The cat's name was what??!!?

“A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may
hide their feelings, but a cat does not.”   --  Ernest Hemingway

“Relapse.” The cat’s name was “Relapse.”

Animals aren't usually found at a halfway house. A resident usually has enough to do with trying to be responsible for himself to a limited degree, so taking responsibility for the care and feeding of animals is usually beyond them. All halfway houses don’t have the fenced in yards or kennel space or budgeted dollars for the food and medical care required to keep a pet.  Most halfway houses don’t want the hassle of keeping a pet inside either. It’s a tragic end for the pet if a man who has gotten one relapses and leaves. Then the animal usually ends up at the animal shelter, with very little chance of survival.

But there was one cat, which took up residence at our halfway house, and he was a most remarkable animal.  One day the director came into the staff room with what looked like a small grey fur glove in his hands.

“What you got there?” we asked.

“It’s a cat, I got him at a yard sale.”

He turned the small grey ball loose and it streaked promptly under my bed, where no amount of coaxing could convince it to come out.

And there he stayed; ignoring the treats I tried to lure him out with.

After a couple of days, he poked his nose out and meowed. I brought him some canned food and a dish of water.  After he ate, he jumped up on the bed, purred a couple of times and curled into a tiny ball for a nap.

I guess after that he felt he was home. 

For a month or two, he was just “the cat” and then someone decided he should have a name. After analyzing his daily habits, we decided to call him “Relapse.” -- because he didn't go to any recovery meetings, he didn't do any chores around the house, he wouldn't get a job and wouldn't pay any fees, and he slept all day and stayed out late at night. On at least one occasion his name turned out to be a liability though. One man had gotten fond of the cat, had bought him some special treat at the Dollar Store and couldn't find the cat to give it to him. He stood at the back door and hollered for him, loud as he could, again and again -- until he realized that standing on the back steps of a halfway house and hollering “Relapse! Relapse! Relapse!” at the top of your lungs was probably not the best thing to do!

Relapse was a smart cat, and quickly figured out that the house cook was the man to watch for tasty things to eat and treats. And he quickly learned that the director, Ray, who loved to tease and scare him, was best avoided. Every time he heard Ray’s cowboy boots clumping down the hallway, he skedaddled.

Relapse was one of the only beings on earth who ever got the best of our director, Ray, who was willing to buy his cat food – only not the kind that Relapse preferred. Instead Ray would find the cheapest brand available and bring it home.

“He’s not going to eat that, Ray.”

“The hell he won’t. If he gets hungry enough he’ll eat it. Stop feeding him scraps and you’ll see.”

It was hard for me to cut out the extra treats I’d been enjoying fixing for my little buddy, but Ray was the boss, so I did as I was told.

Relapse took one look at what was in his bowl, and turned away.  And every day he would look at the bowl and turn away with the patient dignity of a Buddhist monk. Ray came in the kitchen day after to day to check.

“Has he eaten it yet?”

“No, Ray.”

Finally, even Ray had to give in. The day he came home from shopping for groceries with Relapse’s favorite brand of kibble, I knew the cat had won.  “Damn fool cat will probably starve himself to death,” Ray said gruffly, as he threw away the cheap food and refilled the bowl with the better brand.  After that, the cat got a lot more respect from Ray.

Some of the men didn't like him, but many of them did. Some of them found they could love the cat at a time when it was difficult to love themselves or anyone else, and they would sit stroking him for hours, or laughing as he chased a crumpled up paper ball u p and down the hallway. Some would object to a cat in the house at all. “I’m allergic to cats,” one of the new men said to Ray the day he was admitted. “That’s too bad,” Ray replied, “because the cat was here before you were.”

He was a peculiar cat in some ways. We all hoped he would be a good mouser, but Relapse had no interest in hunting rodents, and if he saw a mouse, he promptly hid under the bed. Squirrels either. There were plenty of squirrels living in the seven old pecan trees that ringed the house, and when one of them got inside, we all thought that Relapse would make short work of him. Relapse dove promptly under the bed and stayed there, until a couple of us herded the bewildered squirrel down the hallway and out the front door.

I wanted to take him to the vet to for shots and neutering, but Ray said it would cost too much. I reminded him that neutering would make the cat much less likely to spray in the house when he got older. That much Ray conceded. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll pick up the tab for getting him fixed, and you pay for the shots.”  The vet shook her head after Relapse’s preliminary screenings were finished. Her professional opinion was that it wasn't worth giving him any vaccinations.

 “This cat has feline leukemia,” She said. “Vaccinating him would be a waste of your money.”  “Humor me Doc,” She looked at me like I was crazy. “ This cat will probably not live out the year. It’s pointless.” “Let’s just give him the shots anyway,” I said. “I’ll pay for them.”  So she did.

Relapse stubbornly refused to die from his leukemia, and as I took him back to the vet year after year for his checkup, I couldn't resist ribbing her a little. “Yeah, Doc,” I said, eight years later. “This is the cat, you said wouldn't last a year!” We both laughed, and Relapse, who had grown into a big fine specimen, just lay on the exam table and purred. It's amazing how a little love and some care can help a cat (or a man) beat the odds.

That cat lived 13 years, and so entrenched himself into the daily life of the halfway house, that there are men who still ask about him and remember him to this day.

Time eventually ran out for ole Relapse, just as it must for all of us sooner or later. When he got so old and sick that all he could do was sleep and barely eat, one of the residents who had taken a shine to him took him into his room and tenderly nursed him through his last days until the end. Those of us who loved you, Relapse, salute you; for you were as much a resident of our halfway house as any human who ever walked through the door.