The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook (19 page)

Some people look like they're having happy endings all the time—ever notice? My former first-grade teacher Miss Crackenhower has that look, with those big smiley white teeth of hers. I'll bet she hears music wherever she goes.

Another happy-ending time was when Freddy told me he knew how to read and would hardly need my help anymore.

“I keep getting fired from my jobs!” I said.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “But I don't need any more rebuses. Those are for babies. I like sounding words out.”

“OK, if you say so,” I said. I winked at the imaginary video camera capturing the moment. Major happy-ending music started up. But then, after the imaginary commercial, there was the short funny part where I said I had to teach him a few more things. I pointed out that PH sounded like F, as in the word
phone
, and GH could, too, as in the word
enough
. And CH could sound like K, as in
school
, but had a different sound in
chug.

“You're wrong,” Fred said. “School is spelled S-K-O-O-L, like in Little Tots Playskool.”

So we looked up
school
in the dictionary, and Freddy couldn't wait to tell his teacher about her big mistake.

If that were the ending of a show, they'd play a little doop-dee-doo tune right then. That means something funny has
just happened, but tune in next time for more happy-ending shows.

Every time we give Zook his fluids, every time he leaps off that big brown chair looking healthy and beautiful, like all the promises of the world come true, has been a happy-ending time. Twice a day for thirty days makes sixty times I've heard music in my head.

Another happy-ending time happened in the Safeway supermarket and involved My Secret Love. I was in the frozen food section with my mother, and she was taking a long time deciding on ice cream flavors, which is one of the good things about having Dylan come for dinner: She serves dessert to make the meal last longer.

It was only out of the corner of my eye, but that's all I needed to recognize My Secret Love, passing by our aisle with a friend. My mom was still deep in thought. I quickly scooted down one aisle and up another. I strolled right toward My Secret Love going the other way. Unfortunately, he was talking to his friend as they were sharing a humongous bag of Cheez Doodles, and he didn't notice me.

So I zoomed down another aisle and raced around to the front of the store so I'd bump into him again as he and his friend emerged from aisle three. I coughed. He glanced at
me, and I could tell he thought I looked familiar but really didn't recognize me. That's understandable, because I was wearing a new red T-shirt, and he's used to seeing me in a Raiders sweatshirt and eating pizza.

“You're … ?” he said, pointing his finger right at me.

“Oona!” I said. “From O'Leary's.”

“Oh, right! Oona!” he said. “You're always hanging out there with that little kid.”

I thought that was a great conversation starter on his part. “He's—” I started to say. I wanted to tell him that the little kid is my brother and his name is Freddy, and that Freddy and I, we're really good friends with the owners of the pizza establishment, and I'd be happy to get him some extra sides of zook, if he likes. And does he have any brothers or sisters?

But then his friend snickered and said, “Hey, Oona, Oona, sing me a tune-a!” He elbowed My Secret Love in the ribs. I didn't feel like singing, believe you me. I narrowed my eyes at the friend, a nincompoop Rowdy with an orange Cheez Doodly mustache. Maybe they weren't truly close friends.

But My Secret Love snickered, too, and elbowed back. And he had his own orange mustache, I noticed, but that wasn't the important thing, really.

The important thing was, the important thing IS, all of a sudden I knew everything you need to know about true love. And it's this:

1. True love does make you want to sing. For instance,
Baby, please don't go
or
Fiddle-i-fee
. It may even make you want to laugh. But not snicker.

2. True love shouldn't be so hard! True love should feel easy and meant to be, the way Dylan and my mom seem to feel about each other. And as easy as loving Zook. SO WHAT if Zook's a cat?

3. True love should make everyone feel happy because you are wonderful in the other person's eyes, and vice-versa, in a DOG IS GOD SPELLED BACKWARD sort of way.

I went back to my mother in the frozen food section. She'd chosen rum raisin and hadn't even realized I'd been gone. Or that I'd just had one of those happy-ending times, the kind of ending that comes at the end of a story when a character figures out something important about life. OK, I didn't feel exactly happy, but not exactly sad, either.

The other day I had a long conversation with Kiran. He is so smart. It was the deepest, most mature conversation I've
had with a friend, ever. I imagine I will have conversations like that with a Real True Love one day.

Kiran said, “I don't like movies and books with happy endings. Real life isn't like that. Happy endings are juvenile.”

Then he described his favorite movie, which is called
Casablanca.
It takes place during World War II and is considered the most popular and famous movie of all time, according to people online. It's very deep and doesn't have a very happy ending at all.

I said, “Well, real life isn't only about unhappy endings, either.”

We went on and on about that, and finally we agreed to disagree. But then we realized that we actually agreed because real life has sometimes happy, sometimes unhappy, and sometimes bittersweet endings. But life keeps starting up again. Only stories end.

But then Kiran said, very softly and kindly, “Actually, things end in real life, too, if you know what I mean. Sorry to bring that up, Oona.”

He meant what happened to my dad, etc., etc. I said I understood what he meant, and that he had a point. We didn't say anything else for a few minutes, but then Kiran said that death makes you appreciate all the happy times that
have happened and that are going to happen in your life. I guess he's right.

But I don't want to think about that conversation anymore.

Because the truth is, it's actually been only fifty-nine times I've heard music in my head for Zook.

Tonight something is very wrong with him.

I wish I could invent a happy-ending room spray or something. I wish I had the power to make happy endings happen whenever I want to in real life, not just in stories.

ook's been crying all night. It isn't a howling, but an every-now-and-then whimper, like a mouse's squeak. At some point Fred came down to my bunk. We lay in the dark on either side of Zook so he'd feel warm and safe.

“Hey,” my mother whispers, waking me up. It seems as if I've been up all night, but I guess I did fall asleep. Fred wakes up, too. The three of us sit on my bed, looking down at Zook, whose eyes are open. I pat him and he purrs. Does he feel better? I wish he could tell us how he feels.

Dylan knocks on the half-open door. My mom tells him to come in, and Dylan bends down and takes Zook in his arms. Now Zook howls.

I cry out, “He was purring a second ago! We were petting him and he was purring happily. Please be gentle,” I say.

“A cat's purr is a mysterious thing,” Dylan says. “It means the cat is feeling something very strong, sometimes good, sometimes bad.”

He carries Zook to the living room. Zook is still whimpering and purring as loud as an engine. We all follow. Dylan tries to give Zook his fluids. Zook pulls away and wails.

“He's too ill for this,” Dylan says. “He's probably nauseated.” He gently removes the needle and strokes Zook's back. He stands up, still cradling Zook. “He needs to go back to the vet. They'll decide what to do next.”

“The vet? NO!” I shout. I stamp my foot.

“Oona …,” says my mother.

I know I'm acting like a baby. I can't help it. I am angry, but in a way I've never felt before, as if there are icy black stones rattling around inside my chest.

“Oona, he's very old,” Dylan says. “It may be his time to go.”

“He doesn't belong at the vet!” I say. “He belongs here, with our family.” And I'm about to stamp my foot again, but I stop. “Time to go?” I say. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“He's suffering,” Dylan says, looking quickly at my mother.

My mother puts her hand on Dylan's arm, giving it a short, hard squeeze. To my surprise, she glares at him. “Dylan, no more! I'll deal with the kids myself, I told you.”

Dylan shrugs, and my mother gives him another hard look. Then she says, “Dylan and I will take him to the vet for an exam. Don't worry, kids.”

Freddy and I get dressed, and then we wrap up Zook in my Raiders sweatshirt. We all pile into the car, me and Fred in the backseat, Zook between us. Zook's lying very still, crying every now and then. We pull up to the Little Tots Playskool. My mom takes Freddy inside, and Dylan and I wait in the car. Dylan is silent, looking out the window at the other cars going by. And I'm wishing with all my heart I were little like Freddy. Too little to know that grown-ups spell things wrong on purpose, for dumb, dumb, dumb reasons. Too little to understand what “time to go” really means.

My mom returns to the car and I say, “Don't take me to school. I'm going to the vet with you.”

My mother turns to look at me. I make my mouth a hard straight line, the way she always does when nothing in the world will change her mind.

We drive to the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic, and I carry Zook inside. Evelyn has on a different pair of earrings
this time, big, gold swaying hoops. She looks at us sorrowfully; we don't even have to say why we're here. An assistant whisks Zook to the back.

My mom and Dylan and I squeeze together on the waiting room couch. I realize I hate that scratched red leather couch with all of my heart. I look down at Dylan's hands, folded together on his lap, hands that look like they can fix things. “You said Zook would get better,” I say. “You promised us.”

Dylan nods. He reaches over and touches my shoulder. I shrug off his hand. “I did make that promise,” he says. “I guess I shouldn't have. But Zook did have some pretty good days with us because of those fluids. Don't you think?”

Dylan's eyes are pleading with me to agree. But I don't want to agree. What I want to do is hurt someone. And I don't want to hurt my mom. I never want to hurt my mom again. So it has to be Dylan. Dylan, who can't make Zook better. And that's when those icy black stones inside of me turn into a couple of big black whoppers. The kind I've never told in my life, only heard about. The kind of whoppers meant to hurt.

“I think you were cruel to make a promise like that,” I say. And then, “You know what? I wish we'd never even met you!”

“Oona,” says my mom, flushing. She looks at Dylan. “She's upset. She doesn't really mean that.”

“I do so mean it,” I say.

Dylan looks at me.

I stare right back at him with narrowed eyes. I feel cruel. I don't even recognize myself.

Dylan bows his head. He looks down at his big boots, and his shoulders are kind of caved in. All of a sudden I wish I could take back that ugly black whopper, just reel it right in like a big old shoe on a fishhook.

But then I hear a cat's wail through the wall. I squeeze my mother's hand; we both know it's Zook.

The vet, Howard Fiske, DVM, comes out into the waiting room. “I'm sorry,” he says. He looks as sad and serious as Evelyn. “He's suffering. I don't think we can do any more to help him.” You can tell he really means it. He did his best.

Nobody says aloud that it's Zook's time to go. But of course it is.

My mother catches her breath and shakes her head. Dylan hugs her. “He has to be put down,” he whispers. My mother stands up, and she's crying.

“Oona, wait here with Dylan,” she says.