could not. He would never part with Astrid, whether from love or on general principles, I will never know. He resented that they were not Ivan, he resented their lack of confidence and the need to work with them on their own terms. “I’m not going to indulge you,” he said often to me and often to the two little sister cats.

I worry about my Gretel to this day. I think that she might never have grown to be unafraid like I knew she could, given the time and patience. But I think of her often when I myself am afraid. If a little kitten can learn to trust the people in her life, then maybe, someday, so can I.